He took a long, hard pull on his cigarette and realized it was close to being done. He felt done.
The crowd anticipates the performance like unwrapping a gift. I’m just trying to blend in and get enough of a contact buzz to endure this night. Twice, I told her I wanted to leave. I hate crowds and loud noises. She promised it wouldn’t be “that big a deal.” Right.
She’s off dancing with her friends and I’m pretty sure Luke isn’t as gay as I thought.
Someone bumps into me. I turn and see it’s an old ex-girlfriend. She smiles thinly and then embraces me. No sense in resisting because I can’t move even if I wanted to.
Luke’s tongue’s down my girlfriend’s throat. Definitely not gay.
My ex-girlfriend whispers something in my ear and then places a hand down my pants.
This isn’t reality but it’s what I like to picture when I’m getting screwed over.
I listen. Because I have to. I wait for a chance to speak but it doesn’t come. Silence. It’s as if I don’t have a voice anymore. My thoughts are scattered as death lingers like an old friend. Except, I have no friends. But ole death, he’s near. Always is.
I want to take up cigarettes; not to be cool. But to deal, cope, curb my emotional appetite. I’m so careful, too careful to really unleash the real stuff swirling around inside my wrecked mind. I’m not you, or him or her or the normal. Maybe I’m just wasted. Space, or not enough action. Who knows. I do, but I fucking don’t. Trust me when I say I want the medication to alleviate the symptoms I experience on a daily basis but I’m scared shitless that I’ll change and won’t be the same; the wild, young cub, untamed and unphased by the world. In which we try to assimilate to. I’m an old soul or I think I am. I’m not really, I’m vulgar I’m sick I’m unwell. Treat me doctor, please. Fix me so I won’t feel this way.
The cure is miles away in a land before time. I’m not crazy, I’m just fed up. Seek and ye shall find. Damned if I do, damned if I don’t. Forget it. I’m breathing for now. I’ll be back tomorrow. Death and I have a few more neurotic rounds still to go. Save me a seat. Or don’t. I’ll eat the American dream in the meantime.