by Khalid Quesada
Sitting in a crowded classroom, after hours, waiting for the filter to kick in. I really want to drown out the voices of the humans around me. I wish they would morph into mimes. I can tolerate the movements, but I just can't take the noise. It pierces my skull like a drill entering the gravel on a street that everyone uses. Main Street, USA. And construction workers don't give a damn about the damage they're causing. Like touching up photos, creating an illusion rather than expressing reality at its core. They never really consider the original masterpiece. As long as they get the job done, and present a beautiful, if fake and altered, package. As long as things can be made accessible, no one seems to be bothered by the lobotomy procedures. And if they are, they're not willing to say anything. Either out of fear or laziness. Sometimes I wonder if we've all been slowed and dulled by the journey. Everyone en route to the American Dream. But take note, there's going to be traffic...
Today, I turned 18. I'm legal now. First thing I did was go up to the store to buy a carton of smokes, cuz they tend to be a lot more strict when you're buying cigarettes in mass quantities as opposed to a pack or two. The idea of having proper I.D. for when they asked was kind of cool, and it was part of the reason I wanted to get the cigarettes at all. I figure after a good year of smoking, I'll quit like I said I would and probably should have a long time ago. I did quit once for 6 months, but strangely enough peer pressure got me back into the habit. It always does. Sometimes it's just annoying to be the only one in a group that isn't smoking. Anyways, I only bought a whole carton just to make sure they would card me. And would you believe it, they didn't card me. I was very upset. I felt like reporting their asses. But you gotta let the milk set. So I did. And I went on my way.
Staring at the ceiling, aiming for another night of mental masturbation. Sex lately has disgusted me to the point of refusing to even contribute in any little way. Mental masturbation is really just the process of getting the thoughts in my head and even some acts, and then proving to myself that it doesn't have to be a hands-on experience all the time. It's sort of like punishing myself. It's not a kinky thing. I think of it as a discipline thing. I'm the biggest tease... to myself.
Things seem really uneasy tonight. It's the feeling I often get when I'm drifting carelessly in the visual music on a hot day, and all my friends have bizarre features that upset my stomach. I'm tempted to turn my head away from it all, but everybody's always saying you gotta face your fears. Then there's that whole "car wreck" comparison. But I don't like that one much. I don't look cuz I have to. No one has to. They all want to. They're all morbid sons of bitches and daughters of bastards, and they just can't admit that they like what they see. Or maybe they like what they don't see: It's not them. They're still alive. And who do they thank for that one? It's usually God, which, don't get me wrong, isn't a bad thing. But that doesn't make it an accurate one either. I'll talk about God later. Right now, I've gotta learn to finish my thoughts...
I was talking about car wrecks. It just occurred to me that maybe people enjoy looking at the tragedies. They'll never, of course, actually admit to this. It's just the way people are. They just can't deal with their little flaws and imperfections. But if you think about it, those flaws and imperfections are what makes us so real. It's the reason I am able to find some kind of beauty in such an ugly race of beings. The human race towards the Dream is more the problem than it is the goal. I just hope people are smart enough to realize that it's not that important to be better, and dumb enough not to figure out that it will never last. Because if I think about it too much, that's kind of sad. To lose hope and all.
18 years of sugar-coated antidepressants and coffee so black it's void. The taste of this life is forever changing. Sometimes you like it. Sometimes you tolerate it. Sometimes you hate it. Sometimes you despise it to the point where you'd like to wash it all down with lead poison or bleed it all out into puddles of dissatisfaction. But you deal with it. That's what we all do, isn't it? We deal with it. It doesn't make us cowards, but it doesn't make us stronger either. In my mind, which is all I can speak from, what doesn't kill us doesn't necessarily make us stronger. It could weaken us. But it's obvious, or it should be, that perhaps that's all we need. To be weakened a little. To have it thrown in our faces that, for Christ's sake, we're all fragile and we're all destructable. And the littlest things can easily eat away at us until there's nothing left that's edible. And that's what's important. I think.
If you think about it, the world is full of the weirdest characters masquerading as people. I mean, just looking around, it seems like we all have our scary little flaws, and sometimes they get mistaken for our personalities. It's hard to get to know people if you can't get past their flaws. But I was just thinking that it's easy to believe in witches, vampires, aliens, fairies and the like when you've known the people I've known. Hell, people will believe in Santa Claus if it gets them made, paid or laid. And, yeah, it's pathetic, but people are like that. And you either accept it or reject it. Or you try to change it. But trying to change it seems like a waste, because people essentially don't change... not in the long run. And you know what? I think it's even harder to believe these real-life monsters we hear about and see, and even experience. I'd brave a vampire anyday, before facing a white robe and hooded mask. Real nightmares that you can't just wake up from. Fears that have proof. Waking up from this conscious denial, it gets a little harder to believe in people. Where's the proof of our existence?
I knew this girl once. Her name was Susan. Susan and I used to cut school, and go smoke in the parking lot of some abandoned Tofu place or something. Eighth grade this was. It's funny how you can remember the little things. Like, I don't even remember exactly where she used to live, for fuck's sake. But I remember how everytime I'd ask her a question, she'd respond by saying, "In answer to your question..." She was a weirdo. She moved away to Michigan. We weren't best friends or anything, but we said we'd keep in touch. That didn't happen. I don't know if we just both got too busy or what. I think it's more of the notion that it's harder to miss someone if they don't keep popping up in cameo spots via letters and phone calls. I've lost a lot of friends over the years, especially through the transition to high school. But I don't let myself think about them or miss them. The biggest disappointment I can think of is knowing that someone has disappointed you.
It's scary sometimes how life has a way of throwing things in your face. Like a kid who's too naive to realize that the only reason drugs aren't a threat is because he hasn't been exposed to them. See, he thinks it's unlikely that they'll ever enter the picture. He believes his life is the PG movie it's been up to now, and that it will stay that way. But rewrites are constantly happening, and staying clean is only a matter of will and morale, not circumstance. The scenery doesn't always get prettier. See, the kid just doesn't figure that things will change much. He doesn't see it coming. He's too trusting. He's too naive. But he's a good percentage of the people. For me, an angel showed me the way.
I always seem to go for those wolves in sheep's clothing. Falling for serpents and demons, I'm not as strong as I'd like to think. But I'm stronger than I used to be. Because I've seen it and done it, and I know that I'm not invincible. Not even invisible. If only I could get my wings cleaned off. If only I could accept the past of mistakes as the past. If only I could realize that I am human like the rest of you. Then maybe I'd be able to walk on the ground along side you, and smile at the little things. Except they're just not funny to me. But I can't stop laughing, regardless.
I'm swimming in the pretty melodies again, trying to find a lifesaver. I don't want to be saved. I just want to know that the opportunity is there. Somehow, just that makes me comfortable enough to drown out the silence.
About a year ago, I started hanging out with this guy Jack. He was a cool guy. Before I met him, he used to do and deal drugs. But he got sent away for detoxication. They threw his ass in jail too. (He only got caught for possession, without intent to sell. I guess they figured him just a user.) He told me about his experiences in jail, and I laughed and cringed at the stories. (Some of which are so graphic and straight up disturbing that I'll spare your stomach.) I just recently turned 18, so the only place I've been is juvenile hall. And it wasn't as bad as most people say it is. I guess it's all in who you know, and what crowd you hang with. That's a time in my life I'd rather not discuss. It wasn't horrible, but then again, there were episodes of decay that still haunt my mind. This isn't the place I'd like to let it out. Not just yet. I did have the drugs to keep me company.
Jack once told me about this sissy ass punk that came in once. He got put in for some stupid shit like protesting an abortion clinic. Seems this fat ass named Mark Richards, the boys called him "Chunky" for obvious and proportional reasons, decided to bitch about abortion clinics and never counted on being mistaken for some other lard ass who punched a cop. Sure, it was an obvious case of mistaken identities, but Chunky still did his time. Makes me chuckle.
Anyway, when they brought this big motherfucker in, I hear they had to drag his porker ass. Now, I've never met the guy, but from how Jack describes him, he seemed just like the case scenario of fresh meat: a big, tubby inexperienced jackass who always got by on the notion that Mummy and Daddy would bail his oversized ass out of trouble. This shithead was more than spoiled. I bet this guy had butlers that wiped his ass for him. No joke.
You understand now that this punk ass decided to go rebel because... I don't know. Maybe he was sick of living in his dad's huge shadow. Or maybe he wanted some attention, or, shall we say, more attention. Maybe he didn't figure he'd get into the jail cell. I bet he thought that Daddy would come along and save his big ass before the vultures he now regarded, unwillingly, as cellmates could pick his bones clean. "Daddy, please bring the bankbook, some twinkies, and maybe a wet towel to clean my ass cuz, dammit if I haven't scared myself into shitting my pants... TWICE!!"
Well, Daddy didn't come bearing any bankbook or twinkies. No wet towel either, for that matter, though I'm sure he could've used it. The way Jack tells it, big ol' Marky boy got something much different from someone else he was forced to refer to as Daddy, and all of Daddy's friends. Chunky was used and abused until his cheeks were sore. (I figure his butler might get some time off, at least.) Now, my friends, I shit you not about this. This comes straight from Jack's lips, same place I'm sure ounces of vomit exitted his body due to being witness to such horrible acts of power, strength and desire, a word I use with the greatest caution.
And what happened to Chunky Chew when he got out, after all those violating assaults that inmates often described as similar to "floatin' on pillows." ("Two Love Bumps Up!" raves Daddy and Tiny - who, don't let the name fool you, is anything but that in every aspect.) Last I heard, he was pierced, tattooed, branded, and he's now workin' at some S&M place in downtown New York. And he has a boyfriend named Jamie, who he calls... you guessed it: Daddy.
Now, Jack never took any shit through the backdoor in jail, or so he tells me, and I'm very inclined to believe him. He's a big guy, and he's fucking stronger than anyone I've ever met. He tells me he sucked some guys cock once to get some cigarettes and a little grass (this in addition to the price of these particular items), but only once. I forgive him and feel sorry for him for this. Sometimes you do what you have to do.
Jack's not the type to lie or embellish. He's abnormally honest someone who's spent countless hours in police custody. He always owns up to his crimes though. He says if you get caught, you have to accept responsibility for your actions. If you're not caught, you didn't do anything wrong. It's not hard to play it off like you didn't see the crime, whatever that may be. People have a tendency to walk around wearing these big fake smiles that just don't fit. I guess I never understood how to do that. Maybe that's my problem. I wear my emotions on my sleeve too often. But I know things aren't great and that smiling doesn't make anything better. All it does really is make my face hurt. Seriously. I don't know though. There are a lot of things that me laugh. Like my pals. And babies. And even puppies. Hey, I'm a sensitive guy. Don't let that get out though, or I'll have to kick your ass.
Well, Summer is coming to an end. Soon I'll have to attend college, or the community equivalent of it. Mercer County Community College. I've always known I'd end up there. It seems like it might be a good experience. I'm actually pretty excited about going. I mean, I gotta start somewhere if I'm ever to get to Berklee College of Music in Boston. I can't imagine living in Boston. Not alone anyways.
Spent one last time with mi hermano Jason. He's going away to college. To the Miami University in Ohio. I'm not sure why he chose to go there, but I envy him for getting away from here. And I'll miss him. Justin, Jay and I just hung out all day. The goodbyes weren't much. Wasn't in the mood to get all sentimental or anything. That's just not my style. I said goodbye and gave him a hug, and went inside. I get the feeling they think I left it unresolved or something. Or that they think I don't care. I do care. I just don't know how to show it sometimes, I guess. This is a situation I need to adapt to.
Justin tells me that he kinda started to cry on the way home after last night. I hardly expected that. I'm glad he was honest though. I think he said Jay was on the verge too. I didn't cry, which is kind of surprising. If I saw them crying, I guarantee you, I would've. I was sad and still am, but I know I'll see Jay again.
I'm riding the bus home tonight. I'm seated all the way in the back with this weird guy. He's got sunglasses resting on top of his head and a full beard look going. Something about this guy just screams safari. Maybe it's his khaki shorts, long socks, and the vest (khaki, of course) to boot. He's got be some kind of a reporter or something on the side as well, I figure. He's got a pocket protecter on his vest with like 6 or 7 pens sticking right out. The basic image is ADULT NERD! (I'm actually surprised when he gets off and there's no "Kick me" sign stuck to his back.) Seriously, the guy gives me the creeps. I tried to ignore him, biting my lip to fight the temptation to either ask "Are you some kind of reporter - perhaps for the National Geographic?" or "What the fuck are you lookin' at?" He had been eating some BK earlier, I gathered by the cup he occasionally took a sip from. It was so obvious that he used this occasion to glance over at me. Cuz it goes without saying that you gotta stare at whoever's directly across from you while you're drinking. I don't know if he was a fruit interested in a little just-barely-18-and-over action, or if he just was interested in me out of curiosity the way some older folks inquire about the youth of America. Maybe he was just curious about my eyebrow ring. People often are, for unknown reasons.
Next, the bus driver pulls up to an intersection. It's a red light. After about a half a minute, the steady red light changes to a flashing red light. After about 10 minutes, what seemed like half an hour, I noticed we hadn't moved. I was a little relieved that Super Fagman had exitted the bus, but now I was curious as to why this spade bus driver wasn't moving the bus. It occurred to me that maybe he didn't realize that the light wasn't going to change to a flashing green. I ignored this suggestion for a couple of minutes, deciding to give him the benefit of the doubt. I've known lots of black folks, and most of them are as smart as humans come. That's not to say I don't know some dumb ass spades though. And this guy is, after all, a bus driver. But, if there is one thing a bus driver should be, it's well educated in the whole traffic rules and regulations and shit. This fucker should have a motor vehicle driver manual under his ass, in case his dumb ass (with manual under it) forgets something. And his brain will at least be close to it.
I decided after another couple of painful minutes to approach the bus driver. I'll just be all casual and shit. "Is something wrong?" I asked, expecting him to go, "Yeah. It's a red light. I think it might be busted, but better play it safe anyway. Momma always says..." and me to cut him off (which I never do) by replying, "It's not busted. It just means stop before proceeding with caution. You can turn right and we can go." (We were at a three way intersection. We were on the street perpendicular to the complete street, which happened to be a one-way street. I figured this guy was not only dumber than toast, but also obedient, since there was a sign in front of us, across the street, that read: No Turn On Red. I figured wrong, mind you.)
This spade snickered. Snickered? I'm not even sure what the fuck that means, but I'm positive it doesn't involve peanuts. But he did a mean laugh as to imply that I was the dumb ass Puerto Rican drop-out. Whatever it was, snickered seems the most fitting. Three seconds after this little display of superiority, he turned and looked at me and said, "Man, I've got a schedule to keep." I didn't say anything, but the concept totally amused me. I didn't laugh out loud, but I pondered the thought in my mind. Rarely does a bus ever arrive at a destination on time, and if, God forbid, it arrives somewhere early, it doesn't just sit around waiting. I would not have missed so many buses in my life, if that were the case. This driver must be some kind of Negro angel or something. He even apologized for his attitude when I got off the bus (always at the very last stop). I told him it was ok, and that I was merely concerned. As I walked home, the words "schedule to keep" echoed in my head, as relief in the form of surpressed and monitored chuckles (mixed with cigarette smoke) emerged from my dumb ass Puerto Rican graduate lips.
Lately, these memories of my childhood find their way into my thoughts. I try to ignore them and usually succeed, but sometimes they just won't budge. It's not that I don't appreciate the good memories. It's just that I often feel like I'm distracted by them. I dunno, it seems like if all you have are memories, the present must be pretty dull. Or maybe it's not dull at all. You just can't appreciate how great life is cuz you're drowning in the past. You shouldn't overdose on memories. (You shouldn't overdose on anything to be more accurate.) I guess a healthy mix of past, present and future is sufficient. But that's shit that a therapist can tell you. And I'm in no way qualified for that. I mean, sure I like to help people and all. But I'm too fucked up for that job. And sometimes, more often than not, people really get to me.
God, it's hot. I'm sitting in the hottest apartment I've ever had to endure in my short, sad and pathetic life. Forced willingly to snack on disgusting Bagel snacks, tasteless Fruit-by-the-foot Berry-flavored tie-dye (complete with Secret Alien Message) and tolerable Ritz bit sandwhiches (New! Extreme cheese taste!) to supress the boredom. Everyone's asleep. I would be too if it wasn't so goddamn hot. I'm semi-sleepy. Semi-sleepy is the state where you can fall asleep easily, if you were in the right situation or atmosphere. That atmosphere is most likely my nice air-conditioned, animal-free room. Fuck, now my back hurts. Great. I'm a forced insomniac. There's just no way I'm getting any sleep tonight. I'll try. But I doubt I'll succeed.
I fell asleep around 3:30 and woke up at 6:30. No sense in trying to get back to sleep. The kittens won't let me. Jason's sleeping on the fire escape cuz he can't stand the heat in here. It's not air-conditioned. If I knew how to get home, I would go. I've tried returning to sleepland, but the kittens keep jumping on me. It isn't fair. They aren't aware of the damage they are causing. Restless kittens that only wanna play. Well, I'm a big cat that only wants to sleep. The kittens are named Ella (for Ella Fitzgerald) and Louie (for Louie Armstrong, my vote for the Godfather of Jazz, definitely). They're probably rolling over in their graves, cuz two fucking kittens won't leave them alone.
I couldn't take it anymore. Sleep stolen from me by restless kittens who have got to have some sort of vendetta against sleeping guys like myself. Desires to be dead or at least a vampire flushing thru my head. I got off my ass at 7:30, reported to Jay that I was moving on, and found my way back to the train station via subways. I held off on going home till about 10 or so, and walked around Manhattan for awhile. I bought a book and got some food. Can't leave New York without having those rubber hot dogs. Of course, I had to settle for Nathan's, which is pretty much a higher priced, brand name version. I hate when they take something like that and try and feed it to the masses. It's like buying corduroy pants at K-Mart. I shouldn't talk though. Sometimes I buy brand name stuff over generic. Depends on my mood and what's in my wallet. I dunno. It just seems like some things you shouldn't buy generic. Like condoms. Not that I buy condoms often. Or ever for that matter.
New York in the daytime is almost as scary as it is at midnight. The freaks don't only come out at night, they're just better disguised during the day. I was never so glad to be home. Safe behind plastic walls of a faux suburbia. It's not that I was at all scared. I just wasn't in the mood for it all. Or prepared.
I'm shacked up in the hospital for tests and shit. I don't feel like writing much. Maybe when I get out. I've got some good books to keep me company and some music to listen to. I've also found time to write, although I don't often feel like it. It's not all that different here than being in JH, but at least there you don't have to live on pure liquid diets. That shit's the pits.
I want to cut my arm again. Just for the fuck of it, really. But I'm headed back into the goddamn hospital, and the doctors and nurses and what-have-you tend to ask questions about those sorts of things. Wouldn't want them to think I've been abused, would we? I've been thinking about that a lot lately. Digging up old demons, I guess you could say. It's not so much the shit I had to endure that bothers me most. It's just knowing about how shitty my father was to my mom. It wasn't even stuff I particularly witnessed myself, but stuff that finds its way into your subconscious from whispered secrets and tea time therapy sessions. I remember how my mother used to always say my dad was late cuz he was seeing his girlfriend. I had no idea what she was talking about then, but now I'm a bit older, a little bit wiser, and just a tad more suspicious. But I don't know if any of that was true. Just doesn't sound like my dad. I mean, he's now technically single, and he's still alone and devoted. But maybe that's out of guilt. Or maybe there's some things I just don't know. I forget exactly where I heard about it, but I learned that my father used to beat my mother up. This was before I was around. It just makes me sick to look at him sometimes. And often, when I let my guard down, and I feel bad about the way I treat him, I remind myself of what he did. And it somehow makes it better. And I feel less guilty for some reason.
When I was much younger, I used to sleep in my parents' bed sometimes. My dad would always kiss my mother and I goodbye as he went off to work at like 5 or so in the morning. Often times when he was gone, these thoughts of my father dying would creep into my head. And I would literally drive myself to tears. I spent many a nights crying myself to sleep. I've never wasted so many tears on my dad since then. In fact, I don't think I've ever cried for him at all since then. Lately, actually, I've been thinking about my father dying in a whole different way. I kind of try and see things from his perspective and I sympathize with him. Cuz my pops is getting old, and he's probably a lot closer to death than even he wants to admit. And I wonder if he's scared. Cuz he doesn't seem like it. But I know if it was me, I'd be scared shitless. Death is not something I want to face right now. Even if it is constantly on my back, like a monkey with a handgun.
It's strange how the woman next to me while I was crying would be the one to exit my life first. I was crying for the wrong person. I think about her a lot. And I do want to talk about her. But now's not the time. Later possibly.
I really wish these fucking nurses would learn how to do their job and stop poking me so many goddamn times in hopes to hit a vein. They say I've got slippery, iron veins. Bullshit. I'm just getting fucked over cuz they're amateurs at this. I'd help them along, but that might not go over too well. I hate when the doctors ask if I've ever done any drugs. Like I'm just gonna be like, "Yeah, I'm quite the smackhead, Doc. You sellin'?" Fuck no. I told them I used to smoke marijuanna (their term, not mine), but that I quit. And that I only did it a couple of times. It gets to the point where I believe it. This shit's getting me down, so I'm going to take a break, and try and get some rest.
These people here are really fucking nuts. I'm starving to death and they got me on liquid diets. It's total bullshit. And the fuckers keep taking blood for their stupid tests. I need blood, so I'm a bit confused as to why they're taking it. They pump it into me, then drain it back out. It's not cool in the least. Fucking quacks. I gotta get out of here and soon. At least the headaches have stopped and I'm not feeling so goddamn sick and dizzy.
I do feel a little better. I'm just starving. And I sleep too much.
My girlfriend decided it would be a good time to break up with me, me being in the hospital and all. Real fucking class this chick has. I'm not particularly sure why I'm getting dumped, but I don't particularly give a fuck at this point. That might be the drugs talking though. I don't dig her doing acid, and there's this party coming... her best friend's birthday, I believe. I think this has something to do with it, but I could be wrong. They're both heavy acid fiends, and I definitely don't dig that scene. It kind of sucks that she's what is getting me thru this whole ordeal. The thought of getting out of here to be with her.
They let me out again, assuming I've been patched up and taken care of. I highly doubt it. I think I'm gonna let this trip run its course. I'll be better, all in due time. Been doing a lot of thinking. One important rule that keeps popping up in my head: Don't fuck your friends. Last time I fucked my friend, I fucked myself. Also, it's probably not a wise idea to shower with a toaster nearby. Remember that. I need some rest now, so till later...
A thought occurred to me that challenges my past-dwelling problem, the one I wrote about in a previous entry. Memories are more than what you did in your childhood. It's what you did yesterday, last week or even an hour ago. Fuck, a minute ago. And they are more important than I like to let on. Don't get me wrong. I still think that if you start having memories about other times you had memories, then that might be a good sign to go and do something. Find a life. I'm sure there's one out there for you. But if we didn't have memories, then everything we did would be for nothing. I can appreciate the concept of living for now, more so than the idea of thinking about the future. Many probably see this as one of my flaws. But I don't think so. I could be dead tomorrow. Who knows when the big bomb is going to drop or when I might get into a horrible accident. We live our lives on the assumption that there will be a tomorrow. Which, in all fairness, is probably the safest way to do it. But I've never really been one to be cautious or even logical. Oh, well.
To me, it feels like life is all about trying to hold onto the memories as long as possible or create new ones. There's definitely a lot to say for memories. Without them, this journal would be pretty anemic. Sure, there are bad memories too (of this I am fully aware, seeing as how they are the ones that seem to consume me the most), but hopefully we learn from them. It's the good memories that remind us that life doesn't always suck. And it's like a ticket back to that place that you haven't been in awhile and may never go again. For me, the reception may not be clear and it might seem a little fuzzy (tainted by drugs and sheer exhaustion), but the reruns of classic memories are often better than the shit that passes for memories these days. I've also been thinking that I could do without some of the memories. Dead people become zombies in memories and that's no fun. Makes it harder to deal with. I mean, it's the fucking good shit that gets me down. Cuz I get to missin' them. Whether we're separated by death or circumstance. I occasionally wish I could have a small dose of selective amnesia. It would be pretty cool if they could get that shit into some kind of powder form. Much easier to take your medicine if you really think it's doing something good for you. Good for the moment anyway. I'd sure like to cook that shit up and flush out all those beautifully dysfunctional good memories... right through my slippery, iron veins.
I saw my ex-girlfriend at a concert tonight. I had spent most of the concert looking for her, cuz I knew she would be there. But when I finally bumped into her I played it off like I was surprised. She kissed me on the lips, a real quick kiss. I told her she could do better than that and she did. It was ecstasy, the type that no drug could touch or hinder.
It's been awhile since I've written in here. Haven't really had the time or motivation. Or desire for that matter. I don't know where this is going and I'm not sure I want to continue. But something strange happened today, so I thought I'd write about it. I was at the train station with Jim and Kathryn. I'm not particularly sure why. I think Jim wanted information on trains to Toronto or something. Anyway, while Jim went inside to get that info, Kathryn and I were both calmly enjoying a cigarette. Jim finally comes out, and a second later, we hear someone yelling something. Some fucking shower reject, a wino, I'm sure, is coming at us, yelling shit about smoking. He's like "Put that fucking cigarette out." Jim, being the brave hero he is, rushes inside to get help, or so he said later. It's kinda funny in retrospect. One second Jim's there. The next, there's a cloud of dust where he used to be.
Anyway, the guy starts going off about us not having respect for the building. The train station is apparently this sanctuary, that I was unaware of. Of course, you'd be unaware too, if you saw the bathrooms in this joint. Fucking crummy to the max. So, I'm not sure if Kathryn is scared or what, but I'm totally relaxed, and I calmly throw my cigarette on the ground. This seems to please him a bit, but it doesn't stop him from faking like he's going to hit me. I didn't flinch, cuz I'm not in the least scared of this fucker. Maybe I should be. Crazy bums are known to be among the scariest individuals to deal with. I mean, what have they got to lose, you know? If he hit me, I'm sure I would have torn him apart. He's got something like 40 years on me, I'm sure. He's weak, not to mention ugly (not that that would improve my chances or anything, just wanted to let you know), and dirty as fuck. And besides, I had breakfast. Fighting ain't so easy on an empty stomach, let me tell you. I'm not a betting man, but I'm sure this guy hasn't eaten a decent meal since the Reagan Administration. I mean I'm completely sympathetic to the plight of the homeless, but this was a completely absurd situation.
So, then he says some shit like "And don't you call the cops, cuz I am the fucking F.B.I." Ah, I'm thinking, undercover work, eh? So, eventually, he starts walking away, and we turn and see a police officer on his way out of the station, with Jim not too far behind. Jim to the rescue. By now, Mr. Stinky is on his way, running like there's a meal with his name on it somewhere far away from here. Fucking bizarre, to say the least.
And what was the lesson we learned today? When giving change to the homeless, make sure they're not undercovered F.B.I. agents. They make far more than you and I, I'm sure. Also, if you're ever in front of the Trenton Rail Station, smoking a cigarette, tell Mr. Stinky that life is always a hassle, and secondhand smoke is merely eavesdropping.
At around quarter after 6 this morning, I went to get the paper. The sky was that surreal blend of pink and purple it gets when the sun first hits it. It also looks that way when it begins to retreat. It's kinda nice the way the sun leaves a little trace of itself behind as it retires for the day. Like it's an artist, leaving behind a beautiful painting. I find it incredibly comforting for some reason. I have this sudden urge to just frame the sky. Thinking about it, I think that it's kind of a metaphor for life. We all want to be remembered in a good way, I think. To leave something beautiful behind when we finally retire and blend into the sky.
Anyway, I took one look at it and thought to myself, "I've got to take advantage of this..." So I ran back inside and grabbed my trusty (handy dandy) notebook. The words weren't that hard to reach. I'm not inspired very often, or so it seems. But usually, when I am, it comes out pretty easily, with little initiative or force. Actually, lately, I've been inspired quite often. I spent an hour once just sitting on a bench in a movie theater, watching people walk by. And I wasn't at all bored. I came to the realization that day that people are walking poetry.
I wish I wouldn't force myself to write so much. I feel like I have a time clock and a quota each day. It's like if I'm not writing, and a sufficient amount, then I'm wasting the day away. It's become less about the relief it gives me. It's harder to interpret it as a means of releasing built up emotions. It's still therapeutic, but at what cost. Poetry has become a job, it seems, and I'm not getting paid for it.
I remember this one time, while my dad and I were at the park, and he tried to hook me up with this little girl because her father was rich or something. My dad has always been quite the pimp. This just shows it. He's a little too obsessed with money for my tastes. But that's my dad. (Same guy that thinks Massachusetts is the capital of Boston, and that the Indians were the first presidents of the USA.)
Another thing he seems obsessed with is religion, and the bible. He didn't go to church much until recently though, which I don't get. Says he's praying for me. My health, I think. I guess I forgot to mention my illness (or at least go into any detail). That's probably cuz I'm sick of explaining it, especially since I'm not even sure what it is or why it's happening. It's caused me to lose a lot of blood though. And miss a lot of school. I got kicked out of one school because of it (though if you ask anyone who doesn't know me they'll chalk it up to drugs, and I'm not about to correct them - funny thing is I didn't do much drugs while I was in that school, and especially not while I was in school). I had to drop out of college because of it, and I'm hesitant to go back because of it. Seems like just a waste of money till I get it all fixed or whatever, if that's possible. I've lost a lot of hope. And I'm quite tired. It feels like I'm living on borrowed time, if you can understand that.
I've spent way too much time in the hospital with tubes in my arms, and I've gone through too many tests, ones too horrific to even begin to describe. One that sticks out though is this one where they stuck a tube up my nose and then down to my stomach to see if there was any blood in my stomach. It hurt to the point of tears. No sense in playing this shit off like I'm a tough guy. That shit will make the biggest biker cry, I'm sure. And then the fuckers had to keep it in there awhile, as I sat there with tears and saliva coaxing my face, because they thought they saw something. I think they had to literally drain it out of me... THROUGH MY NOSE! Turns out it was only apple juice. Apple juice that those fuckers gave me to drink. Fucking incompetent shitheads. For another one, they had to shave a patch of my... Well, I'm sure you can guess. Then they fucking stuck a needle in there. I forget why, but it fucking hurt. And as any guy (ahem, straight, non-psychotic guy) will tell you, we're very hesistant to have anything that's not a chick's tongue, or such, around our groin area, especially if it's a fucking needle. I'm reluctant to go back there anytime soon. Even if it means I'm slowly killing myself.
Another thing about hospitals that I don't dig is the fucking nuts they constantly assign as my roommates. I'm surprised I never wrote about this earlier. One guy was a total schizophrenic, paranoid to the point of sedation, if I were in charge, anyways. Which, by the freaks I got, it was obvious I wasn't. This fucker kept accusing them of trying to kill him or some shit. Then there was the guy my father had a nice conversation with while visiting me. The guy seemed normal enough. No such luck though. I woke in the middle of the night once to see the guy hanging on my I.V. pole. The dude's half naked, and yelling about something. I get the feeling he thought he was in some kind of a war or something. It was bad enough that he was suffering through some kind of post-war flashback (the drug induced kind are the only ones I've been subject to), and that he decided my I.V. pole was the best means of support, but I really didn't need to see his crusty old ass waving in front of my barely focused, not entirely rested eyes. If I didn't know better, I surely would've chalked it up to another acid trip gone horribly wrong. Wouldn't that be fun?
I was awaken by a prank call today, offering the opportunity of gay sex. I politely declined. If there's one thing I can't stand, it's faggots. I mean, feel free to get all the ass you want from your butt buddies. But don't try and seduce me for some. That's shit's annoying. I remember this one time I was on the bus home from my girlfriend's house. It was like 8 in the morning. The night full of nice drugs and dirty sex. I was exhausted to say the least. Didn't really get much sleep. I believe it was Thanksgivings Day too. (Another holiday I can't stand, let me tell you. What kind of fucked up people are going to celebrate that kind of shit? I'm sure the Native Americans are very thankful that we took their land.)
That's another thing, now that I think about it, that annoys me about those fucking doctors at the hospital. They're always asking me if I engage in homosexual sex. Anal intercourse, I believe they refer to it as. I'm not as insulted as I sometimes come off. I've gotten past that. But what gets me is that it's like these fucknuts want me to be a fag. Like, they're all like, "You have to tell us if you're taking it in the rear, Son. It's ok, if you are." Not in those exact words or anything, but I know what they're driving at with their little questions. One even had the nerve to ask some shit like, "Are you sure you haven't been receiving anal sex?" I'm just thinking, "Of course, I'm sure. I would think I would remember if a guys love bump was up my fucking ass, where you seem to want to put your hand. I don't care how many drugs I'm on, that's not something I'm likely to forget on account of a nod. Dig?" I don't see what they get out of it. Probably just looking for an excuse to take an early lunch, then it's off to their office bathrooms for a little self-examination. Closet faggots posing as doctors is just the bottom of the fucking barrel if you ask me.
It happened again today. One of my so-called friends implied that I'm less than admirable. I'm sick of these fucking character assassinations. I'm no fucking saint, don't get me wrong. But I'm not that bad a guy. At least, I don't think so. I don't know. It worries me. I just want to be a good person. And I try so hard. I'm failing everyone, I think. I'm failing myself. I wanna be sugarfree. An endless quest for purity...
I went to visit my mother today. There's a sign right as you pass through the cemetery entrance that reads "Gates open at 8 A.M. Close at 6 P.M." I guess even dead people have curfews. I wonder how many zombies got locked out on account of spending careless hours cruising the bar for chicks, using such tired old lines as "What's your sign?" and "Are your feet tired?" Of course the only thing that runs through their minds are worms and other insect, and the occasional rodent, I suppose. Life must suck when you're dead. Well, at least for the body you leave behind.
Perhaps the strangest gift my father ever got me was a headstone. It came as a total surprise. I first saw it several months ago while I was there visiting. I walked up to the headstone that shared my mother and father's name. I glanced over and saw my name on the headstone next to it, to the left.
My parents' headstone has some empty sentiment on it that reads "Together Forever." Which makes no sense, since she's dead and he's still alive. And yet he seems totally devoted to her memory, and I think he'll remain that way till he passes on. Not even death would do them part. It's kind of sweet and sad, admirable and pitiful. Free and married to the bones. It makes me mad sometimes the way he glorifies her. The way he makes it seem like she was an angel. The way he acts like she never made any mistakes or did anything wrong. I'm living proof that she made some mistakes. And I've suffered from some of them. And witnessed others. But I'm not bitter. And I do love her still, as much as you can love someone who's dead. Which I'm not completely convinced is possible. But I also know that she was human just like everyone else. And her flaws and imperfections makes it easy for me to hold onto her memory. To remind me that she wasn't just some vision I dreamed up. It kind of feels like he's taking that away from me. There's definitely a stronger connection between a mother and a son than there is between a husband and a wife. This is what I'm convinced of. I hate how he makes it seem like I don't miss her.
Another thing he does that bothers me, and I'm not sure why, is he leaves a bowl of food and a glass of water out on the table in the living room. It bothered me back at the old house where we used to live, where we were still living when she died. But it bothers me even more here. I don't think I have any right to be upset, which is why I hardly say anything about it. But it seems a bit absurd that she's going to pack up her things (whatever things a ghost has) and move along with us to our new place. I believe in ghosts as much as I can, but I don't think my mother is one. It's common knowledge that if you're a ghost, it's cuz you have some unfinished business. It's kind of like you're stuck in between this life and the next. Well, for one thing I don't like to think of her being stuck there. And also, angels have been granted access to Heaven, right? So, they can't be ghosts. I like to think of my mother as an angel. Just as I like to think that there is an afterlife in the Kingdom of God, commonly referred to as Heaven. It's a thought that helps me sleep better at night. I mean, for her benefit as well as mine. I'm scared of death, cuz I am not completely sure yet. But I have my faith. What's left of it. And when my time comes, hopefully I will be brave. Like I'm sure my mother was. I've asked her, in my version of praying (a normal conversation with what seems to be air), to take care of my friend Kathryn, whom I love with the same intensity, cuz she's been sick lately. I hope she does, cuz I couldn't make it without her.
It's weird thinking of her now. It's been over 5 years. So, her flesh is clearly rotted away. Decay is a strange and sad thing. I mean, I know it seems weird to think about such things. Usually people dwell on memories, and it makes them feel better. And that's good and all. But sometimes I think about this. I'm a morbid son of a bitch. There's no denying it. A thought just occurred to me, as they usually do. The only thing keeping me from digging the coffin up and lying my mother's arms is the idea that she is probably just bones by now. I mean, I don't know how well human beings preserve and all, but I'm pretty sure what's in that coffin is pretty nasty. (And in a bad way.) That's a disturbing thought. And a depressing image. I don't particularly feel like talking about this stuff now. Maybe later I'll get into the viewing and funeral, and the only ghost story I've ever physically encountered. Not now though.
Public transportation is half my life. I don't mind the long rides so much as long as there is something else to numb the boredom. I usually drown it out in the active scenery. But it's become pretty routine and repetitive. Now, sometimes that's comforting. For some people, routine is the only thing keeping them from completely snapping. Spontaneousness breeds chaos. Lately, Ive been indulging myself in train rides. I've ran out of books and music selections for the bus trips - to various destinations, including my original departure spot. Train rides are often soothing. They remind me of when I was a little boy, and I used to take trips with my dad to New York (Manhattan, I believe) or Philadelphia. Those are happy memories, of which I have few. We would go there and walk around, occasionally purchasing bootleg movies or those long rubbery hot dogs that I loved so much. I cherished those hot dogs, glazed in ketchup, to the point where I would go all the way to New York with my dad just to get two or three. And I'm a fast eater with a big appetite to match my big stomach. Doesn't show on the outside though. On the outside, I appear pretty thin and scrawny. But I feel so fat. Oh, well.
Like I was saying, train rides contributed to a large portion of my better childhood memories. Movies were also a big part. I remember how my dad used to take me to see one, and then we'd sneak into another one afterwards. A double feature at the AMC. It was a shitty little 4 screen place. Total fucking hassle to get into that motherfucker for an R-rated movie, without I.D. or a parent. My pops had to buy me a ticket occasionally. Now, I'm of legal age, so it wouldn't be any hassle. Unfortunately I'll never get to really know. It closed down awhile ago, and just recently they opened one of those fucking multiplexes. It's got something like 24 screens or something. Big deal, I say. I heard of one in Texas, I think, that's got 25. One up on them. You would think that one of those big multiplexes with their many selections and stadium seating and all that shit would appeal to me, but you would think wrong. It's just too impersonal, and it makes it into a big fucking social event. I am of course antisocial and I don't like that. Oh, well. I don't have many choices. At least it's air-conditioned. And it is my only option. I'm certainly not going back to that ghetto theater where I used to work. I got fired for missing one day. It was total bullshit, and I think it had something to do with a certain Raisinets incident, which I won't bore you by getting into. I'll let my clone get back to you on that one.
It's the 9th day of the 9th month of the year 1999... My day consisted of me going to the drugstore to get hair dye. I fucked up my hair again. Bleaching it and all. Can't see the back, but, from what I hear, it's bad. I got some reddish brown dye, cuz it looks far too surreal at the moment... yet not surreal enough it seems. I once had blue hair, but I got too many looks, so I think I'll stray from that. I dig red though. A very surreal shade of it. Cartoon red or blood red. When I got to the drugstore, I picked one of the few boxes with a guy on it. An Asian guy too, who had a nice do going, I must say. Something about buying hair dye with a chick on it just makes me a little uneasy.
It seems the nut that usually hangs out on the main street near my house (Rt. 33) has hit the smaller roads for a change. This guy stands there and looks off to no one at all and points up. Then he does a 180 and does it again. Like he's letting someone far off know which way is up. I kinda wonder what happens when he can't make it. Someone's not gonna know which way is up, I guess, and there are no substitutes. Life's gotten so bad that even whackos are slacking off. Or jerking off, as the case may be and has been if you've ever visited a N.Y.C. train station bathroom at 1 in the morning. Not a pretty sight.
Ran into Elaine, Jim's ex-girlfriend, today. Stephen and I went over to Denny's and we were sitting in the lobby area, waiting to be seated. I didn't even notice her when she first walked in. But, as she was passing by us, I whispered her name a couple of times. She finally noticed and glanced at us, and walked on. I turned to Steve, and made a comment about how she was apparently too good for us and all. Like we're the enemies cuz Jim dumped her. "She acts like we told him to dump her or anything," I commented. Steve added, "Although, we did." "Yeah, well, that's besides the point, " I said. Truthfully, I was not very fond of Elaine in the beginning, but I kind of got used to her and I didn't mind her as much as everyone else. She did have an attitude often though. That was kind of hard to deal with. And Jim, himself, was unhappy in the relationship and wanted to end it, which is the only reason I even gave my opinion on the matter that it was for the best and all. Not that my opinion even matters much.
So, after awhile, Elaine comes and sits down next to me, and asks what we're doing here. I told her that we were just there to eat. I could tell by her eyes that she was crying earlier, and from the looks of it, she was close to it again. "Are you okay?" I asked. "No," she said. Then she went on to tell me that because Jim broke up with her, she was living in her car. Steve didn't hear much of this conversation, so I had to fill him in later. I asked her what happened with her dad and all. According to her, she was kicked out by her dad. "What about your friends? Can't you stay with one of them?" I asked. She replied, "None of their parents want to get involved." She also informed me that she just found out that she was no longer employed at Denny's, where she was, up till then, working as a waitress (making far more money than I ever have at my shitty job). This came as a bit of a surprise. I looked at her and saw tears starting to run down her cheeks. I felt bad. I wanted to tell her that everything was going to be okay. But all I could say was "I'm sorry." This didn't seem to comfort her in the least, which, of course, I expected. She then asked something I was completely unprepared for. "How's Jim?" she asked, a tear, I noticed, dropping onto her jacket. I couldn't very well just tell her that he was very happy to be rid of her. But I also didn't want to make it seem like he was miserable or regretting his decision, and give her a false sense of hope. (Been there, done that.) So, I said very calmly, "He's good." She excused herself, and went to sit down with someone at one of the booths. When Steve and I were seated, at first, I didn't have much of an appetite, as I was completely engrossed in her problem. That feeling passed, cuz eating's one of the only things I do on a regular basis.
I can't seem to stop thinking about Elaine and her situation and all. I'm genuinely worried about her. When we left Denny's, I wanted to go up to her and be like "If there's anything I can do, just ask." But it wasn't my place. And I'm not good with that kind of stuff. I care too much for too many people. And it's weird how people I don't even know and never met seriously affect me. I remember reading about these two kids that went into the woods and killed themselves, and I didn't just go "Oh, that's sad," and then move on with my life. It got to me, and I got depressed. And a lot of other articles I read. It's pretty much why I hardly read the newspaper anymore. It's not because I'm lazy or uninterested, though I will admit to being an A.D.D. freak. It's because I always take it a lot more personally than I should. I'm just an empathic whore, and it hurts.
People are so quick to point out your flaws and even judge you on them, while avoiding their own. It seems like they do this on purpose. People are inclined to believe the rumors and the gossip, rather than even attempt to ask you themselves. People believe other people rather than trust you or begin to have some kind of faith in you. People talk behind your back, and smile like it's no big deal. People judge you based on one side of an arguement, just because you refuse to give your side, cuz you hold it to be personal, where as others tend to flaunt it or feel the need to let the whole world know, for whatever reasons. People are so often inconsiderate, unreliable, uncompromising fuckers, without a care in the world. People often wear apathetic masks to disguise any kind of emotion that might make them, God forbid, vulnerable. People care about themselves far too much, and they don't care who they hurt in an attempt to better their own lives. People step on the backs of their own friends, and drive the knife in deeper with their heels. People have become too lazy to say hello or even flush a goddamn toilet in a public restroom. (Which we've apparently compensated for by putting automatic flushes in place of manual ones - What's next? Cars that drive themselves?) People have become more interested in doing things solely for the pleasure of it, and have neglected to find any kind of real meaning in their actions. People are ungrateful bastards, always willing to pray to a god they neglected, when the time is right, and their lives are on the line. People have become far too sensitive about the unimportant things while becoming desensitized to the things that really matter. People are the biggest hypocrites, willing to put a man to death in order to punish him for something that they agree is wrong, yet they cannot stand the sight of blood at the same time. People hardly admit to being wrong, cuz pride is a double-edged sword. People are disgusting angels and beautiful monsters. People made this world but refuse to take responsibility for it. People always think they have you figured out, but the truth is nobody really knows anyone. People bitch about taxes being too high, then complain that the education system sucks. People come to you for help when they need it, but turn you away when it's your turn. People pull the carpet from under your feet and use a slingshot to shoot you off of your cloud, cuz there's no reaching for the stars or attempt at grabbing hold of your dreams in this world. People want to see you fail to make themselves feel better. People accuse you of being lazy when you're misguided, then kick you back down when you're searching for support. People are fucking ugly and I can't stand them. But I love them just the same.
I was sitting at the playground, where I write most of my poetry, sitting on one of the swings, and I started thinking about God and Jesus. Lately, I've felt alone in every sense of the word. I believe in God, despite lack of any real proof (I guess we call this faith), to the point of exhaustion. But I needed a sign to tell me to keep going. To let me know that I was going to be okay. So I asked Jesus to push me, as a sign. After several minutes, I got up and went to the empty swing next to me. I put my hand in front of it, and for a second, I thought I felt someone's face. But it was probably just nerves. It seems signs usually come when we're not waiting for them. When we're not expecting them. I was sure that the swing would start rocking, right in front of my eyes, and I would find some kind of redemption in this. The swing never moved.
Everybody's always looking for answers in this world. The biggest one of them all is the bullshit question: What is the meaning of life? This should be a fucking multiple choice question, I tell you right now. I know the meaning of life, and it's so fucking simple, that I never understood why it was such a big deal. First off, the meaning of life is not the same for everyone, which is part of the misconception. It's what you make of it and what it means to you. I think the answer lies somewhere in the journey, personally. But then again, what the fuck do I know?
I ran into one of my ex-girlfriends today at the mall.
Writing poetry has become a matter of picking the words that float around my head and putting them in an artistic progression. It's a lot more work than people seem to realize. Than even I seemed to realize. I thought of fame today, and it scared me. That says something, but I'm not particularly sure what. Anyway, sometimes, when I write, I just let it flow out. From my brain through my fingers to the page. These are usually the ones that are hard to relate to or decipher. But they look and read nice. But lately, I've been analyzing myself and I've been spending more time on one poem than I used to. I actually construct a lot of them now. I still haven't been able to write as I think and feel I can. I haven't been able to touch the sky yet, so to speak.
I'm sinking deeper into this state I'm in. I'm not sure how to explain it. It's frustrating and it's making me hard to deal with. I know that. I feel bad for my friends. But it's partially their fault, for reasons I have yet to comprehend. It's just a feeling I have, I guess. The highlight of this morning was seeing a cop car pull over a school bus. It wasn't a normal sized school bus either. It was one of those short buses, usually reserved for retards. I rode on one of them a couple of times in high school, and I'm not retarded. Though sometimes, usually when I'm eating, I feel like I might be. I also almost got run over by some guy who decided to floor it right as I entered the intersection. He was going pretty fast to be making a right turn.
I've realized how I don't talk about Kathryn much, this girl that I slowly fell completely in love with. It's because I don't want to taint that experience or dig up old demons. It's best to say very little, I think. So I will.
I got into a fight with Kathryn today. I'm not sure why it got so bad. I wish I hadn't said the things I said. But it gets frustrating when the people you look to for support always seem to be the ones who give none. I'm not sure why, but she assured me I'd be doing a job I didn't want to be doing, just for the purpose of making money. (Consider me illogical, but I'd rather be dead than settle for a position I hated, solely on the basis of getting a paycheck every week and a nice, fat retirement goal at the end of my sad, pathetic life.) I don't know if she was trying to throw a little reality in my face or prepare me for the "real world", but it made me sick, because it was shit I expected to hear from my father, someone who has absolutely no faith in me. At this point, there are very few people who seem to have any faith in me at all. And if anyone does, they don't go about showing it. For so long now, I've been supporting myself in this aspect. It gets hard. And it's very discouraging. It feels like maybe I should give up my dreams, and settle into mediocrity. Like I'm destined to be like everyone else; just another slave to the desk. I feel like a lot more can be said on this whole issue, but I'm tired, angry, depressed, and, besides, I can't seem to find the words.
But I hurt her, and I didn't mean to. I don't know why I get mean sometimes. And I don't particularly mean it. But I was hurt, and my normal reaction is to hurt back. I felt horrible when I got off the phone with her. What I did next scares even me. I'm not even sure why I did it. I went into the bathroom and ran the water from the sink, as to muffle the sound. I took off my shirt and then I took off my belt. I proceeded to methodically whip myself on the back with painful thrusts of hatred. Hatred for myself. For life. For others. I'm not sure if I was attempting to punish myself or make myself stronger. Because Daddy doesn't like a boy who cries. So there will be no tears out of you, young man. I bit my lip to supress screaming and fought back tears with horrific force. I didn't stop till I looked in the mirror and saw who I used to be, and how I lived through this before, when it was guided by my father's hand. Even my mother contributed to this beautiful act of discipline. Just another scrape on the subconscious. I can't deal with this shit anymore. The sickest thing is I didn't want to stop. I wanted to draw blood. I wanted to tear my back apart. I wanted to find comfort in the scars. I wanted to find Jesus in the pain. This wasn't the first time I've done this. It won't be the last time.
There are 3 serious, potentially destructive feelings I deal with on a regular basis. The first is that I'm going to die. Somebody once asked me at what age I'm going to die. I said 19 of a heart attack. I'm 19 now. And kinda scared, cuz I've been having chest pains more often than not. I also feel like I'm being prepared for it somehow. It's just a feeling and it's hard for me to explain. So I won't. The second is that I'm already dead. That I'm a walking corpse. A living ghost. Even a vampire. I don't know why I get this feeling, but it's there, and it scares me. The last feeling though scares me the most. I can't explain why I have these words floating aimlessly in my head, in search of an outlet on paper in poetry, but I feel like they're starting to work against me rather than granting me temporary relief, as I thought. I feel like they're slowly driving me insane. This is a new breakthrough, and hasn't been thought out much, so it'll probably pass. Hopefully, I'm wrong about this one.
I went to Mercer County today. I'm not particularly sure why. Partially boredom. Mostly to keep myself from going back to sleep. I haven't slept since about 3:30, when I woke up from that dream. I met up with some friends there, and hung out with them for a bit. I even joined old fellow bandmate Ross and two of his friends, whose names escape me completely, when they decided to go for a walk. This walk led to a car, which took us to Mercer County Park. I knew they were going to get high, but I went along anyway. I think I wanted to put myself in a situation where I could get high, but had self-control. It's that whole discipline thing again. I needed to prove to myself that I was over it. That as tempting as it is, I am in control. As you can probably tell, I have this thing about control, and it's useful in situations like this. Drugs have never been a huge part of my life. I mean, the summer before high school is when I did the most drugs, and I kind of woke up because of it. In all honesty, I wish I never had that awakening. At least, not like that.
There was a cop car parked about a half a mile away, but they didn't seem to mind, and I didn't seem to mind that I could get in trouble for someone else's fuck up. When the cop started moving, we raced back to the school. When we got back, we met up with this chick Kate Keller, who I know from my old school. She hugged me and asked me how I've been. I gave her the simple response of "fine." She asked me where I've been and what I was up to. I don't like her much, and I'm not particularly sure why. I mean, she's always been such a fake, in my mind. And she got on my case a bunch of times, when she had no right getting involved with my business. The whole Leesa-Christine affair. She thought I was trying to turn them against each other. Which was complete bullshit. There was a time when I hated Leesa beyond words, and I didn't want Christine hanging around her. But I figured I'd let her come to this conclusion on her own. She did once, but it didn't last.
So, we all start heading over to Kate's car to check something out. I have no idea what, but I'm bored, so I tag along. She's asking me if I've talked to Leesa and talking about how she's off drugs supposedly, and how she doesn't believe it. I don't feel like listening to her, but I'm polite anyway. I remark on how I saw her at Barnes & Nobles, which I've mentioned before, I believe. I also let it be known that I care very little about her, if at all. This is a boldfaced lie, but I feel the need to give the impression that I'm cool about the whole thing. Always gotta be cool. We get to her car, and Ross and I start talking about songs and stuff, which we always tend to do. He mentions how his girlfriend Megan thinks I'm the coolest one of his friends. Which is a nice compliment, but strikes me as a bit eerie. It seems like most of my friends' girlfriends like me more than their other friends. Just a strange observation. I need to find a girlfriend of my own. I wonder who she will like best of my friends. If Kev was around, it would probably be him. He's just got that something about him.
Anyway, they decided to go for a ride and get high again. I politely declined, and they gave me a ride back to the Student Center building. I went to take the bus and ran into my cousin. She was talking about me and my eyebrow ring to some lady as I approached. Strange. Since I was thinking about taking some classes on writing in the spring (thinking, I stress), I went over to the Student Center to get a course catalog. I've since looked at it, and pretty much decided against it. For one thing, I can't afford it. For another, the classes really don't interest me. I want to take the creative writing class, but, in order to do that, I have to take English 101 and then English 102. We'll see what happens. I might try for financial aid or something.
Ran into Ross and Vincent again. Ross informed me that they didn't get high cuz Kate got beeped. Oh, well. I noticed Elaine a few feet away, talking to a friend. She didn't look particularly well. Another "walk" was mentioned, and she was invited. But she was busy, so they went on without her. Ross offered to give me a ride home. I was much obliged. Elaine came over and we all started talking for a bit. Vincent said he had to go, so for some reason that meant Ross had to go, which of course meant I had to go, seeing as how he was my ride. Elaine asked me to stay, and I told her that Ross was my means of transportation. She said she'd give me a ride home, and Vincent and Ross took this as our inevitable separation, and exclaimed, "Bye, Khal." I knew what they assumed, but it's such a proposterous notion, but I let it slip cuz I wasn't in the mood to argue. Most guys only have one thing on their mind, and it's true. They make the mistake of assuming other guys are like them. My goal is not the same as theirs. I'm different.
So, we sat on a bench talking about stuff for about 10 minutes. She asked how Jim was again. Which I found kind of odd, cuz I thought they were still friends and all. I don't know. She also remarked about how Jim hasn't been happy in a long time. Apparently he's been depressed and suicidal. Something I've neglected to detect. I've never really been good at seeing the signs. But he's always seemed happy around us. I guess I wear my emotions on my sleeve on a regular basis. I'm just not used to hiding it. Jim has always been more private in that sense. There's a lot I keep inside. There's a lot of times where I fake enthusiasm and happiness and satisfaction. But it's starting to eat at me. It comes out in sudden fits of tears and frustration. A pain in the form of razorblade kisses. I don't know why. I find greatest relief when I'm writing poetry or creating music. It helps a lot of the times. But it's not enough. It's never enough. I've become incredibly hard to deal with. I feel bad for my friends, not myself. But I'm dealing with it. Cuz that's what we do. Anyway, Elaine gave me a ride home, with someone else's car. I thanked her for the ride and we mentioned the possibility of hanging out some time. Doubt it will happen though. I don't care too much, but boredom has a funny way of making me less apathetic.
I saw that crazy guy on the street the other day. I yelled at him from the passenger seat of Steve's car, "Hey! Which way is up?" He looked at me, scratching his head, and replied, "Huh?" It's strange the way lunatics are sane if you temporarily pull them out of their world. Steve mentioned to me that he doesn't only point up anymore. Now, apparently, since he's gotten more direction requests, I'm guessing, he points in several different directions. He's a strange one.