A/N: I've been stuck on this story for five years. I have the entire story outlined. I have character development down to every detail I can think of, I KNOW how I want this story.... But after three rewrites and a change from third to first person, I have NO IDEA HOW TO WRITE IT AHHHHHH
I want my idols strung out from the booze, fucked up by the coke, burning the candle at both ends and tripping into the grave, still screaming. None of this commercially packaged shirt churned off the conveyer belt, like safesex for the ears, bleached and sterilized.
Someone give me the wild boys, all the hippies traded their souls in for a two-for-one deal and prepackaged hamburger meat.
I want them playing from their fucking heart, I want the anthems that defined a generation, the men and women that shook the world and made history. I want music for music’s sake.
Words churned and burned in the back of my mind as I cradled the bottle of jack between my thighs. Waking up from doing shots of absinthe in my dreams worked up my thirst for hard liquor. Craning my head up as I took another swig I stared at the posters on my bedroom wall of Morrison, Scott, Bonham, Clark, Pop, and many others. Boys that didn’t survive their wild days and a few that never should have. The power behind the music that snaked its way into my brain and seduced me; it was glamorous and alluring. All it asked for was my soul, but twenty years later I know it wasn’t just the music that sent me down this path.
The digital analog clock glared back at me. July 29th. Today was my 35th birthday. Booze in bed and it was only two in afternoon. It was turning out to be a great day.
-BREAK because I don’t know what else to write here-
I started scribbling memories furiously the day I found out my liver was failing. I remember this birthday pretty well because it was the day before we flew out to Greece for the big family reunion that was held every three years. As I got worse it was harder to keep things straight, and right before and after I got my transplant it was damned near impossible to recall anything. I kept thinking I was going to die, and kept freaking out thinking that no one will remember me. The real me. Not the one night stand, not the fag rock star, not the alcoholic bastard, not the party monster. We had fourteen studio albums and rocked for twenty years. We smashed guitars, cars, and faces and I’m worried about what people will think of me after I’m gone?
Our lives were stained with sex and drugs, and though we were never even close to the men who burned out so early in their lives, we still had a story to tell. How we got to where we are now is something I’m still trying to figure out though.
When we brought forth the idea of writing this biography, we couldn’t work on it fast enough. Shit pour out of our heads, and we were pulling all nighters cause we were just so engrossed, so entrenched in this work we never noticed the sun go down. Or come up. We had the giddiness spark again, that excited youthful anxiety that you get when you’re a new freshface band, your first gig, the first single. Decades worth of shit to work out, of squabbles and fights revisited, of opportunities missed and friends lost. Ashtrays filling with the cigarette butts and stained napkins of our conversation as we put our life to words. And we reconnected.
BREAK WAT
I was born in a little unknown place in Greece, but reared in England. The oldest of what would eventually become known as the Antoniou Five and the only boy my mom was blessed with before the adoption, I was nine years the elder to my youngest sister. Most of my dad’s family was in England and had been there for a few generations now-three, if I remember correctly. Mom had timed my pregnancy so she’d be in Greece visiting her own family; she wanted an real authentic Greek boy.
I had a generally normal upbringing, so how did I end up becoming the only loose screw out of the whole bunch? I can’t chalk it up to have a predominately female presence in my life, as Milliken turned out to be more than okay. The model son, I’d often snort as people grinned when he’d show up in pressed slacks yet grunt at my cut-off jeans and dyed hair. But I wasn’t bitter. I was satisfied with the way I was.
The family still lives in the same house I grew up in—a moderate sized English Victorian that still felt cramped despite how unusually large it was. I can contribute this to the large number of family members living with us, there was no time or place where one could be left alone. I remedied that by retiring to the old woods behind our home, where the underbrush was so thickly woven between the gargantuan oaks it took woodcutters and a shit ton of patience to make a path get anywhere. I was allowed free reign with the only requirement to be home on time for dinner each evening.
Stealing old blankets when I could, and dragging pieces of wood board and any other ‘building materials’ I got my hands on, I made a mish mashed fort. One time I managed to save up enough nickels for some paint and then the place looked like a clown exploded.
With my brown worn sandals slapping against the pavement as I carefully balanced the little tubs of paint, I was exhausted and sticky with sweat by the time I got home after the half mile walk to the ‘Jimmy’s Corner Mart’. The dripping sweat glowed golden against my tan skin in the fading sun. I wanted to go back to my fort before the sun was completely down but my parents stopped me when I reached the back yard, somberness hanging heavy over their shoulders.
They were quiet, uncharacteristically so. Tenderly, they ushered me to the cement stairs where they broached the subject of ‘adoption’, pausing tentatively and often as if to make sure their conversation wasn’t upsetting me. At the mention of getting a new brother but having to forego all that baby stuff, my ten-year-old body quivered with anticipation. Three years older than the eldest daughter, the age gap was still enough to leave me wishing I had someone closer to mine to play with and after three sisters I cherished the thought of a brother. To say he was not what I expected was the least I could say of him.
He was a sniveling little thing when I met him, skinnier than me and a lot shorter. His shaggy blonde hair and pale pink skin was so different from my own Mediterranean ethnicity. It threw me for a loop, not that I wasn’t used to Caucasian families, but in the Seventies interracial mixing on the family level was still something that was not all that common in my life.
He was nine at the time; very quiet and jumpy. He didn’t talk much, and I heard the word abused being thrown around when the adults didn’t think I was listening. Very much of this talk flew right over my head. I was oblivious in my child-like state of mind and did not really understand the crushing power that words like abuse, disownment, and negligence had.
About Me
- D.Marciniak
- A recent graduate of CCAD, I am an illustrator & designer with interest in music & tattooing.
All the artwork you see in my blog belongs to me, DMarciniak. You are not authorized to use artwork contained here. Thank You.
Showing posts with label sick. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sick. Show all posts
Friday, April 24, 2009
Darius
Darius groped around in the dark, hand brushing against the dimpled wall of the bedroom while he tried to reach for the light. The alarm clock across the room was flashing twelve; the power must have shut off during the morning. That would account for the lack of air conditioning, he thought. His hair, thick with sweat, stuck to skin where skin was available. The light flicked on and he put a name to the what was making that horrible nose–burning smell. He could practically taste the alcohol mixing with the smell of vomit–he had dropped a bottle of Jack Daniel’s on the floor last night. Rather, this morning. Very early morning. He was surprised he made it to the bed this time.
“Shit.” Whether it was about the loss of a good bottle of Jack or the mess on his floor, his expletive could go either way.
He welcomed into the world that day a very deserved hangover, but the effects would be over quickly. Comparatively, this year that was comprised of what most people would see as a complete and utter breakdown is nothing but a speck in his mind, a second making up what he felt was a long and laborious life. Not everyone could agree with him on that matter though. And one of those somebodies was thumbing through a magazine looking incredibly bored and irritated while sitting on his couch. He snorted in the brief glance away from the magazine. Definitely irritated.
“Shit.” Whether it was about the loss of a good bottle of Jack or the mess on his floor, his expletive could go either way.
He welcomed into the world that day a very deserved hangover, but the effects would be over quickly. Comparatively, this year that was comprised of what most people would see as a complete and utter breakdown is nothing but a speck in his mind, a second making up what he felt was a long and laborious life. Not everyone could agree with him on that matter though. And one of those somebodies was thumbing through a magazine looking incredibly bored and irritated while sitting on his couch. He snorted in the brief glance away from the magazine. Definitely irritated.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Barefoot on the Moon
Author's Notes: Dialogue is on the weak end. I need to do more research into how the British talk for Darius' character. Just picked up a random event from my novel and ran with it. I need to start working more chronologically. It makes it hard to decide what to put in and omit when I write.
He stood under the florescent lights of the kitchen, mulling over the cool almost blue glow that came from the buzzing bulbs above. The rug in front of the sink had recently been washed, putting a slight spring in his step. Barefoot on the moon, he thought with a smile. The last of the vapor coming off the warm glass turned to nothing more than wisps that could barely be perceived by his eye as he turned to peer into the distorted encapsulated world of the green glass. Floating lazily around the top were the two tea bags that been had thrown in minutes before, dancing with the sugared water and staining it red
“It could be a metaphoric phrase, if you will, to symbolize your current happy state after being liberated from years of rage and depression. The lack of positive social interaction reinforces anger and depression. Refer to that of socialization in higher animals, dogs mostly. They-”
“That’s enough of that shit,” he mumbled. A press of the power button and the faces of one of those psycho-babble programs disappeared, replaced by a grey dead screen.
He poured the last of the milk into the tea, not pleased at the taste. A little too much sugar but it would have to do for now. Chiming almost in unison as he opened the front door, the clock read midnight in eery red as he walked out onto the porch.
The wind played with the loose cotton pants he had slipped into hours before when he thought he would go to sleep. They had the letters ACDC repeated in a monochromatic black and red pattern and were currently his favorite pair. A strand escaped from the messy bun he had put his hair up into. He batted it away, annoyed.
Down the street, a lamp’s lightbulb flickered for a moment as if trying to fight against its own inevitable demise before finally going out. The night had always been his favorite part of the day. That dead silence that came when people went home to bed gave him a sense of peace he could not find anywhere in the cluttered bright daytime. The moon had a different type of power.
Something was scratching the back of his neck, around the collar of his white tank top. He reached back and felt fingers. “You tag was sticking out.”
“I was trying not to wake you.”
The moonlight emphasized the difference between his pale skin and Darius’ natural tan. “I’ve been drifting in and out; you couch isn’t exactly comfortable.”
“You didn’t have to sleep here; I’m fine.”
“I still worry about you being by youself.”
“Believe me, a relapse is the last thing I want. You don’t have to be here. I know you’re just feeling guilty,” he said as he moved to the porch swing, a limp noticeable in his walk. “This doesn’t have anything to do with anything you did. Really. The doctor said it was fine. The x-rays were good.” He lied.
“You had it checked out afterward?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t think you thought it was your fault. And honestly, I was too wrapped up and doped up to be rational.”
“I’m not here because I feel guilty. I’ll admit, I do feel it a bit, but I’d be stewing in some bar to deal with it if there weren’t more important things to deal with. But you need someone right now. You know I’m not letting ye get through this alone, despite you protest. You need to stop thinking you can do all this shit yourself. Your pride’ll kill you.
I’m impressed though, you’ve made a shit ton of progress in such a short time. You’ll be runnin’ and back on the stage in no time.”
Darius gave one of his tilted dopey grins that was meant to be comforting, but Caecus felt cold, a tightening knot at the bottom of his belly. He knew that he would always have a slight limp. It wasn’t the drug that fucked his leg up, despite what he told Darius. The emotion irrational filled him with both dread and justification; the lie he needed to tell was a secret he would hold tight to his chest for as long as possible.
He stood under the florescent lights of the kitchen, mulling over the cool almost blue glow that came from the buzzing bulbs above. The rug in front of the sink had recently been washed, putting a slight spring in his step. Barefoot on the moon, he thought with a smile. The last of the vapor coming off the warm glass turned to nothing more than wisps that could barely be perceived by his eye as he turned to peer into the distorted encapsulated world of the green glass. Floating lazily around the top were the two tea bags that been had thrown in minutes before, dancing with the sugared water and staining it red
“It could be a metaphoric phrase, if you will, to symbolize your current happy state after being liberated from years of rage and depression. The lack of positive social interaction reinforces anger and depression. Refer to that of socialization in higher animals, dogs mostly. They-”
“That’s enough of that shit,” he mumbled. A press of the power button and the faces of one of those psycho-babble programs disappeared, replaced by a grey dead screen.
He poured the last of the milk into the tea, not pleased at the taste. A little too much sugar but it would have to do for now. Chiming almost in unison as he opened the front door, the clock read midnight in eery red as he walked out onto the porch.
The wind played with the loose cotton pants he had slipped into hours before when he thought he would go to sleep. They had the letters ACDC repeated in a monochromatic black and red pattern and were currently his favorite pair. A strand escaped from the messy bun he had put his hair up into. He batted it away, annoyed.
Down the street, a lamp’s lightbulb flickered for a moment as if trying to fight against its own inevitable demise before finally going out. The night had always been his favorite part of the day. That dead silence that came when people went home to bed gave him a sense of peace he could not find anywhere in the cluttered bright daytime. The moon had a different type of power.
Something was scratching the back of his neck, around the collar of his white tank top. He reached back and felt fingers. “You tag was sticking out.”
“I was trying not to wake you.”
The moonlight emphasized the difference between his pale skin and Darius’ natural tan. “I’ve been drifting in and out; you couch isn’t exactly comfortable.”
“You didn’t have to sleep here; I’m fine.”
“I still worry about you being by youself.”
“Believe me, a relapse is the last thing I want. You don’t have to be here. I know you’re just feeling guilty,” he said as he moved to the porch swing, a limp noticeable in his walk. “This doesn’t have anything to do with anything you did. Really. The doctor said it was fine. The x-rays were good.” He lied.
“You had it checked out afterward?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t think you thought it was your fault. And honestly, I was too wrapped up and doped up to be rational.”
“I’m not here because I feel guilty. I’ll admit, I do feel it a bit, but I’d be stewing in some bar to deal with it if there weren’t more important things to deal with. But you need someone right now. You know I’m not letting ye get through this alone, despite you protest. You need to stop thinking you can do all this shit yourself. Your pride’ll kill you.
I’m impressed though, you’ve made a shit ton of progress in such a short time. You’ll be runnin’ and back on the stage in no time.”
Darius gave one of his tilted dopey grins that was meant to be comforting, but Caecus felt cold, a tightening knot at the bottom of his belly. He knew that he would always have a slight limp. It wasn’t the drug that fucked his leg up, despite what he told Darius. The emotion irrational filled him with both dread and justification; the lie he needed to tell was a secret he would hold tight to his chest for as long as possible.
Monday, February 23, 2009
You Say Dio, I Say Queen
Author's Note: I have a huge amount of respect for people that can do dialogue well. I love dialogue that captures a characters expressions and personality. Especially if you don't have any prose to back it up. So I did a dialogue exercise, and picked a topic I really like.... eighties hair metal bands. And Tom Cruise bashing. The characters are Darius and Caecus. Caecus is bolded, Darius is not.
“Why are you groaning like that? What’s wrong with Dio?”
“I can’t take him seriously. Come on, have you ever seen the music video for Holy Diver? There’s just something about the way he sings. Makes me think of Steven Tyler.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake! What’s wrong with him? I love Aerosmith.”
“He has a big mouth.”
“So?”
“He looks funny.”
“Well, you look like a woman, but you don’t-FUCK! That hurt!”
“Next time it will be harder.”
“Not while I’m driving! I don’t need to end up in a ditch. I happen to like this car very much.”
“Then don’t say I look like a chick.”
“Fine. You are the manliest man I ever did lay my eyes upon.”
“Now you’re just being ridiculous.”
“I try.”
“Don’t you fucking touch that dial! I love Rush.”
“Why do you get to change it when Dio comes on, but I have to suffer through Lee’s wailing? He needs to grow a set of balls.”
“I adore him. I think it’s the glasses.”
“He makes me think of John Lennon.”
“You wish you were John Lennon.”
“I would make an awesome John Lennon.”
“I love the Beatles.”
“Yeah... same here.”
“There, I changed it. No more Lee wailing.”
“Ah, good old White Shark.”
“I don’t like this guy either.”
“What is wrong with you?”
“I have high standards?”
“Hair metal bands don’t have standards.”
“You’re just saying that because you don’t have any standards. You listen to fucking Aerosmith for crissakes.”
“There is absolutely nothing wrong with Aerosmith. At least I don’t listen to Bon Jovi.”
“80s Bon Jovi is perfectly acceptable and sensible music.”
“The fucker sold his soul to Pop Rock. The proverbial devil, if there was any.”
“We live in Jersey; you have to love Bon Jovi. At least its not as bad as what Pete Burns did to himself.”
“Please, please, please don’t remind me. I used to fantasize about that man.”
“I’m not surprised. He was pretty.”
“Oh, please. He was sex on two legs. Don’t deny it.”
“Too much, too much.”
“Just what were you doing in the eighties?”
“Probably not what you were doing in the eighties.”
“I gathered that much, asshole.”
“Nothing, actually. I actually dated a guy in a hair metal band around this time.”
“Most of those guys have seen better days."
“I agree with you fully there. All of that drug shit and drinking finally caught up with them.”
“Can you believe that Dee Snider still does that whole bit?”
“You mean the crazy purple fishnet football outfit thing with the wild blonde hair and makeup?”
“Hell yeah.”
“He’s got to be in his fifties. I’m impressed. I saw them play once in Jersey, Klaus Nomi opened up for them.”
“You gotta be shittin me? Klaus fucking Nomi? I would pay to go back in time to see that. That’s the weirdest fuckin line-up ever. That’s like getting Dashboard Confessional to open up for Metallica.”
“If you listen to them I’m going to have to kill you.”
“Who? Dashboard or Metallica?”
“I hate you.”
“You only say that because deep down you secretly want me.”
“Darius, get your head out of your pants.”
“Sorry.”
“Greatest band of all time?”
“Led Zeppelin, hands down.”
“Holy shit. We actually agree on something.”
“All right. What, if I may, is your favorite song?”
“I can never choose between Zep’s Achilles Last Stand or the Stone’s Sympathy for the Devil.”
“I can’t listen to that song without thinking about Tom Cruise, and not just Cruise as Lestat, but Scientology Cruise. He just went fucking crazy! I love it!”
“Thank you so much. You just ruined my favorite song for me. Fuckin’ Cruise.”
“I thought you couldn’t decide on a favorite.”
“Well, apparently its Last Stand now. Thank you for choosing for me.”
“My absolute favorite song is Big Balls by AC/DC.
I’ve got big balls, I’ve got big balls, they’re such big balls!
“FUCK YOU DARIUS.”
“Sorry! I’ve got a disease!”
“You are obnoxious.”
“I get that a lot.”
“Queen!”
“Why are you groaning like that? What’s wrong with Dio?”
“I can’t take him seriously. Come on, have you ever seen the music video for Holy Diver? There’s just something about the way he sings. Makes me think of Steven Tyler.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake! What’s wrong with him? I love Aerosmith.”
“He has a big mouth.”
“So?”
“He looks funny.”
“Well, you look like a woman, but you don’t-FUCK! That hurt!”
“Next time it will be harder.”
“Not while I’m driving! I don’t need to end up in a ditch. I happen to like this car very much.”
“Then don’t say I look like a chick.”
“Fine. You are the manliest man I ever did lay my eyes upon.”
“Now you’re just being ridiculous.”
“I try.”
“Don’t you fucking touch that dial! I love Rush.”
“Why do you get to change it when Dio comes on, but I have to suffer through Lee’s wailing? He needs to grow a set of balls.”
“I adore him. I think it’s the glasses.”
“He makes me think of John Lennon.”
“You wish you were John Lennon.”
“I would make an awesome John Lennon.”
“I love the Beatles.”
“Yeah... same here.”
“There, I changed it. No more Lee wailing.”
“Ah, good old White Shark.”
“I don’t like this guy either.”
“What is wrong with you?”
“I have high standards?”
“Hair metal bands don’t have standards.”
“You’re just saying that because you don’t have any standards. You listen to fucking Aerosmith for crissakes.”
“There is absolutely nothing wrong with Aerosmith. At least I don’t listen to Bon Jovi.”
“80s Bon Jovi is perfectly acceptable and sensible music.”
“The fucker sold his soul to Pop Rock. The proverbial devil, if there was any.”
“We live in Jersey; you have to love Bon Jovi. At least its not as bad as what Pete Burns did to himself.”
“Please, please, please don’t remind me. I used to fantasize about that man.”
“I’m not surprised. He was pretty.”
“Oh, please. He was sex on two legs. Don’t deny it.”
“Too much, too much.”
“Just what were you doing in the eighties?”
“Probably not what you were doing in the eighties.”
“I gathered that much, asshole.”
“Nothing, actually. I actually dated a guy in a hair metal band around this time.”
“Most of those guys have seen better days."
“I agree with you fully there. All of that drug shit and drinking finally caught up with them.”
“Can you believe that Dee Snider still does that whole bit?”
“You mean the crazy purple fishnet football outfit thing with the wild blonde hair and makeup?”
“Hell yeah.”
“He’s got to be in his fifties. I’m impressed. I saw them play once in Jersey, Klaus Nomi opened up for them.”
“You gotta be shittin me? Klaus fucking Nomi? I would pay to go back in time to see that. That’s the weirdest fuckin line-up ever. That’s like getting Dashboard Confessional to open up for Metallica.”
“If you listen to them I’m going to have to kill you.”
“Who? Dashboard or Metallica?”
“I hate you.”
“You only say that because deep down you secretly want me.”
“Darius, get your head out of your pants.”
“Sorry.”
“Greatest band of all time?”
“Led Zeppelin, hands down.”
“Holy shit. We actually agree on something.”
“All right. What, if I may, is your favorite song?”
“I can never choose between Zep’s Achilles Last Stand or the Stone’s Sympathy for the Devil.”
“I can’t listen to that song without thinking about Tom Cruise, and not just Cruise as Lestat, but Scientology Cruise. He just went fucking crazy! I love it!”
“Thank you so much. You just ruined my favorite song for me. Fuckin’ Cruise.”
“I thought you couldn’t decide on a favorite.”
“Well, apparently its Last Stand now. Thank you for choosing for me.”
“My absolute favorite song is Big Balls by AC/DC.
I’ve got big balls, I’ve got big balls, they’re such big balls!
“FUCK YOU DARIUS.”
“Sorry! I’ve got a disease!”
“You are obnoxious.”
“I get that a lot.”
“Queen!”
School Boy Crush
Author's Notes: Character development monologue for my greek character, Darius. I've been picking this up and putting down again, nitpicking with it. I will probably play around with again sometime soon. I want to make it longer. I love this character so much. oWo
There really isn’t any sort of situation where I could classify myself as shy. The slip of a girly-boy that I am, the eccentric spirited sort that craves attention and love like a serial killer craves squeezing the life from a broken body to echo their own tumultuous climax...I’m never shy. My life can be defined by exasperation and complete utter stupidity. Who can blame me for being blind and self-absorbed when there’s not a one person I can think of that is better than me. We’re all the worse for wear on this quaint ball of mud, whether it’s for the drugs or violence. We all have our misguided vices, and they are as colorful and varied as the individuals that populate existence. Cumulative society pushes us in one direction, farther and farther from the roots and carnal urges of our predecessors. Mindless sex is something of the past, looked down upon in the present, and perhaps even stamped out in the future.
It’s a me-first, instant gratification world, and I can’t help but go along with it or be swallowed up. So many of the quiet types so afraid to put themselves out there because they’ll get hit by the rest of the buzzing populace, never heard, always drowned out. The deeper meaning lost because people are always looking out for themselves. You are not without guilt, my friend. I love to be loved, but what are your faults? You can tell right up front what kind of man I’ll be. Look at my wrist and you’ll see my heart. I love my friends, I love myself. I put myself out there because I want to be noticed. I want the attention.
I only say wrist because I’m not wearing a shirt.
At least in times of unrest in the past, wonderful things would come of it.
Its unlike me to be so thoughtful and contemplative. I feel like I’ve been living the life of a rock star hundreds of years before there were any.
I’m an ambitious sort, and quite comfortable with my endless life of loveless sex and trail of lovers. I’ve always got what I wanted, and what I wanted was sex. No man was safe. There was no deeper meaning for these flings, except for the fact that the pain that came from being alone was too much to bear. So unbearable, I grew addicted to relationships. I needed them to keep me happy. So I thought.
Decades could not prepare me for the first time I fell in love. It is the most painful and wondrous thing I have ever experienced, and it was completely one-sided. Did I even think to approach it carefully and tentatively? I’m not know for tact, and like the way I treat everything else in my life, I dove right into the middle of it and drowned. It snuck up on me so I turned around and smacked it right in the face.
I feel my heart, my stupid little blood-pumping organ that keeps me alive exploding. A resistant man made me realize how blind I was, and love made me realize how fucked up I am. I’m sorry because he never asked for any of this, but I can’t help but remain angry all the same. I never asked for this either, and I certainly didn’t ask for my entire lifestyle to be turned upside down. All of my advances seem so innocent until emotion decided to complicate the hell out of everything. Don’t kiss and tell, my friend. Don’t fall in love with a man that doesn’t want you either. It took me a long time for me to realize that I didn’t want to treat this man like all the others.
Anything can become an addiction. I’ve been nursing my sex-addled brain for countless years. Had I been into any other type of drug, a man like me in withdrawal would have been dangerous. There are secret things that only my tear-stained pillow knows, and other secrets I cannot bear to think about that have come about from my refocusing.
I’m really tired. For once, the life of drinking, men, and attention just isn’t cutting it anymore. I had a good run. My carelessly constructed world is falling apart because of one raven-haired man that just wouldn’t give into my game of fuck and dump.
I can’t say I blame him for rejecting me again once after I profess my very fragile love. He can see me for the monster I really am, and who’s to say that I won’t turn on him and relapse back into my old ways. Its masochistically amusing to me because once I started putting him first, I started hurting inside.
I feel like we’re acting out a drama on a celestial scale. I’ve got the part of the Phantom, only my scars are on the inside and I’ve a pounding that won’t go away. It’s my heart beating and I’m wondering why I can’t rip it out.
When it comes to love, I’m like a bumbling school boy with a crush on the prettiest girl in the class. But in this world, bloody hearts end up in the desks on Valentine’s Day.
There really isn’t any sort of situation where I could classify myself as shy. The slip of a girly-boy that I am, the eccentric spirited sort that craves attention and love like a serial killer craves squeezing the life from a broken body to echo their own tumultuous climax...I’m never shy. My life can be defined by exasperation and complete utter stupidity. Who can blame me for being blind and self-absorbed when there’s not a one person I can think of that is better than me. We’re all the worse for wear on this quaint ball of mud, whether it’s for the drugs or violence. We all have our misguided vices, and they are as colorful and varied as the individuals that populate existence. Cumulative society pushes us in one direction, farther and farther from the roots and carnal urges of our predecessors. Mindless sex is something of the past, looked down upon in the present, and perhaps even stamped out in the future.
It’s a me-first, instant gratification world, and I can’t help but go along with it or be swallowed up. So many of the quiet types so afraid to put themselves out there because they’ll get hit by the rest of the buzzing populace, never heard, always drowned out. The deeper meaning lost because people are always looking out for themselves. You are not without guilt, my friend. I love to be loved, but what are your faults? You can tell right up front what kind of man I’ll be. Look at my wrist and you’ll see my heart. I love my friends, I love myself. I put myself out there because I want to be noticed. I want the attention.
I only say wrist because I’m not wearing a shirt.
At least in times of unrest in the past, wonderful things would come of it.
Its unlike me to be so thoughtful and contemplative. I feel like I’ve been living the life of a rock star hundreds of years before there were any.
I’m an ambitious sort, and quite comfortable with my endless life of loveless sex and trail of lovers. I’ve always got what I wanted, and what I wanted was sex. No man was safe. There was no deeper meaning for these flings, except for the fact that the pain that came from being alone was too much to bear. So unbearable, I grew addicted to relationships. I needed them to keep me happy. So I thought.
Decades could not prepare me for the first time I fell in love. It is the most painful and wondrous thing I have ever experienced, and it was completely one-sided. Did I even think to approach it carefully and tentatively? I’m not know for tact, and like the way I treat everything else in my life, I dove right into the middle of it and drowned. It snuck up on me so I turned around and smacked it right in the face.
I feel my heart, my stupid little blood-pumping organ that keeps me alive exploding. A resistant man made me realize how blind I was, and love made me realize how fucked up I am. I’m sorry because he never asked for any of this, but I can’t help but remain angry all the same. I never asked for this either, and I certainly didn’t ask for my entire lifestyle to be turned upside down. All of my advances seem so innocent until emotion decided to complicate the hell out of everything. Don’t kiss and tell, my friend. Don’t fall in love with a man that doesn’t want you either. It took me a long time for me to realize that I didn’t want to treat this man like all the others.
Anything can become an addiction. I’ve been nursing my sex-addled brain for countless years. Had I been into any other type of drug, a man like me in withdrawal would have been dangerous. There are secret things that only my tear-stained pillow knows, and other secrets I cannot bear to think about that have come about from my refocusing.
I’m really tired. For once, the life of drinking, men, and attention just isn’t cutting it anymore. I had a good run. My carelessly constructed world is falling apart because of one raven-haired man that just wouldn’t give into my game of fuck and dump.
I can’t say I blame him for rejecting me again once after I profess my very fragile love. He can see me for the monster I really am, and who’s to say that I won’t turn on him and relapse back into my old ways. Its masochistically amusing to me because once I started putting him first, I started hurting inside.
I feel like we’re acting out a drama on a celestial scale. I’ve got the part of the Phantom, only my scars are on the inside and I’ve a pounding that won’t go away. It’s my heart beating and I’m wondering why I can’t rip it out.
When it comes to love, I’m like a bumbling school boy with a crush on the prettiest girl in the class. But in this world, bloody hearts end up in the desks on Valentine’s Day.
Novel Pieces
Author's Notes: Random bits from one of my novels that popped into my head but haven't worked themselves into the story yet.
1]The slowly fogging car windows were the only indication of the passing moments. That, in the dead of the night, was the only changing thing beside the constant rise and hum of the insect chorus.
The fogging windows obscured the two figures within.
Caecus had finished the last of his water, and now he passed the bottle back and forth between his hands restlessly. Keeping himself busy in any way possible comforted him, but after the conversation died down, he was feeling anxious and perturbed.
The radio was turned down low and the clock ticked to four am. Occasionally he would strain his ears during a lull to see what songs he could pick up.
2]Rose petals peppered his skin. He buried his hands into his raven hair, breathing in the soft scents as the vanilla from his shampoo mixed with his leather and cologne. Apprehensively, he started to speak, thought better of it, swallowed his words and kissed the back of his neck. The skin there was the softest, so supple compared to the callused hands he now held.
Rose petals peppered his skin and he traced them all with his thumb.
1]The slowly fogging car windows were the only indication of the passing moments. That, in the dead of the night, was the only changing thing beside the constant rise and hum of the insect chorus.
The fogging windows obscured the two figures within.
Caecus had finished the last of his water, and now he passed the bottle back and forth between his hands restlessly. Keeping himself busy in any way possible comforted him, but after the conversation died down, he was feeling anxious and perturbed.
The radio was turned down low and the clock ticked to four am. Occasionally he would strain his ears during a lull to see what songs he could pick up.
2]Rose petals peppered his skin. He buried his hands into his raven hair, breathing in the soft scents as the vanilla from his shampoo mixed with his leather and cologne. Apprehensively, he started to speak, thought better of it, swallowed his words and kissed the back of his neck. The skin there was the softest, so supple compared to the callused hands he now held.
Rose petals peppered his skin and he traced them all with his thumb.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)