Kelly, I Was Drunk

They were going in the opposite directions. It wasn't just a metaphor. As She left the terminal, He skipped in. His head was down, looking at a stain on his lapel. He began to blush, immediately embarrassed at the prospect that he had been wearing the blotch for the whole day without noticing. He racked his brain matching the color of his beverages to that of the stain. She never saw him, and they never met.
The pilot and the stewardess just didn't know they were a love story. Truly, they were star-crossed lovers. If he hadn't managed to smear his lapel (it was lasagna, but he was satisfied to believe it wine) and she hadn't been so concerned with finding her hotel, it might have been different, but likely wouldn't have.
The pilot was happy. The stewardess was not. It wouldn't be long before they both went south. One to Atlanta, the other to Houston. It was hardly worth mention, were it not for the misnomer. In fact, her life was very near a remarkable breakthrough. She was a commodity at the time. A beautiful, cheery, personable young stewardess in a world with an increasing obsession with customer service. He was a drunk, and the airline knew it. She stayed humble by remembering the two things her father had told her before she moved out of her parents' home: Stewardesses amount to nothing, and you are going to die. She believed both of these things without question, and also believed that her father was something of an insufferable prick. In neither of these beliefs was she explicitly mistaken.
He stayed humble by waking up every morning. He was a sad shell of a man, the type that you would expect Kevin Spacey to play in a movie. Missing from his bio, however, were the basic intelligence and general depth that seemed prerequisites for a movie character. He had never considered any of this, and was not explicitly mistaken to ignore the rare possibility that Kevin Spacey play his role in a movie.
None of it mattered. They had a love story the universe didn't want to tell (as you know, the universe is very much ambivalent to love stories of all kinds and only tells the ones it does begrudgingly). They had a love story they weren't ready to tell themselves, for love stories never actually begin in passing, on the street, or in airport terminals. But they had a love story.
They didn't miss much.
If that you could be so lucky.

Reaction

My mother is sweeping the floors
It is  4:10 AM
From the glances I have snuck, she is not crying, not distraught, but in no way normal
It is as if some computer has poorly recreated her from a collection of photographs of her
My mother is handling this whole situation well and I suspect foul play
I am safe now
I am in my home
After standing in a ditch for an hour, my situation has resolved itself incredibly quickly
I take his cue and drive cautiously
My father says "see you at home"
I worry that I will back into the truck and apply the brakes liberally
Will my parents go on their trip to Montreal?
The chain snags and I feel the car being lifted out of the ditch, but I don't know how much gas to give the car
How hard did I hit it
The broken plastic is from the console under the steering wheel
Suddenly the car and the truck are tied together
He says nothing
My father is here now
Lights finally arrive
I can't take credit
The boot is off center, I can't find my balance now
That ruins a long run
I notice my foot has moved
How long have I been here
I have been standing in the same exact spot for half an hour
My brain churns
What now
There is no lying to do
My father knows
I put down the phone, slowly
The words barely make it out of my mouth
I accept fault and give a phony excuse
He is worried
I pick up
Now, my father calls me
He must know
The texts asks where the car is
I look at the bent front end of the civic
My phone buzzes
There is no way I can fix this. I do not want to get back in
My dad is awake
My phone buzzes
There is plastic littered across the two front seats
I hope this is rock bottom
I am in a ditch
The car won't stop, but it screeches

An Admittance Of Fault

Make sure you know who the main character in your story is
Greater people, better protagonists, have failed at the same task
No doubt, I have as well

The Mortality Of Sensuality (Pronouns Wanted)

She had such full thighs. Yossarian had heard it time and time again from half of the squadron, and it was always in a flattering tone, without question. When he was inside them, though, he hadn't a clue where to start. They were too full, even. He guessed to run his hand from her knee up to the back of her thigh, right up to the point where her buttock sprung from the leg into a quivering arch. He guessed right. A moan escaped her lips and she pulled him harder into waist by his hips. It was the first that he had noticed she was touching him. He obliged her gravity, but turned his head to the side as he sunk into her shoulder. She was surprisingly alert to his despondence and, with her finger under his chin, spun his head to face her. Meeting her hurt eyes, he quickly became aware of his mistake and offered a sadistic smile before sliding down her body, splitting her legs first with a subtle dip of his chin, and then further with the backside of his hands. As he looked at her now, she didn't look hurt. Her cheeks had a blush that gave away her embarrassed excitement, and he did his best not to roll his eyes as he dutifully buried himself. He thought of Nurse Duckett as he worked. Lieutenant Scheisskopf's wife wasn't altogether unlike her, but could never keep his attention, even when she had his member at attention. It was when he was with Lieutenant Scheisskopf's wife that he managed to convince himself that he loved Nurse Duckett, and at no other point. With a clear head, he wouldn't hesitate to reject such a notion, even when he was with her. Something about the way Lieutenant Scheisskopf's wife was so easily regaled by his dark musings and satisfied with the same routine, generic sex made Yossarian desperate to feel something more. Yossarian allowed himself a smile as Lieutenant Scheisskopf's wife's shaking hand grasped his hair, confirming that he had unconsciously finished her. As he entered her, he lamented internally. He knew he was going to have to fuck Nurse Duckett again in order to regain interest in Lieutenant Schiesskopf's wife, as had become his system. Catching himself, he indulged himself in an ephemeral moment of lust. Luciana, if she was even out there, was going to have to wait.

Let Me Make It Up To My Conscience

I think this is a good time to write something happy

I love space

I think of it like a national park

Because it's a lot bigger than where you live

And you think: how cool would it be if I explored all of this

But you just can't - and that's not a bad thing - you just can't

So you have a new place to have an adventure every time

It's like a book that you know you like, but never ends

You don't even have to pay attention to the plot it's like the fucking Giving Tree of books

Just let it make you happy and love it

I think probably the same people that go to national parks like space

Maybe not

I do like space though

Space is rad

Brookings, Oregon

She said yes
She said yes, she resented me, yes
And what was I supposed to do, let it go?

We were together for a year and a half
Well, not together, but you know
And I know a year and a half isn't a lot, but it was different
We knew each other
And then just out of left field, she says yes
Yes, I do resent you, she says
And then just stares at me

Why the hell would she say that?
I only asked in the first place to be flattered
So she gives me this stare, like, what are you gonna do you boring self obsessed fucking fuck
I told her exactly what I was gonna do

I said to her
I said to her I'm gonna walk outside and head to that ice cream stand on the corner
Buy some chocolately flavor, they don't have just plain simple chocolate
I tell her, I'm gonna walk back, probably pick up that book that I was in the middle of
I'll start the chapter over since I sorta lost interest and wasn't paying attention
I'm gonna remember that I usually like to drink tea while I'm reading, start a pot of earl grey and get comfortable on the hammock on the porch

And that's when I stabbed her
It was with a pen - no, it mighta been one of those calligraphy markers
I saw it on the counter and she was rolling her eyes and I grabbed it and

Where am I gonna go
I lived in that house
I can't go back
She's under the porch, I didn't know what else to do with her
The first thing I did was cover her head, she wasn't even dead yet
And I thought to myself, what would gacy do
I fucking laughed
I fucking laughed, I still wasn't technically a killer yet

She had those short shallow breaths you get when you think too much about breathing
Like when you can't remember where you put your tongue
Every now and then, a croak
I could tell, it wasn't gonna be much longer
So I put her under the stairs, out back

Go inside to grab something to eat, take a piss
I have no idea
You'd think you forget about all that stuff

I couldn't remember where I stabbed her

So I walk out back and drag her out from under the stairs
I had her rolled up in an old carpet we just had taken out

She's all red
There's a mark or two on her thigh
I take the bag off her head
I see I stabbed her a dozen times in the face
what the fuck
Her eyes are cold but she's looking right at me

Of course she fucking is
I grab the shovel

I can't bring myself to rip into the dirt yet
What the fuck was she looking at
She's dead and still giving me that fucking attitude
I look at the shovel and I just go berserk

I hit her four, five, six times
Different spots, just not the head
I'm scared of the noise that's gonna make it'll make me puke
Finally I stick the shovel in the ground and go at it
I get about 3 feet deep when I hit the foundation

She's not gonna fit
I think of cutting her in hal- I WAS GONNA SLICE HER UP
I loved this chick

It's fine, I fold her over and put her in
Pack in the hole with dirt but there's still a bump where her feet are
I don't even care
I can't stay here
I can't ever go back
I guess I know why she resents me

Loathve

I hate the way I write hate the way I look I hate the things I say I hate the way I am

But I adore what all of it has earned me

Flyer (Rough Draft) (2)

Do you know of the society we've been creating underground?
We don't allow colour
We don't allow sounds in a major key
We are scared of the things you brush aside so easily

We know we are going to die
and
We plan on appealing

We are held together by the strongest and the weakest of bonds
We are all very weak people, you know, and this contributes greatly to our unity
Otherwise, we are very different from one another

Strangely enough, we are being watched
It is not fiction, I assure that I have this information on a good source
It is part of the reason I even broach the subject with you

Mostly, they are women
They wear pantsuits, and look perfectly terrible
This is all I know
I fear that we have caught the attention of the wrong people
But I do not know what they could want from us

When we meet, we rarely speak
Most of us pace and look worried
We all bear watches and glance at the, calculating what time we have left
In retrospect, it seems to take away from the experience
I've been meaning to bring it up
It is difficult without speaking

Can I trust you to keep our secret?
Obviously, now that you've learned all about us, you can't possibly join
But I hope we may keep you as an ally
And please, please, stay away from the women in pantsuits

An Excerpt From An Origin Story

You can't keep telling me that it hurts
Can't you see there's nothing I can do to help
There's so much I would give you if you ma-
STOP SHAKING GODDAMNIT
I can't support you
I can't make it better and
god
We're both going to die like this

You would think it would feel more poetic than this
But you're so, so pale
and I
I'm so empty

Gallery

Things are getting more bizarre
I never imagined artistry to be such a rabbit hole
But I've ripped it open myself
And now there's no choice but for me to dive further

I am not looking out of the same eyes that I used to
The world is not scary
I do not hear with the same ears that I once did
The world is far away

You should see what the air looks like here
It is like a fine mist that glosses over everything I touch
It is a fog you cannot outrun

I make my home in a photograph
The further I pull myself in, the more secure I feel
By the foreground, I drag my body into frame
The trick is thinking hard and squeezing into a ball
(the gravity is different here, and if you are not careful, you will tear apart and splatter across the world like ink across a poorly developed photo)
I reach further, helping myself towards the next level
I enjoy being out of sight, but sometimes, it is scary
The deeper I go, the fainter the colours
Eventually, I always find gray
It is in the corners, behind the reaches of the eye
This is where I hide
Behind every wall, through every door, I find rotting beams and old scaffolding
The infrastructure never creaks or moans but I fear it may collapse any day
After all, this is a ghost town
It may soon cease to exist altogether

I live in a memory that will never be fully revisited
I live in an emotion that has already been felt
It is passed over
It is past

Am I stuck here?
When I press myself up to the foreground, I see other worlds, and sometimes feel alone
There is so much more out there, but much of it seems the same as what I have here
Each photograph is different, but has the same sad shape
And I've at least made peace with the demons here
I will die here, or, at the very least, there is little reason to suspect otherwise
And if I were to migrate into another world, it would accomplish little

I have known for far too long
That to die alone is simply to die

I used to practice
I thought it noble to leave on my own terms
These days, I am too tired for it to matter
No one else seems to object

I live alone in my photograph, but there are others here
Naturally, they never move
Sometimes, when I am weary, it looks like they come to life
The expressions on their faces never change, but they murmur to each other about the strange being sulking around among them
Sometimes, when I am downright exhausted, they speak to me
They don't always realize I am an outsider, but this only makes me feel more foreign
They are both figuratively and literally transparent
It does not go over well whenever I observe this aloud
They ignore me again when I awake

One girl is less (figuratively) transparent than the rest
She is more (literally) transparent than the rest
I often fancy a love story with this one
She doesn't ignore me when I am awake

I am scared of so much
I fear to the point where being afraid simply describes me

Every night as I close my eyes, I imagine never awaking
It is (frighteningly) simple to do
Maybe the picture people would hold a service
Quite positively, they would be unaffected

It sometimes upsets me that there is nothing I can do to leave a lasting impact on these people
It often upsets me that, were I to leave an impact, it would be meaningless to the world
It constantly upsets me that the world is meaningless itself

There are simply too many other photographs

Wherein I Test Myself

This is a dead man

He did great things

You have not

You will die

Create with your entirety

Kafka is dead

Create with your entirety 

You are not yet dead

There is a world in your head that no one else will ever see

That should make you sad

It does not make me sad

My world is better

This has been perfectly bizarre

For Yeats, With Disdain

You are the sun on my back that I so fear to turn around to face
For history shows that if I try
I will not be able to see you, and you will not be on my back any longer
And my back is, without question, my favorite spot for the sun

I don't know what that means
That the place I most crave the light is the place I can't see it
Honestly, I can only imagine it means my back gets cold sometimes

I am sick and tired of everything meaning something
Especially over the course of a meaningless existence
I wonder if I assign meaning more to distract myself or to distract girls
In the end, it doesn't matter
That's all.

A Deposition Of The Life In Question, Insofar As I Am Introspective, And You Are Listening (You Being Me, And Subsequently, Both The Audience And Subject)

I am something of a killer
I have killed
I will kill again
Thus, my initial remark

There may have been a time when I was not a killer, but certainly, it was not an era of any duration
Likely, I was born fated to bring death to some number of things
I can't, with any conviction, even estimate the number
It is arbitrary anyway

From everything I know, you are something of a killer
You have killed
You will kill again
And it would be quite the double standard to ignore the implications these facts have

Of the things I am not sure of, I am the most sure of death
It is, at the very least, a word I have used thousands of times
It is, at the most, the very purpose of my life
You can forgive me for not elaborating, surely

You have forgiven me before
Once for a very figurative instance of my killing
Often (unconsciously) for literal instances of killing
You are not in a position to grant judicial decisions, and I do not take your pardons as such
However, I do not fear that the courts will feel differently

As overwhelming as the forgiveness for my actions has been, it has not been so overwhelming that it could be described as "unanimous"
Should it be described as such, I would feel accordingly fortunate (and innocent)
I do not expect it to be described as unanimous

There is one girl that I know of that has not forgiven me
I would be beyond remiss to allow myself the belief that she is the only one
Furthermore, she is not without evidence, nor empathy from myself
It could be said that I understand her grudge
It could also be said that I do not mimic it

My willingness to say these things (and many more similar things) is not without effect
It is a trait that served me well, even with this aforementioned girl
It was my willingness to abstain from saying a single phrase that has put me in this situation
Or so I believe

I speak for another, for forgiveness, and for death
I admit, this is bad form
I admit, I will likely continue
Surely, There Are Worse Things To Perpetuate

Run

I used to be in love with the sky
So much so that it didn't matter that I couldn't reach it
And when I did, I felt joy

I used to be in love with the ground
So much so that I never left its side
And when I did, I felt fear

I used to be in love with the wind
So much so that I stayed up until morning listening to its song
And when it didn't sing, I felt anger

I used to be in love with the air
So much so that I gobbled it up
I made it into something different
Something that could kill me
Something that suffocated me
So I ran

But I couldn't stop loving the air
So I continued to breathe
And I continued to run
From the poison I made from it

If it ever catches up to me
I fear it will smother me

I used to love you
So much so that I loved you like the sky, ground, air, and wind before you
I made you into something different
And now I run

For I will never be able to stop