I was on a band trip, and we were in a school bus in Florida. I had opened my window, and the other kids put a pair of water wings on my arms because we were on our way to the beach, and they knew I couldn't swim (I can't). All of a sudden, a hurricane hit, and the entire bus was lifted up in the air. People started screaming, panic ensued. Then the bus was dropped directly into the ocean. As water was pouring into the bus and it was quickly sinking, I managed to crawl out my open window and floated up to the surface, care of my water wings. I was one of a handful that actually made it out. A few friends and I were huddled in a shelter underground somewhere wondering if we were going to have enough food to last the 21 days that the radio said the hurricane would rampage when I woke up.
I woke up cold and terrified. Because I can't swim, I've always been terrified of water. Not like, a shower, but open water. The ocean is a cruel bitch that only wants to drag me down to her bottom and rip me to shreds on the rocks. So this dream left me a little shaken. I told my roommate about it, and she said, "Interesting. Even in your dreams you're a survivor."
This next piece I present to you runs along a similar vein. At the risk of over-explanation, I titled it "No One in Particular" because it was the first piece I had done in a long time that wasn't written with a specific person in mind. It was more of a few images and phrases that I liked, and one ridiculous joke, that I managed to string together into a somewhat coherent piece. I mean, the woman is sort of based on myself, but a very Rambo version of myself. This is an interesting glimpse into the myriad of reasons I am fucked up in the brain. My mother's family has this massive inferiority complex that verges on the obscene. They are never worthy, and are always staying behind to fix the broken birds of men. While my father's family has this grotesque megalomania. They have such sick delusions of grandeur and think they are better than everyone else, including each other. So I got a bit of both the god complex AND the abandonment issues. I am the absolute BEST terrible person.
But enough self-psychoanalysis. Time for the feature presentation.
No One in Particular
I lay my head back and say, "Where did you learn to DO that?" He shrugs and looks embarrassed.
"You're like my own personal Marilyn," he says, "You remind me so much of her."
"What, bleach-blonde and size 14?" It's now my turn to look embarrassed. I find my clothes and after a brief kiss at the door I shrug into the cold shrill light of Sunday. On my way to the bar the man of logic and the lady of emotions argue in my head to the point where it just turns into a siren, loud and piercing. I turn up my music so loud my ears hurt.
"Make it a double." I carry my drink back to my little table in the corner, so scratched up with drunken scrawls that very little of it is even legible, and sit. I think about the latest faceless man in a long string of mishaps and disasters, and wonder who's winning this particular war, if I am the one using or being used this time. The siren grows louder and louder, shattering the windows and shaking the foundation. I stamp out cigarette after cigarette and take pleasure in watching the life go out of each one with so little effort from my nimble fingers. Nimble agile fingers, and I'm back to thinking about him. I shake it off, get another drink, and try to think of happier days, but the siren only grows more relentless. I know what will stop it, but I'm trying to move on from the kill. Only in the battlefields was my head silent, only when justice was my name, and each slaughter got me closer to god.
"One more, please." One more drink, one more cigarette, one more boy, soft and smooth in all the right places, strong arms, hands running through hair, a pale thigh peeking out from under silken covers. I pinch my leg to see if I can even feel the pain anymore. One more drink. I close my eyes to the siren, and his swim into my inner vision. One more drink. Someday I'm sure this echo chamber will stop. I'll make it stop. Either I'll find happiness, or I'll slink back into the warzone. Or I'll jam a pencil into my damn temple.
"Last call!" As the world becomes more and more fuzzy, and fades into a muddled blur of browns and grays, I raise my glass of whiskey. Tonight, my dear, I drink to you.
I lay my head back and say, "Where did you learn to DO that?" He shrugs and looks embarrassed.
"You're like my own personal Marilyn," he says, "You remind me so much of her."
"What, bleach-blonde and size 14?" It's now my turn to look embarrassed. I find my clothes and after a brief kiss at the door I shrug into the cold shrill light of Sunday. On my way to the bar the man of logic and the lady of emotions argue in my head to the point where it just turns into a siren, loud and piercing. I turn up my music so loud my ears hurt.
"Make it a double." I carry my drink back to my little table in the corner, so scratched up with drunken scrawls that very little of it is even legible, and sit. I think about the latest faceless man in a long string of mishaps and disasters, and wonder who's winning this particular war, if I am the one using or being used this time. The siren grows louder and louder, shattering the windows and shaking the foundation. I stamp out cigarette after cigarette and take pleasure in watching the life go out of each one with so little effort from my nimble fingers. Nimble agile fingers, and I'm back to thinking about him. I shake it off, get another drink, and try to think of happier days, but the siren only grows more relentless. I know what will stop it, but I'm trying to move on from the kill. Only in the battlefields was my head silent, only when justice was my name, and each slaughter got me closer to god.
"One more, please." One more drink, one more cigarette, one more boy, soft and smooth in all the right places, strong arms, hands running through hair, a pale thigh peeking out from under silken covers. I pinch my leg to see if I can even feel the pain anymore. One more drink. I close my eyes to the siren, and his swim into my inner vision. One more drink. Someday I'm sure this echo chamber will stop. I'll make it stop. Either I'll find happiness, or I'll slink back into the warzone. Or I'll jam a pencil into my damn temple.
"Last call!" As the world becomes more and more fuzzy, and fades into a muddled blur of browns and grays, I raise my glass of whiskey. Tonight, my dear, I drink to you.
