Posted in My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., The Modern Classics, Uncategorized

“I’m awkward, but only when it comes to the things that matter most, like not hurting myself, or laughing at the new scars I don’t remember making.”

I love the sound of a car door opening, and the taste of orange juice after I brush my teeth. I’m a big fan of Indie YouTube musicians, and I can sing along with any Disney movie. I chug entire cans of Coke because I enjoy the tingling sensation it creates in the back of my throat. I can’t help but smile whenever I look at a clock at the exact moment when one minute ends and the next begins. Holding my baby nephew makes me nervous, but when he reaches out for me to pick him up, I’m overcome with happiness that this perfect little butterball wants me to hold him (even if it’s only so he can be close enough to my head to pull on my hair). I always laugh when my Mom and I go see a movie, and she packs all this candy into her purse, and amongst those candies are pickles in ziploc bags and her own salt grinder for the popcorn.

 

I love some strange things.

I like some weird things.

I laugh at some odd things.

I smile at most cute things.

 

When you left you slammed my car door so hard it broke part of the frame, leaving tiny plastic pieces that will be pricking at my skin for the rest of eternity. I started eating away my health while ignoring basic hygiene, instead filling my mornings with multiple energy drinks and a tin of wintergreen altoids. I sip away at my Coke through a straw, and every swallow helps wash down another pill or 2. My apartment lost power about 2 months ago, and my alarm clock is still blinking 8’s, and since we just passed the summer solstice, the clock hanging in my bathroom is now an hour to slow. My sister sent me a video of my nephew finally taking his first steps without any help, and she captioned the video saying “Now he can walk over to you and grab your hair without enlisting any aid!”. Seeing that picture and reading that caption made me cry, because I realized nobody in my family knows how short I cut my hair, and that was at the beginning of the summer, and it’s closer to Thanksgiving than the 4th of July. My Mom texted me the other day, asking when we would go see the new Marvel movie, because that’s been our thing for the past few years. Well, the past few years before these past few years. I’ve used the last few years to really hone my hermit skills, so brushing off her question is done out of reflex, before I even entertain the idea of doing something as normal as seeing a movie with my mom.

 

I’ve broken some expensive things.

I’ve ignored some important things.

I’ve cried over some tiny things.

And I’ve let down myself and everybody around me…because failure is my thing.   

Posted in My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., The Modern Classics, Uncategorized

I’m a big fan of slow Mondays. I feel like everyone is the same, just trying to get things started. It makes me think it’s not too late to start over.

I prefer sliding doors over the old fashioned 2-3 hinge models. It’s much easier to slam the latter, and while I’ve had my fair share of rage needing an outlet, it never appealed to me as a good way to vent. Why, you ask? Well, to put it simply, I hate the sound. It’s a whoosh of wind, then BAM! And it’s over. It rings for a little bit, a few milliseconds as the noise works its way into every corner and crevasse of that classic 50’s ranch style home. I hate that moment. It’s not the loudest or most annoying noise a house can produce, but it still irks me. I think it’s because the sound is trying to come off as something that demands attention, but it can’t demand a damn thing, so instead it worms its way into my ears and just sticks to whatever song or voice was already taking up my auditory receptors. See, it can’t demand shit, so it can’t drive out the sounds already in my head. No, that slamming can only latch on, like some sort of parasite. It’s a whoosh, followed by a BAM! And the moment is over. Only it’s not over. That slam is taped onto the opening guitar of Crazy Train. That whoosh is lingering in the background of the second half of Bohemian Rhapsody. That BAM is an annoying echo to every bass drum kick in Forgot About Dre. Like, I can forget Dr. Dre, but I can’t forget that goddamn annoying, dramatic, pointless, stupid, rude ass, motha fucking door slam! I don’t care if you slammed the fucking door, alright?! Slam all the fucking doors you want! Slam them, break them, who cares! You won’t ever have to see those doors again, right?! You’re slamming them and leaving, and they won’t ever have to take that abuse again! So just keep going! You want to make a scene, make me yell, make me scream bloody murder, but I won’t! I won’t even notice! Just watch, I’m going to sit here and not move a muscle, and you’ll slam those doors and leave, and I won’t ever turn around or say shit to you! I won’t say a single word! You don’t deserve my attention! You can’t demand a single fucking thing, not a God Damn THING!!! So I won’t answer that slamming door…I won’t even flinch…I’ll barely even register the noise with my headphones on and my music playing…I won’t react…Not right now…I won’t give you the satisfaction. I won’t do anything until you’re finished slamming those doors! So hurry up, get it all out! I know you’re still at it! I can still sense it, underneath my music and podcasts….in the bass lines and snare drums and lyrics…it’s there…you’re still there…you’re there…

…right?