Posts (page 2)

The phone is ringing. I answer it, "Hello."

"Hi," says the voice.

Its Amy. I feel relief to hear from her.

She says,"I thought you were dead."

"I am dead," I say.

She says, "I was going to call the police, because I figured it would
take them a while to find your body."

I think of the time and look at my father's watch. It is a little bit after
eight in the morning.

I say, "It would take them a while to realize that I was dead. They
wouldn't miss me at work because I quit two days ago. The only
way anyone would find out would be when my mother calls."

"How often does she call?" she asks.

I think about it. I say, " She calls sporadically. You abandoned
me yesterday."

She says, "I didn't abandon you yesterday."

I want to call her an abandoner, but neglect to. "Yes, you did.
I've never felt so lonely in my entire life."

She says, "I remember telling you that I was...." The rest
disappears underneath the static in the telephone.

This happens often.

"No, you didn't."

"I'm going to have a long day at work today," she says.

"So, my day is going to be lonely much longer today."  I say.

 She says,  "I was with that guy yesterday, and we..."

"Wait. What guy?" I ask.

"The guy that I was in that club with, who flashed around
hundred dollar bills," she says.

"Oh," I say. That guy.

She says, "He lives where he works and we saw 'Seinfeld.'"

I say, "OK."

"I knew this guy, whom I've grown quite close to. He was living with
his ex-girlfriend and she kicked him out. He was....," she
says.

Stupid static. I won't ask her to repeat herself. "Is he trying
to get you back?" I ask, hoping this question had any
relevance to those lost words under static.

She says, "No, he's not trying to get me back."

Failure.

She talks about the guy that lives where he works.

"Well,  at least he's 34." I don't know what I mean
by this.

"It's around the age of guys I usually date," she says.

"I figured," I say. "And, he's rich. Maybe, he thinks younger
women have tighter pussies."

She replies with a comment about the amount of men that
she has slept with.

"So, he likes women with big pussies?" I ask.

"I'm going to throw up now," she says.

"You should hang up on me before you throw up."
I say.

She says, "You sound mad."

"I don't get mad. I'm calloused. I'm also dead. I am a figment
of your imagination," I say.
 
"OK."

"OK."

She says, "Bye."

"OK."

I listen to the receiver drown in emptiness.

I walk inside my apartment, from my lap top to the door,
back and forth. I try to convince myself that I deserve a drink.
Life is too mundane; I need an escape. I question the intensity
of my addiction to this habit. It could get a lot worst if I keep this trend.

I sit in the chair, face my laptop, and close it. I place my typewriter
on top of my laptop. In front of me is an open window. It's dark
and quiet outside, except for a dog, barking from a distance. Tonight
feels like any other night; imagining my serendipity at the bottom
of an empty whiskey bottle. Pathetic.

I bang on the keys of my typewriter. My play of words are less meaningful
when I'm sober. I am congested with things to say, but do not have the courage.
Dependent, passive, and weak; I am a little child whom has passed
the security of innocence. A cigarette burns in between my middle and index
finger; it burns faster then my existence. I feel cheated and betrayed.
If I indulge in its poisons long enough, I should be able to catch up;
perfectly justified by trade.

I walk to the liquor store using the same logic. I've outdone myself again.
This thinking makes me feel supercilious, but only to myself. It is
late, but I don't know how, exactly; I forgot my father's watch in my
apartment.

The liquor store is closed. "Fuck," I whisper, while staring at
its glowing neon lights.

I am definite not to sleep, unless I find a drink tonight.

I walk to a bar near my apartment, and obsess on the feeling of
that cold drink touching my lips, entering my mouth, and freeing
me from inhibition. I quicken my pace with hopes of catching
an empty bar.

Just when I was about to walk in to the bar, laughter pours.
I turn around and walk away. Only now do I realize how unusually
cold it feels tonight. Extirpated, I walk home in a cower position.
 

The slits on my wrists are drying up.

I feel comfort,

to know I still feel.

Next week,

they will be scabs.

Then, they will be scars.

Only if

you knew

it would disappear:

you wouldn't question

my enthusiasm to live.

It was not

a selfish act,

nor to gain attention,

but an idiosyncrasy

to make you retract.

I am uninspired. Everything has lost its excitement.
I dwell on this for a while, unintentionally. I want
something meaningful to say, but I'm not that
creative. I pretend I'm creative, for the sake of
justifying my actions and to be noticed. I deny
to want attention, which is a lie.

It sounds empty in my apartment without my laptop's
fan humming. This is what insecurity sounds like. I like it.
It's reassuring to know that I know myself.

I stretch my arms out, then reach for an Ann Beattie
novel. I feel lazy about reading it, but only because
I want to do nothing. I read it. The characters are
more depressed than I am. I feel alright about my
existence. I think about my refrigerator being empty.
It should have food in it, so when people come over
I'd have something to offer, besides tap water. I never
have anyone over except for my neighbor, twice. Once,
to say hello. I offered her something to drink. She asked
if I had tea. I did not. I gave her tap water which she did not drink.
The second time she came over was a week ago, informing
me of my landlord's visit to my apartment, which made me
nervous. Apparently, my rent went up. I haven't decided
on what to do.

I think of taking up a hobby. I digress from this thought.

No one called for help
I will just sit here and sulk
hope I don't get hard.

I am tired now
I may have over done it
someone call for help.

I masturbated
It was very relaxing
I will go again.

I only write shit when intoxicated,

even when sober, evidently.

This depresses me.

But, only if I dwell on it.

So does lonesome, come to think of it.

Everyone's alone, at least I hope so.

It doesn't feel as lonely to hope so.

I just imagine people who chose to be in relationships,

weaker than I am.

This is how I think now.

It helps. But, not when I think it helps.

When I think it helps, I think maybe I need help.

But, I can't afford help.

Help should be free, so should happiness.

Today, a kid in a liquor store wouldn't stop crying.

She wanted candy, but her mom only had enough for beer.

Apparently, the mom was a regular.

The kid walked out of the store smiling, having received  the candy for free.

I walked out pretty bummed,  having left my money in the apartment.

I've never stepped foot in that store, until today.

I probably never will again, after today.

I have a myspace account,

a friendster account,

and a vox account.

I document my life in these,

because it's important.

And, the whole world should know of its importance as well.

But, only if you're in my friends list.

If you're not,

then you wouldn't know about the importance of my documented life.

It's private,

because I'm insecure

and hesitant about strangers getting to know me,

through my documented life,

on the internet.

Sometimes, I might befriend you,

but only if you have a picture

of you with a model-like pose

in the bathroom.

Then, you would be my

8,975,632,498th friend,

even though there's only six billion people on earth.

Some of my friends have more than one account

on these internet services;

 apparently, they have eventfull lives.

Most are so busy

that we type in abbreviations.

Only if talking was this easy

then I wouldn't have such a hard time to think.

I may have just heared a motorcycle accident from a distance.

It sounds painful.