Wednesday, November 22, 2006
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
posts from years of yore
Thursday, December 01, 2005
i swear, my hair tangles every chance it gets. its so cold it goes straight to your bone. i'm not giong to be warm again until may. i hate waking up when its dark outside. my skin is so dry its like its been frozen and is cracking like ice does when you step on it. even my lips are dry, but i love the dead skin on your lips you peel off with your teeth when your bored and biting your lip in class. i just wish it would finally snow.
Sunday, January 08, 2006
I know every nook and krany of boulder city. This, sadly, is not a feat of any kind. I feel shellshocked, horrified, and culture clashed all at the same time. Boulder sucks, Colorado sucks. The first Saturday since I got back I felt bored, for the first time in 3 weeks, within three hours of waking. There is nothing to do, nothing to see, nothing to experience that hasn't been done a hundred times before. The monotony of school as dribbled into the weekend. Everything is the same and systematic. I want something new! Something fresh! This happened to me around the same time last year and I regretted every choice I made to make it exciting again, so I am a little hesitant to do anything about it, but I cant go on like this for much longer!
interesting that i feel exactly the same way now. stupid small towns.
i swear, my hair tangles every chance it gets. its so cold it goes straight to your bone. i'm not giong to be warm again until may. i hate waking up when its dark outside. my skin is so dry its like its been frozen and is cracking like ice does when you step on it. even my lips are dry, but i love the dead skin on your lips you peel off with your teeth when your bored and biting your lip in class. i just wish it would finally snow.
Sunday, January 08, 2006
I know every nook and krany of boulder city. This, sadly, is not a feat of any kind. I feel shellshocked, horrified, and culture clashed all at the same time. Boulder sucks, Colorado sucks. The first Saturday since I got back I felt bored, for the first time in 3 weeks, within three hours of waking. There is nothing to do, nothing to see, nothing to experience that hasn't been done a hundred times before. The monotony of school as dribbled into the weekend. Everything is the same and systematic. I want something new! Something fresh! This happened to me around the same time last year and I regretted every choice I made to make it exciting again, so I am a little hesitant to do anything about it, but I cant go on like this for much longer!
interesting that i feel exactly the same way now. stupid small towns.
No Shadows
potential continuation of story?
Winter was cold and blue, with amazing sunsets made by the condensed pollution. Even though he could see his breath and the cold air stung his lungs he kept running. Everyday after school. He would still take showers afterwards, letting his damp hair dry while he waited for the bus, threatening pneumonia. With his grades slipping it was obvious that few things mattered to him. We had kissed that day I was at his house at September, and he had just become another person who I would only think about in passing. Somehow we continued to gravitate towards each other, and the familiar feeling wouldn’t go away.The winter gave me chapped lips, and reminded me of Picassos blue period.
nevermind. i dont think i like the direction its taking.
Winter was cold and blue, with amazing sunsets made by the condensed pollution. Even though he could see his breath and the cold air stung his lungs he kept running. Everyday after school. He would still take showers afterwards, letting his damp hair dry while he waited for the bus, threatening pneumonia. With his grades slipping it was obvious that few things mattered to him. We had kissed that day I was at his house at September, and he had just become another person who I would only think about in passing. Somehow we continued to gravitate towards each other, and the familiar feeling wouldn’t go away.The winter gave me chapped lips, and reminded me of Picassos blue period.
nevermind. i dont think i like the direction its taking.
Thursday, November 09, 2006
L
His name was Mark and he was addicted to meth. He had a girlfriend with pale pasty skin who always reminded him that he was an asshole. Whenever she told him this, Mark would just scratch his shaved head and walk away, he knew she was just coming down. She had loved him once, if that was possible, but now all mystery had been stripped away and that was why she knew the truth about him, that he was just an asshole.
His brother was a construction worker and still had a life to live. He would leave early in the morning at an hour Mark was never awake, unless he was high. They all lived together, Mark, his brother Joe, and his girlfriend Suzie, in a small trailer. Joe got the bedroom (he paid rent) and Mark and Suzie would share a mattress on the floor that was splitting at the seams. It was a wonder Joe hadn’t kicked them out yet, all they’d do was bicker and get high. Joe and Mark barely talked anymore, Joe didn’t want to get roped in to Marks world, and Mark couldn’t face the shame in Joes eyes. They had never been particularly close as children.
Sometimes Joe would come “home” for lunch; the new mall he was working on was just a few blocks away. Mark and Suzie would still be passed out on the mattress, with the broken Venetian blinds spilling jagged light on their bodies. Suzie lay there, topless, sprawled out on her belly with her holey underwear riding up. Joe never stayed long, even though he found the scene peaceful.
Finally, after several months of Mark and Suzies fighting getting worse and worse, Joe just gave the damn thing to Mark and moved into an apartment complex with asbestos paint and thin walls. Mark never respected Joe, he knew all he did at work was whistle at young girls, and when Joe had tried to get him a job, Mark had rejected it knowing Joe had done it out of pity. Now, sitting shirtless on the end of the mattress with Suzies heavy breathing and the broken fan in the background, staring at the ripped screen door and smelling urine, all Mark wanted to do was get high.
Mark drove the shitty old ford down to Safeway. He sped there, and when he parked by the corner his breaks squealed. Mark had a headache and wiped his sweaty palms on his stained jeans. He walked towards the grocery store in a hurry. His slouching, heavy walk. Mark was thinking about Suzie.
He went in and bought a box of crayons and a large pad of paper. In line he asked Billy the bag boy where he could find some “L”.
“Out back,” Billy said, “from the Mexicans”.
Suzie was an acid freak. She would trip for hours, lying on her stomach in her underwear drawing what she saw with crayons. It was the only time she left Mark alone. This was when he would get high. While Suzie drew her multi-colored muscular figures on the floor of the trailer, Mark would sit in the corner with his fathers old typewriter and pound out letters. He would type a page, crumple it up, toss it to the side and type another page. When Suzie and Mark both came down they would hit the mattress and sleep for days. Marks crumpled paper would look like tissues from someone with a bad cold. Suzies drawing scared mark a little, he often wondered what she thought about and the things she saw. She could draw very well, but all she would do was doodle on diner napkins or when she was hallucinating.
Sometimes Suzie would wake up before Mark. She would quietly uncrumple the sheets and read what he wrote, then crumple them up again. His writing was mostly a blur but here and there there would be words or phrases that would make Suzie wonder about the asshole she spent every night next to.
Mark went behind Safeway. There were two Latino men next to the dumpsters, like Billy said, smoking cigarettes and spitting.
“Uh, Billy said you guys have some acid?” Mark said, shifting his weight.
The two men stood up straight and put their hands in their pockets. They pointed their chins out and looked down their noses.
“What are you? Narc?” one said through a thick accent.
Mark scratched his head and slouched a little.
In the end he got it, but it had been an uncomfortable interaction.
Around five am the next morning, Suzie had stabbed Mark to death, she had had a bad trip.
His brother was a construction worker and still had a life to live. He would leave early in the morning at an hour Mark was never awake, unless he was high. They all lived together, Mark, his brother Joe, and his girlfriend Suzie, in a small trailer. Joe got the bedroom (he paid rent) and Mark and Suzie would share a mattress on the floor that was splitting at the seams. It was a wonder Joe hadn’t kicked them out yet, all they’d do was bicker and get high. Joe and Mark barely talked anymore, Joe didn’t want to get roped in to Marks world, and Mark couldn’t face the shame in Joes eyes. They had never been particularly close as children.
Sometimes Joe would come “home” for lunch; the new mall he was working on was just a few blocks away. Mark and Suzie would still be passed out on the mattress, with the broken Venetian blinds spilling jagged light on their bodies. Suzie lay there, topless, sprawled out on her belly with her holey underwear riding up. Joe never stayed long, even though he found the scene peaceful.
Finally, after several months of Mark and Suzies fighting getting worse and worse, Joe just gave the damn thing to Mark and moved into an apartment complex with asbestos paint and thin walls. Mark never respected Joe, he knew all he did at work was whistle at young girls, and when Joe had tried to get him a job, Mark had rejected it knowing Joe had done it out of pity. Now, sitting shirtless on the end of the mattress with Suzies heavy breathing and the broken fan in the background, staring at the ripped screen door and smelling urine, all Mark wanted to do was get high.
Mark drove the shitty old ford down to Safeway. He sped there, and when he parked by the corner his breaks squealed. Mark had a headache and wiped his sweaty palms on his stained jeans. He walked towards the grocery store in a hurry. His slouching, heavy walk. Mark was thinking about Suzie.
He went in and bought a box of crayons and a large pad of paper. In line he asked Billy the bag boy where he could find some “L”.
“Out back,” Billy said, “from the Mexicans”.
Suzie was an acid freak. She would trip for hours, lying on her stomach in her underwear drawing what she saw with crayons. It was the only time she left Mark alone. This was when he would get high. While Suzie drew her multi-colored muscular figures on the floor of the trailer, Mark would sit in the corner with his fathers old typewriter and pound out letters. He would type a page, crumple it up, toss it to the side and type another page. When Suzie and Mark both came down they would hit the mattress and sleep for days. Marks crumpled paper would look like tissues from someone with a bad cold. Suzies drawing scared mark a little, he often wondered what she thought about and the things she saw. She could draw very well, but all she would do was doodle on diner napkins or when she was hallucinating.
Sometimes Suzie would wake up before Mark. She would quietly uncrumple the sheets and read what he wrote, then crumple them up again. His writing was mostly a blur but here and there there would be words or phrases that would make Suzie wonder about the asshole she spent every night next to.
Mark went behind Safeway. There were two Latino men next to the dumpsters, like Billy said, smoking cigarettes and spitting.
“Uh, Billy said you guys have some acid?” Mark said, shifting his weight.
The two men stood up straight and put their hands in their pockets. They pointed their chins out and looked down their noses.
“What are you? Narc?” one said through a thick accent.
Mark scratched his head and slouched a little.
In the end he got it, but it had been an uncomfortable interaction.
Around five am the next morning, Suzie had stabbed Mark to death, she had had a bad trip.
Friday, November 03, 2006
black swan
They thought he was a real psycho, the kind that would go postal and shoot up the school; and even though he had held a knife to my throat and told me I was beautiful, I didn’t believe him because it was a dull blade. Of coarse we knew better and that his crazy eyes were just an act, and the way he went off on people was just his way of blowing off steam. They kept an eye on him though, and after one of the copycat bomb threats they got even more suspicious.
He was a runner, that’s for sure. And he ran fast. We all knew what he was running from. Technically we were all running from the same thing. His friends would sit on the sides of the tracks smoking cigarettes and clocking him, usually as far away from the flimsy bleachers as possible. He probably would’ve shot us all if he didn’t have his running. Everyday in the late afternoon he would go out and run. Afterwards he’d come off the tracks panting with his head down and go to the showers, not looking at anyone. The one time he wouldn’t look you directly in the eye. He moved here from Ohio in his second year of high school and didn’t seem to have a problem fitting in. I think that surprised his teachers the most. I had no idea whether he was a good student or not, all I knew was that he could run. Everyone knew, even the track coaches who were constantly trying to get him to join, even with his reputation. Somehow the librarians seemed to hate him the most; it was like he went there just to get kicked out. I think it was them, with their black beady eyes and tight buns who "tipped them off". I don’t think he was particularly close to anyone but he had a lot of friends. The way he ran you knew something more was going on in his head.
I sat with his friends that I didn’t know to well and listened to the quiet thumping and slapping of his sneakers on the Astroturf that must’ve matched his heartbeat. It would get louder and quieter each time he came around. And even though his chuck taylors would slowly get looser and unlaced, he didn’t stop. The focus he had made you think he really was insane. Everyone secretly wondered about him, although no one besides the teachers ever said anything.
I don’t know how he felt about girls, he never took them seriously.
I had gone over to his house once, a real shit hole with a broken screen door. The nubby beige carpet had stains that looked like continents. We sat in the kitchen; the walls were stained with his mothers cigarette smoke. We had a couple of cokes and just sat on the linoleum floor. I ran my fingers over the dents in the tiles from his mothers’ heels while he talked about something I didn’t listening to. He said there was nothing to do so he’d make trouble. It gave him things to run from. The aluminum from the coke can gave me a metallic aftertaste.
He was a runner, that’s for sure. And he ran fast. We all knew what he was running from. Technically we were all running from the same thing. His friends would sit on the sides of the tracks smoking cigarettes and clocking him, usually as far away from the flimsy bleachers as possible. He probably would’ve shot us all if he didn’t have his running. Everyday in the late afternoon he would go out and run. Afterwards he’d come off the tracks panting with his head down and go to the showers, not looking at anyone. The one time he wouldn’t look you directly in the eye. He moved here from Ohio in his second year of high school and didn’t seem to have a problem fitting in. I think that surprised his teachers the most. I had no idea whether he was a good student or not, all I knew was that he could run. Everyone knew, even the track coaches who were constantly trying to get him to join, even with his reputation. Somehow the librarians seemed to hate him the most; it was like he went there just to get kicked out. I think it was them, with their black beady eyes and tight buns who "tipped them off". I don’t think he was particularly close to anyone but he had a lot of friends. The way he ran you knew something more was going on in his head.
I sat with his friends that I didn’t know to well and listened to the quiet thumping and slapping of his sneakers on the Astroturf that must’ve matched his heartbeat. It would get louder and quieter each time he came around. And even though his chuck taylors would slowly get looser and unlaced, he didn’t stop. The focus he had made you think he really was insane. Everyone secretly wondered about him, although no one besides the teachers ever said anything.
I don’t know how he felt about girls, he never took them seriously.
I had gone over to his house once, a real shit hole with a broken screen door. The nubby beige carpet had stains that looked like continents. We sat in the kitchen; the walls were stained with his mothers cigarette smoke. We had a couple of cokes and just sat on the linoleum floor. I ran my fingers over the dents in the tiles from his mothers’ heels while he talked about something I didn’t listening to. He said there was nothing to do so he’d make trouble. It gave him things to run from. The aluminum from the coke can gave me a metallic aftertaste.
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