My Life

Her warm hand gently rubs up and down my arm as her head rests on my chest. My rhythmic breathing causes her head to rise and sink in perfect unison with my body. My mind and body feel elated, we just had our first kiss and everything went perfectly.

She lifts her head and places her chin on my chest. We sit and stare into one another’s eyes for somewhere around thirty seconds. I know that I should feel comfortable doing that, but I couldn’t feel more awkward. Why doesn’t she just say something? I think to myself.

I break eye contact to avoid any further awkwardness in my mind, I know that she has no idea I feel this way. People always think they understand me, but they rarely do. She’s probably thinking about how much I like her. It makes me laugh that someone can be wrong so many times in such a short period of time. I don’t think that I truly like her yet, just the idea of her. The idea of having someone to hold and someone to care about. I wonder if I’ll start to like her as I learn more about her.

She starts talking and I smile and nod after each sentence. I look deep into her eyes to appear as if I’m interested, but in reality, I’m thinking about how bad of a kisser she was. In between sentences, she begins to cough. My mind travels out of my imagination and into reality, I guess I should appear as if I care, I think to myself.

“That doesn’t sound good! I hope you’re not getting sick or anything…” The words flow off my tongue like I truly mean them. I would have been a good actor, I think to myself.

“Aw, no way. I’ve actually been super sick the past few days and I’m just starting to get better,” she replies.

I stare at her in utter disbelief, get up, and leave without saying a word. There goes my ego…

Now I sit here, two days later; my throat feels like it’s coated with acid and my nose feels like someone stuck a concrete hose in it and filled it up

Moral of the story? Colds are contagious.

The radio plays.

I roll over on my bed and glance at the satellite alarm clock which rests on my desk. It’s 11. A fuzzy song rings through the air from an SF jazz station. I wonder if the writer of the song realized it would be nearly impossible to enjoy the sounds emitted from the instruments. I stand up, my feet hanging to the floor and rub my eyes with a cold palm. I look over in the mirror and see myself looking at myself. My normally straight and perfect blonde hair lays in an untidy mess upon my head, my blue eyes are surrounded by blood-shot veins and the normally bright colors are lost in redness. I reach up and run my hand through my hair, stand up, and push the “off” button on my alarm. I stand for a moment in silence. I have almost forgotten what it sounds like. I grab my fake prescription glasses and place them on my face. I remember telling a girl that they weren’t prescription, and her asking me, “then why do you wear them?” I look at her, a grin of amusement hanging on my face, and say, “for the same reason you wear those earrings, that necklace, and that pound of makeup.” I remember the look of shock on her face, I recall with clarity how much joy that shock brought me. I grab my bac-pac, my wallet, and my cell phone, then walk out the door.

My feet carry me down a tight hallway, into the dorm lobby, and outside the sliding glass doors. I feel as the air dances around me, I hear the sound of leaves rustling in the trees above me and smile at the thought of the two as dance partners, using the sky as their ballroom, elegantly two stepping throughout the trees. The movement seems so natural and beautiful, its swiftness and smoothness brings me joy.

I look forward and watch a girl, easily triple my weight (which honestly isn’t too hard to do), walking up a set of stairs. She moves slowly, her fat feet stomping each stair as her stubby fingers grasp the handrail in support. She gets halfway up the stairs and stops to catch her breath. She is sweating like she just ran a marathon.

I  jubilantly bound up the stairs, skipping two at a time and cutting through the air like the razor. I surpass her fat figure but am careful not to glance at her. I make it to the top of the stairs in seconds, no ounce of fatigue in my body. I slowly look back at her as she leans over the handrail in pure exhaustion. I turn my back and continue to class.

My legs grow tired as I stand in the line of a small smoothie shop on my college campus. I glance to my right and see my roommate Phill. Phill has the smile of a little boy as he eagerly waits to order a smoothie, which is his self-proclaimed favorite drink in the entire world. The smile makes him look kind of retarded. A smell crawls through my nostrils and I begin searching for the source. The boy in front of me is wearing a bright red button up shirt, a Spiderman tie, a black suitcase, and his hair leaves the impression that he hasn’t showered for weeks. The stench emitting from his body reminds me of a pile of throw up sprayed with cologne, then covered with a layer of whipped cream. I notice that there is a space of emptiness surrounding him, everyone trying to stay as far away as possible. I begin to feel sympathy toward him until my mind reminds my self that it’s his own fucking fault. This realization instills a sense of dislike in me. How dare this boy ruin my smoothieing experience!

Time moves slowly, as it so often does when we are miserable. I wonder if time has slowed for the rest of the people within range of the ghastly odor. I seriously begin contemplating hitting him in the back of the head and expressing my rage, but before I get the opportunity, he moves up to the register to place his order. He walks over to the waiting spot where a group of people are waiting for their smoothies. The group scatters like a flock of birds when a rock is thrown toward them; the aroma serving as a symbolic rock, hitting each of them in the head and nearly knocking them unconscious. I smile and begin to walk toward the cashier to place my order.

“What would you like, sir?” I find it funny how this man, 40 years my senior refers to me as “sir.”

“A raspberry banana smoothie, ple” my speech is interrupted by Spiderman.

“Oh my gosh, I almost got that! Do you like those?” I shake my head in utter disbelief. How did this fucking moron get into college?

“Not a bit!” I respond. “I actually just like spending money on things I don’t enjoy. It’s this weird habit of mine.”

He smiles and nods his head in approval. I think he believes me. I reach for my wallet in shame and disgust, pay the man and go outside to get some fresh air. My roommate comes out and stands next to me and we look for a place to sit. Phill notices some blonde girl with boobs bigger than my head sitting by herself, so naturally, we sit in the empty seats. Without asking our names, she looks at Phill’s tattoos and says,

“Oh my gosh, tattoos! Those hella hurt!” I look toward Phill and watch as his eyes linger up from her breasts to her face. He looks stunned.

“Do they really? I had no fucking idea!” Obviously missing his blatant sarcasm, this sad excuse for a college intellect continues,

“Not to mention, they stay on your skin forever.” She says this as if she’s speaking to a teacher, clearly expecting to impress. The whites in Phill’s eyes begin to grow, he looks toward me with a face of clear surprise.

“No way!” He reaches down to his tattoos, and begins forcefully scratching and rubbing them in an attempt to wipe them off.

Moral of this story? Good news! You don’t have to be smart to go to college….

The cool wind brushes my face, reminding me that it has the potential to bring me pain; reminding me that all the good things in life, the warm things, the things which give us life, have the potential to hurt us. My hand rests on the shoulder of a beautiful girl, hers awkwardly wrapped around my side just above my hip. It’s night time; everything has a strange orange glow underneath the color emitted through the bulbs of the streetlights. Even they seem to shine brighter in her presence.

The boy leading the way to the party begins to speak, I’ve already forgotten his name. “I hella like college so far. It’s like a group of people who are all the same just put into a building where we’re free to hella party it up! We all want the same shit, think the same shit, and talk about the same shit…” His drunken speech continues, but I drown out his voice; it makes me sick. I watch as everyone following him begins to laugh and nod in approval, I see their mouths open and close but I don’t listen to what comes out. They are the same, I am not.

My hand drops from her shoulder and our hands meet at our sides. Our fingers intertwine and it feels natural. For tonight, she is my world.

Our footsteps echo off the walls as we approach the doorway of a small house. I try to focus on the sounds of our steps rather than the words which pour from the mouths of the people I have surrounded myself with. I sometimes wish I were deaf.

As we walk toward the basement, I begin to feel her pulse beating through her hand. It makes me smile. I’m so tired of meeting girls who don’t have a heart to beat, a soul to look into, or a voice worth hearing. I wonder if she will make me forget how much pain can hurt. I wonder if she will make me forget my past, forget the girl I’ve been trying so desperately to escape.

Our hands part as her and her friends get into a line to buy alcohol. I stand alone by a wooden pillar, looking around the room, the strong scent of alcohol creeping through my nostrils. The smell is so familiar.

I feel the faint touch of a hand gliding across my stomach, I make no haste to look. My eyes slowly turn and meet with a girl I have never seen before. She’s wearing a short green dress and is carrying a red cup which is drowning underneath some strange mixture of fruit juice and vodka. I hear someone refer to it as “Jungle Juice”. She walks by me, staring into my eyes. She stops behind the guys selling alcohol and grabs an extra cup. One of them looks at her and grins. She fills it up to the top and turns toward me. She stops for a moment, two drinks in her hand to stare me in the eyes, then continues to walk toward me. She hands me the alcohol, her eyes asking me to follow her out of the room. I watch as she leaves the room, not even bothering to look back because she thinks I’m following. I walk up to the line and hand the cup to the girl I came with. I watch her mouth as it evolves from a straight face to a lighthearted smile. I love that smile.

I walk over to a chair and sit by myself a few feet away from the beer-pong table. I look around the room and quickly realize that I’m the only one not drinking. This is how it always is.

I quietly observe the party. A group of girls are trying to look sexy on the dance floor, their attempts are futile. I hope that they don’t dance that bad sober. I see a guy standing near them, one hand in the air with his lanky knees bending up and down with the music. I laugh and look away. I don’t think anyone would drink if they realized how pitiful they look.

Twenty or so people are socializing while in line for alcohol, two guys trying to find someone to play beer-pong against, a guy and a girl making out on a chair in the adjacent corner of the room, and then there is me.

My date walks over to me and grabs my hand. I can tell that the alcohol has begun to take affect due to her glossed over eyes and the sincerity of her smile. The smile which acts in juxtaposition with her blood alcohol content. The higher her BAC, the brighter her smile. I don’t think that I’ve ever seen her this happy sober.  I wonder if it will bug me as our relationship progresses.

“Why are you just sitting over here daydreaming? Everyone wants to talk to you.” I open myself up to her words as if each were a diamond auspiciously placed before me. Does she know that each daydream is about her? I shake my head and smile. “Because in my dreams I find peace, in my peace I find solitude, and in my solitude I find happiness.” She bends down and kisses my lips, then turns and walks away.

I stare up into the eyes of a woman, our eyes lock and don’t move. This is passion, I think to myself. Her body looks vague and ominous under the ashen light that finds itself through the blinds of her bedroom window, but an evil which invites you for more and more. I dote upon her eyes as if each were a jewel, my gaze lingers upon her body as if I were starving and she grand feast arrayed an inch beyond my reach; I want it.

Our lips are pressed against one anothers, my hands exploring up and down her body leaving nothing to my imagination. Slowly, her lips begin moving down from my face to my neck. Her warm breathe pretudes a tingling sensation which crawls through the spine of my back with fury. Her tongue slides across it and I feel my body begin to shake. Her hand slides from my hair down my body, it feels like her mouths guide. She kisses down to my chest, the shaking turns instinctive and there’s nothing I can do to supress it.

Her hand slides lower and lower on my naked body, traveling down past my belly button, her lips upon my skin. I feel a burning sensati…

EEEeaaaAKKKK EEEeaaaAKKKK EEEeaaaAKKKK EEEeaaaAKKKK EEEeaaaAKKKK EEEeaaaAKKKK EEEeaaaAKKKK EEEeaaaAKKKK. My eyes shoot open and I begin looking around my dorm room, I see a clump of pillows on my roommates bed which I conclude to be Phill. My eyes hurt, I haven’t slept enough. The fire alarm continues to ring EEEeaaaAKKKK EEEeaaaAKKKK EEEeaaaAKKKK EEEeaaaAKKKK EEEeaaaAKKKK. My confusion evolves into utter hate as I realize someone in my dorm building just cock blocked my dream self. I’m ready for blood, for the sweet scent of ruby liquid to be spilt and dranken by the soil. No one cock blocks me, especially in my own dreams.

I get up and rub my eyes. I hear the clumsy steps of my dorm floor exiting the building, I hear words like “mother-fucker” repeated over and over again. I grab my rooms keys, put on my new glasses, and join the herd.

We walk out the sliding door to the group of people who had just been herded out of their rooms by some invisible sheppard. We all remind me of sheep.

I see girls drooling as they look at me, nothing out of the ordinary. I see their eyes undressing me and making love to me in their minds, given away by the mounds of spit emitting their mouths. Same old.

I feel hands upon my ass. Not normal. I look down, and realize I’m wearing my short-shorts. The fire alarm stops, so I begin to run to get back into my room trying to avoid the hundreds of female (and some male) hands trying to grasp onto my private areas. Luckily, short-shorts help the sprinting time, so I escape with nothing other than a single handprint on the right side of my ass. I get back into bed, my heart still beating from the terror. Slowly, I begin to fall asleep.

..on to push her head down lower and lower, but I resist the temptation. I want her to take her time, to make me want it. I watch as she slowly unbuttons my jeans, her lips kissing the pant line which encircles my body. Her hand slides across my stomache which makes me want it more and more. She slides them too the floor, nothing separating me from a blow-job but my animal print boxer-briefs. She begins inching them lower and lower, using only her teeth. I feel the anxiety building up inside as I think about how good it would feel to blow my loa….

EEEeaaaAKKKK  EEEeaaaAKKKK EEEeaaaAKKKK EEEeaaaAKKKK EEEeaaaAKKKK EEEeaaaAKKKK EEEeaaaAKKKK EEEeaaaAKKKK. My eyes open again. You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.

Moral of this story? Well for one, short-shorts get the ladies. And for two, never let a dream girl take her time; just cram it into her throat and let the juices flow!

I hear music; the beauty of a finger-picked guitar along with the quiet rhythm of a drum being pounded upon is lost as it travels through the air and echoes inside my eardrums. Voices carry through the wind like pollen in the spring, floating and drifting among the drafts and currents until they fade away into the earth. Are they even worth listening to?

My head turns slightly and my eyes begin to look around the room. Two Ryan Adam’s posters hanging on a wall, an Altoids canister, a pack of Ice Breaker Gum, my Samsung cell phone, a Bose Ipod player, Obama’s #1 New York Times Best Seller… Is it all worth the money I put into it?

I begin to think about the things which we place so much value and importance on. They say money can’t buy happiness, so why does the majority of the population try it anyways? What brings happiness if not the things which have monetary value? Love? Intelligence? Wisdom? Friends?

I hear the dimness of the voices from the people walking by; what are they trying to tell me? I imagine that they are trying to tell me how to be happy, I feel their words but do not hear them. Do they fail to speak loud enough, or do I just fail to listen?

When you sign your lease agreement to live in a dorm, it is understood that in doing so, you are giving away every trace of personal space and privacy that you have. I guess I don’t have a ton of room to complain considering I’m coming to school here on a full-ride scholarship, but regardless, this loss of privacy hit me fairly hard in the past few days.

So you no longer have your own bedroom. Fine. You learn how to deal with it and it is fully understood when you come. Nothing that you do is done alone. When I say nothing, I mean nothing. Wanna eat dinner alone? Not going to happen. Before you know it you’ll be bombarded with new people who all think that you’re lonely. Fine. I can deal with it. One thing I didn’t know I signed up for, as I’m sure you can infer from the title, is not having the privacy to shit in peace.

Upon arrival, I was fairly weary of public bathrooms. Everytime that I sit down on a toilet, touch a handle, or open a door, I can’t help but think of the hundreds of people who have came in here, done their business, got it all over their hands and decided they didn’t need to wash their hands. Until recently, I didn’t understand how few of people wash their hands in bathrooms. I’m not going to preach to you or anything, do what you want, but just for the record it’s fucking disgusting.

When I go into a bathroom, it is my time. I don’t like to rush it, I like to let my body do its thing at its own pace. I bring a book sometimes, other times I play Tetris on my cell phone, but I never just rush in and rush out. So, when I sit down, I don’t expect to be bothered.

The stalls are set up three in line, no urinals in the bathroom. I found comfort in the stall furthest to the right because I decided that the fewest number of people would go there. So I sit, and at first, it was fine.

With three stalls, one occupied in the corner, and two open, which one do you sit in? If you said the one directly next to the occupied stall, you deserve to have your eyes gouged out and fingernails ripped out. What the fuck is wrong with people? When I’m sitting down for my alone time, I don’t want to have some 18 year old kid sitting so close to me that I can hear his painful grunts followed by moans of pleasure. It’s a personal thing, get away from me! I don’t care who you are, it’s one of the most awkward moments in your life when you can see the persons feet, you hear them struggling as if they’re fighting with something inside of themselves, their feet lift off the floor, you hear a “splooosh,” and then they begin rapidly breathing as if they just ran a mile. How am I supposed to enjoy my alone time next to that?

So, I decided that I’d just figure out when the off times for the bathroom were and go then. Right? Wrong. It doesn’t work like that. I’ve tried it all… 1AM, 2AM, 3AM, it doesn’t matter. Someone is always in their stall shitting on my parade, literally. And what’s even worse, they ALWAYS take the stall next to me.

So this had all built up inside of me for the past few weeks, and I began to understand why people shoot up schools. It’s for this. When they’re shooting around they think of all the inconsiderate people who just shit wherever they please regardless of who is two and a half feet away from them.

So as I began to grow sort of accustomed to it, or at the very least accepting, it got worse.

I’m sitting my stall, doing my business, and it was going fairly well. A few guys came in and pee’d in the stall next to me, left without washing, but I’ve grown to ignore it. I was content with my shitting enviroment. Then, of all people, a group of girls walk in.

Seriously, what the fuck man? It clearly says “Men” on the door, and for those of us who can’t read it has a handy little picture. There is a women’s bathroom like 30 feet down the hallway, but an endless swarm of them begin coming into this one. It was like an army of people dedicated to making me feel as strange as possible. Two come and sit down on their chosen toilets, I see feet standing outside waiting in line and I’m too frightened to count. I heard noises coming from females which I never wanted to hear, and hope I never have to hear again. The feet lifts are not limited to males, neither are the grunts. So I sit, in utter disbelief, waiting for my time. Me, being the gentleman that I am, could not bring myself to let anything go; they were not so kind. One sits down, and lets out a stream of pee that lasted for what seemed like minutes. Not only was it flowing, but I if I closed my eyes it sounded like there was a firehose next to me. What kind of a human waits to pee so long that it shoots out of your organs like niagra fucking falls? Just as I thought this couldn’t get any worse, one of her friends says, “wow Jamie, you really had to go!”

So one after another, they took their turns publicly shattering any sex drive I had for the night.So I waited till they left, quietly finished my business, washed my hands, and walked to my room with a look of absolute terror.

My advice is simple…

The “Men’s” sign on the door is not a suggestion. And if you’re on my dorm floor,  just let me fucking shit in peace. 

I stumble down the path, one foot in front of the next trying to find my way home. I realize that I don’t know where that is, but my feet continue moving, searching for a place that doesn’t exist. I’m lost.

I watch as a girl walks by me. She’s wearing short jean shorts with bright red cowboy boots. I glance down at my watch, it’s 1:22AM. She glances back at me in fear, I try to imagine what is going on in her head. She’s terrified that I’m going to follow her. Her hand reaches into her purse and she puts a crooked finger on her can of pepper spray and prays to an unresponsive God that I won’t touch her. She sees that I’m still walking in the opposite direction and loosens her grip. I bet she won’t let go completely until she walks into her bedroom. I look at my reflection in the glass on the building to the right of me. I’m wearing tight girl jeans with a bright purple shirt. “So this is what all of the murderers and rapers wear nowadays,”I think to myself. I begin to understand her paranoia.

I look toward the trees and wonder how they came about. A small seed planted into the soil, over time it grows bigger and bigger branching off into a new direction with each passing day. What are those branches reaching for? Answers? I stop walking, reach up toward the sky mimicking the tree, searching for the answers I know won’t come. I look back at the tree in pity and wonder how long it has been waiting like that, in that exact pose.

I look back toward a building. It amazes me that something so big comes from the thoughts of an individual man. It makes me smile to think that something can make me feel so big, yet so small at the same time. The building towers above my head, it’s at least 15 stories tall. I stand next to the pillars which support it, the pillars which hold it up and ensure that it doesn’t collapse. “Why don’t I have pillars?” I wonder in my head, “I’m more likely to fall apart than that building is.”

My feet continue to walk, I wonder where they are going. I walk into my dorm building, enter my room, and sit on my bed. I still feel lost. How can one feel lost in the only place they have ever truly considered home? I look out my window and watch the people staggering back to their rooms from parties. I wonder if they feel lost too.

I look next to me on my bed. I wish I had somebody there; someone to hold, to feel, to love. I think of the last girl who was lying there and wonder where she went and why she left. I begin to wonder if I scared her away.

I look out my window and see a group of flowers underneath the street light. I see myself in them. Spring comes every year and they bloom for the earth; showing off their beauty and making love to the spring air. With no warning winter comes, murdering the flower and every ounce of passion left inside of its wilting petals. It freezes, too broken to cry and too dead to move. But still, it sits around and waits.

Spring comes again, and without hesitation it blooms just the same as it did the last year. So fragile and so full of hope, so eager and so slow to learn.

When will the winters stop coming?

“I need inspiration,” I thought to myself as I sat down to write in my blog. I was spinning through my ipod searching for some passion that would inspire me to write something so wonderful, so breathtaking, that I wouldn’t feel bad that you wasted your time reading it. I thought I saw a winner-Paris Hilton. With the words of the sex goddess echoing in my mind, I didn’t think there was any way I could fail. So I sat, and sat, and sat… And unfortunately for the both of us, the words were flowing just about as well as my roommates dance moves…That’s Phillip by the way, and that looked even worse in person.

They say that we learn something new every day that we live, and I have truly taken that to heart. Today, I learned something that will stick in my mind for the rest of my life…

White men really can’t dance.

I see a man on a lawnmower; his dumb head hangs limply toward his right shoulder, bobbing up and down like a dead body floating in the water. The track of his machine slices through the blades of grass beneath him.  His eyes remind me of a milking cow; they are empty and hold no sign of intelligence. Judging by his appearance and foreign idiosyncrasies, I conclude that he’s mentally handicapped.

An overweight girl brushes by my right shoulder. She has cheap headphones covering her ears; it must be some abject attempt to try to escape from the world. Detached from a world which refuses to accept her, so in turn, she refuses to accept it. Probably some nihilist wishing she could figure out what is real and what is simply a fabricated truth, but she won’t. No one will.

                I wait in line to get into a classroom I’m not entirely certain I wish to be in. I feel as if I’m surrounded by puppets and actors, using this school, using this life as their stage. Egotist’s diluted attempts at trying to convince the world that they’re something worth being. They’re not.  I wonder if I’m any different.

The class files in through three doors, slowly moving like sheep being herded into a canal. The girl to my right pretends she is calling someone on her phone. More lies and acting. She doesn’t want anyone to think she is alone, as if weakness is created through our seclusion. People are so frightened to be alone. I don’t understand it.

My eyes pass over a beautiful girl I often catch staring at me during class. The seat to her right is open and she sees me eye it. I sit four rows away from her, next to some guy hiding from the world in his hood. This isn’t the place to meet someone like that. Love isn’t created in a lecture hall.

                Class begins. I look around at the seven hundred empty faces surrounding me. It leaves me with the feeling that no one ever sat down in these seats, they’re practically as empty as the minds which occupy them. I wonder how many of them actually want to be here. The teacher is a middle aged blonde woman. Today, she is wearing an African dress; I’m sure awoke with some faint fantasy of appearing “cultured” through her dress.

I begin writing this document, unknowing to what it is or what it is to become. People are reading it. I can feel their eyes following the document as my fingers press the keys which form the words upon the screen. I do not conceal it nor hide it.

The boy I sat next to apparently wants to be like me. I bet he drinks and smokes for the same reasons. He begins writing his own document, but it becomes obvious that it isn’t worth reading. He’s so caught up on using big words that his content is hardly developed and in fact, barely comprehendible. I turn my screen slightly hoping he won’t read it because I don’t feel like offending him. People make me smile. He wants everyone around him to read what he writes. He wants to show everyone how smart he is through the use of his intellectually sickening dialect. He doesn’t understand writing. What’s important in writing? Is it the words we use? No, it’s not. It is the way in which we use them.  It’s not about finding the biggest or most advanced word; it’s about using the correct one.

He’s stumbling on a sentence because he doesn’t even understand what he’s trying to say. He stares at his screen, his mind racing to find another big word to add to his overly complex sentence, but it appears as if his mental dictionary been exhausted.

                My professor mentions a study that was done that shows a direct correlation between smoking dope and a degrading GPA. I hear several sneers from the emptiness surrounding me. They’re all too busy smirking to realize that their GPA’s have been progressively lowering since they started smoking pot. But then again, why would they want to think about that stuff?

Why would anyone want to be logical? Why would they want to believe proof presented through science? That gets too complicated; it’s much easier just to follow the scripture that has been preached to them since birth. I wonder how many of their own twisted morals and values they’ve broken in the past week. I bet it’s too many to count.

I’m distracted by my neighbor’s writing. He decided to put a word and a period. He’s so caught up in using an enlightened and intelligent voice he doesn’t realize his sentence isn’t complete. Then again, why should it be? People’s sentences, like their lives, rarely have an ending.

I’m tired. My weary eyes hang in my skull like a soggy t-shirt on a clothes hanger. My mind is attracted to any distraction I can find around the room.

I can feel my pulse beating through my head like a drummer is using my skull as a snare. I entertain myself by wondering how long it takes my own brain to tell itself that it feels something inside of itself. I stop thinking to smile. It’s nice to know my heart is still beating.