His smile holds me under a spell. When the air whips past us, I hold his scent in,–his strong, overused body spray–getting high off how he smells and the way it makes me feel; I could live in that sunny daydream forever.
My roommate’s body is perched on the seat of his bike, his legs spread evenly apart, like he’s ready for me to “take a peek.” Why do other boys do that? I’ve never just held my legs so far apart that my dick is it’s own peninsula to my body. That’s just weird and, frankly, uncalled for.
He truly does smell good; but I’ve smelled this scent too frequently. Our bathrooms are so close together, I swear as soon as the spray nozzle releases it, it’s in my nose. I’ve memorized it. If I was a mile away, I could find my way back to him because of this fragrance. I begin to plan a trip to the nearest drug store to help assist in his new manly smell. That trip will never happen. I’ll make sure of it.
So what if he’s cute? He just 1/1000 other boys I find attractive–and that’s on a daily basis. I just happen to live with particular cute boy. Cute aside, he’s such an asshole–in the cute, petty, immature, but loving kind of way. His goldish-blonde hair covers his entire body, and when you see him in the sun you can see just how much he has of it. Especially in his armpits: Once he wore an athletic tee and stretched his tall body in front of me and I saw the curly, wet coils of armpit hairs. I should think it’s disgusting or something, but I don’t. His happy trail wasn’t half bad either.
I’ll definitely have to look into this feeling, but I suspect it will go away with time. It needs to. The ill thoughts of “just maybe…” burn in my brain’s pockets.
(Like $1M in cash offered to me if I just suck him off in the mornings before class.)
There’s not enough money in the world to fill this endless void of spending that I’ve seemed to latch onto lately.
Everything has a price, but I ignore it and the consequences that are so bound to it all. I feels good to spend–on me, on others, on worthless junk. It all feels so good.
Somehow I convinced myself I need to. I’m still working on it, after I had promised everyone I was better at it. I’m stable, I’m independent.
You though, bitch.
I knew I should have brought a book. At least I could have been reading at this lonely table. Instead, I’m accompanied by two forks, a knife, a glass of water and a basket of bread I shouldn’t be eating. Not because I don’t want to, but because it’s the most healthy thing at this table so far. When the spaghetti makes it here, I’m not so sure anymore.
If I’m being completely honest, I’m not sure how to feel about being alone when eating lunch. Being alone in general I tough, but I’m at lunch! Where people eat and converse. I’m a warm and welcoming place that should feel relaxing, but I’m sitting on the edge of my seat wondering if eyes are on me.
But I’m the plus side: the salad takes good.
Hopefully I can come to comprehend this feeling and why it’s so perplexing and uncomfortable. Daunting even.
I hate this flaw of mine.
I turned 21 in June, the perfect excuse to just let go and have fun. But having too much fun was never the plan. Not my plan. I feel like I’m following someone else’s plan. A plan of destruction.
Self-destruction. Oh, the irony.
I’m sure it started as just a social thing, then I became aware of my courage after a couple shots. I’m not myself when I drink, which is the point. I started seeing someone else in the mirror. Someone more happy than I’VE ever been. I started falling for the man in the mirror. I wanted him more than me.
But then people’s approval became an excuse. People’s invites were a death sentence, and I gladly accepted to be able to see him.
Many of my friends aren’t 21, their eager minds forming a liquor store grocery list. Worse than that, I’d always pick something up for myself. I wouldn’t just stock up, I’d overstock like the apocalypse was on my front porch. “This might be the last time.”
A voices whispers to me. I’m mad at the voice, but find myself saying thank you.
Why is it that when I take a shot of vodka my mind whispers to me, “I’m Sorry”?
I want to enjoy the moment when a shot of 99 Proof scratches the inside my throat, tickles my every nerve and eases my mind to a blissful paradise. These are the seconds I look forward to after a long day of my mind running like a hamster on a wheel, chasing something that’s never quite identified. When my body lifts to release the energy it’s held in, my head throws back because my body forgot how to stand on its own for a few seconds. The feeling is then greeted by a burning sensation near my heart, something that may feel like love, but I remind myself it’s just alcohol.
You can’t love alcohol. You shouldn’t even try. If Alcohol Love was sold in stores, we’d all have the image of a label engraved in our minds. It’d say: Don’t Try This At Home.
It’s just alcohol. And I love it.
FROM NOW UNTIL THE END of my life, I will definitely try my best to capture my thoughts and feelings and then share them. The last part there is the most exciting.
You see, dear reader, I love talking. And if I’m correct, I think I have always loved talking, both about myself and ALL the people around me. Without people, I’d be nothing and without nothing I’d be something I don’t want to come to know.
I find it a genuine duty to myself to record and document my life’s triumphs and battles for two reasons: 1) someday I’d like to share my knowledge with those who come after me, and 2) Imagine Googling yourself on your death bed and seeing what a full and hopefully productive life you had all 85 years before. (I don’t plan on dying at 85, and especially not a day sooner but that seems to be an OK guess.)
I listen to Simon and Garfunkel’s ‘The Sound of Silence,’ not because I’m sad–least, I hope not–but because we recently watched The Graduate in Bowen’s class. I particulary love the film and even with it’s problematic undertones, I never thought I’d like a movie so much from 1967.
However, I absolutely adore James Dean in Rebel Without a Cause, so I’m conflicted on whether or not I enjoy older movies.
Note: I hate westerns, most black and white films without sound and never in my life will I watch scary movies by choice. Nor will I watch the 1915 version of The Birth of a Nation.
I’d like to keep typing up a storm for the internet, but I have a Theatre paper to finish and an “experimental video” to edit. Goodnight, good morning, good boy, good life.
feeling good is always great, but like sparks fly, they are lit from a flame and like my green beans flourish my lung feels blown and flown and piercing,
*tries to be too poetic and gets a jumbled mess.*
Stop it. 1 – 10 BABY.
Don’t you dare judge me.