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rainbowfic2016-05-23 12:40 am
starphotographs) wrote in rainbowfic2016-05-23 12:40 am
Meme Party 6, Rain Cloud 11
Name: starphotographs
Story: Corwin and Friends
Supplies and Styles: Glitter (https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/moon-fragment-0), Glue (May 22)
Characters: Spenser (POV), Mischa
Colors: Meme party 6 (Ridiculously Photogenic Guy), Rain Cloud 11 (Went in anyway)
Word Count: 2,768
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Choose not to warn.
Summary: Spenser is confronted with how a good friend sees him. Literally.
Note: I can't figure out if I've been writing this dude out of character lately, or am just kind of covering new ground with him.
Picture This
Hell if I know why, but sleeping sometimes just backfires on me. I lie down with a worn-out body dragging a tirelessly firing mind, and wake up feeling like I just crawled out of my own fucking grave. But, hey, at least it’s still light outside. Even if I’m not feeling it now, I have a few good hours to get my shit together before I go to work. I’ll come up swinging in no time. Just watch. Fucker won’t know what hit ‘em. They’ll wish I’d never woken up today, that’s for sure.
Whatever.
My brain was chattering on like a demented motivational speaker. (You’ll fry the nerves you’ll crack the skull you’ll shatter the spine you’ll stop the heart you’ll…) The rest of me was pumping stale coffee into a paper cup at the gas station I normally only bothered with if I needed to take a crap or a sink bath. I filled it to the top, took a few sips to make sure I was getting my money’s worth, and gave it another pump.
“...Hey, jackass! Over here!”
Faster than I could think what’s a righteous badass like you doing in a dump like this, she was next to me. I kept trying to get the lid on the fucking cup.
“Hey, Mish! The hell are you doin’ here?”
She shrugged.
“Sour worms and an air freshener... Anyway! How’s it going? You’re looking good!”
That was nice of her, but I figured she was either oblivious or lying. I’d gotten zapped in the glasses again the other day, and still had a neon robot band-aid on the bridge of my nose. One of the lenses had heated and cracked, but it was small enough that I could still see, so I hadn’t bothered with digging out my spares. I looked like the walking dead, and my face probably still had indents from my backseat coffin. Just one look at my hair revealed that I was way overdue for my sink bath.
“Yeah, you too. I dig the hair! Or, like, the non-hair situation you have goin’ on there.”
Mischa used to hack off huge sections of her hair when she was angry, but she never really got angry anymore, so now I guess she just did it when she was bored. This time, it was buzzed bristly, so I guess she hadn’t had much left and just decided to start over.
“Thanks! Also, I’m paying for that.”
She pointed at the coffee cup in my hand, now strongly-lidded and ready for travel.
“Shit, wow, that’ll be great!”
Mischa laughed.
“Dude, chill, it’s like a buck and a half. So, you wanna go shit around for a while?”
For the record, she didn’t have to ask.
*****
The great thing about Mischa is that we always get along, because, no matter what stage of life, we’re fucking ridiculous human beings. Back when we were together, we were weedy little runts who constantly got mistaken for twelve year olds. Now, we’re both big lumbering fools who act like twelve year olds. She made out better on that deal than I did, though. Mischa is broad-shouldered and sturdy and gorgeous. I ended up a stringy pile of wire hangers and rubber bands. We didn’t match the way we used to, but that’s okay. Matching is for chumps and shitty furniture people don’t want to let you sit on.
She told me about all the weird things she delivered around town on her bicycle. I told her about what I was working on, and how I’d managed to fuck up my face this time. She asked if I still had the same job. I said yes, then neither of us said anything. Aside from Hal, and Adam (and I forget if I ever told Tyler), Mischa was the only one who knew, and at least she never lectured me. Then again, she wasn’t the one who had to scrape me off the side of the road and drive me to a gross basement clinic. I remembered that I hadn’t seen her since I got stabbed, and was happy to have a good story for once. So I recounted the whole thing in painstaking detail, complete with hand gestures, embellishing the things I’d been too woozy to remember. For the grand finale, I lifted my shirt and showed her the raised, jagged scar between my ribs.
“Dude. Gross.”
She poked it once for good measure, which I didn’t mind, at least not until it made me think of Hal. If we were on speaking terms, I’d have dared him to do the exact same thing, so I could laugh at him when he cringed and started to wobble a little. I silenced those thoughts and gave Mischa my best toothy shit-eating grin.
“I know, right!?”
One of the many other great things about Mischa: she completely understands why a person would be proud of being repulsive.
“Pull up your shirt again! I gotta have a picture.”
“You got it!”
Holding my smile well past the point where it started to hurt, I did as she said. She whipped out her phone, snapped the picture, and inspected it for a bit.
“Oh man, this is great.”
She turned the screen to me. If you say so, I guess. I didn’t know anything about photography, and I saw myself every day, so I wasn’t sure what was supposed to be special.
“It is?”
Reverting to her teenage self for half a second, she socked me in the shoulder.
“Moron! It’s awesome! I always thought you took a great picture. Hold on… Go over there. Get up on that concrete tube thing.”
We’d been walking along that weird barrier zone between the wasteland and everything else, where buildings rattled loose by the shockwaves still stood, if in a few more pieces than intended. Walk long enough, and you’ll find abandoned construction sites, rusty graves of old plans. Mischa always liked them. There was never anyone (or at least anyone who cared much what you did) around, so she could always go to one when she wanted to break things. Towards the end of that era, she’d dug an old camera out of a storage unit someone forgot to lock, and would hang around taking pictures all afternoon, me following behind her. I guess she liked it so much she never stopped, even when I wasn’t around.
But, now I was here, so getting up on the tube was the least I could do. I complied with her request. She pulled out her phone again, and gave me a bunch of elaborate instructions on how to hold my head. Eventually, she must have been satisfied.
“Okay, now sit down! Put your legs over the edge!”
Again, I did as requested. I always wondered why she said I was so fucking photogenic. I couldn’t sit the heck still to save my miserable life, and that seemed like kind of a prerequisite. But, I tried my best, and I guess she got her shot.
“I want one of you, like, sitting in the tube!”
I hopped down, and sat in the fucking tube.
Without anything better to do, she took god knows how many pictures. Me reclining on the ground. Pretending to drive a rusted-out backhoe. Leaning back against a wall that was either half-finished or half destroyed. Doing nothing in particular but looking especially vacant. I saw them all, but I still didn’t get it. It was just me standing around in the dirt, with my filthy hair and the stupid band-aid I had to wear because I’d managed to burn my face with my own glasses. The only thing I felt was vaguely discouraged.
How the hell is this person going to do his shitty job and not get his ass kicked? How was anyone going to take him seriously enough to hire him? Jesus fucking Christ, a hitman sticking a headshot on his website is stupid enough in the first place, but it’s like, double-stupid for you, asshole.
Mischa was undaunted.
“Okay, one more! Take off your shirt and turn around!”
I was tired of posing, but hey, one more. I turned to face the sun, and figured that at least it wouldn’t matter that I was squinting. Then I waited.
“...You done?”
Her feet shuffled in the gravel.
“Almost… There! Done! Also, holy crap, this is great. Check yourself out.”
She shoved her phone in my face. And, this time, I actually agreed with her.
Only, this wasn’t me. Not really. It was how I imagined myself on my best days. The days when I was barely thinking clearly, but still somehow thought I had the world at my feet, and could kick it into submission if I wanted. Standing tall, lightning etched into my skin, metal glasses glowing like they’d been heated to white with a torch and were burning me all over again. This was the picture I had in my head when I’d just gotten through a messy job, or worked out an error in a circuit diagram and realized that I’d pretty much done the impossible. The image I could only hold until I saw my reflection, realized who I actually was, and remembered everything the picture didn’t show. The constant ringing in my left ear, the nerve damage, my shitty, shitty vision. Grimy hair, screaming wall-punching fits, the risks I took half-hoping I wouldn’t survive, paranoia that hijacked my rational mind and made me do shit so stupid I felt like breaking my own face.
...Okay, so it made me mad as hell when I looked at it too long. But still, it was nice to know that, when I saw that guy in my head, I wasn’t just fooling myself. Depending on the day, I might also be fooling everyone else, and I guess that’s what counts in the end.
If both of us can see me, I might really be there after all.
“Yeah, I admit that’s pretty fuckin’ boss.”
Mischa smiled. I smiled back, hoping I still looked the way I did in the picture.
“Like I said, you take good pictures. It’s built-in or something. Anyway, I’m starving. Want to go to my apartment and get a pizza or something?”
That idea actually sounded so amazing that I got worried and had to check with myself. When did you last, like, eat actual food? Well, crap. You’re a moron.
“...Hey, sounds like a plan!”
“Great! You’re so showering before you sit on my fucking couch, though.”
Food, a couch, and a shower. I couldn’t complain.
*****
Mischa stuck my filthy clothes in her tabletop washing machine, and set me up with a pair of old black sweats and a threadbare t-shirt. My borrowed clothes were clean. I was clean. I was given a new band-aid and told it glowed in the dark, I had finally eaten, and now I was slumped on the couch and channel surfing, commenting on every vaguely noteworthy thing I saw while Mischa told more work stories. Both conversations were incredibly stimulating. Soon, I’d probably feel energized enough to go out on ten hits. I’d rest, recharge, excuse myself, and go. To get ready, I stared at that last picture again.
That’s you. You can do this. You can take anything. You can take it right to the head. You will take everything.
Somehow, it wasn’t working. The longer I stared at myself, the less stable I looked. I was standing tall, but I didn’t look like I was standing firmly. I looked like something that got knocked down over and over again, but kept getting up because it didn’t know any better. That was the real me. I couldn’t escape it, not even by seeing myself at my best.
“...Jesus, Spense, pick something and stay with it!”
I flipped the channel one last time. An infomercial for some kind of hot plate. In Spanish. Whatever.
“...Alright.”
Another punch in the shoulder.
“You fuckin’ douchebag!”
Still, she sat watching it with me, and it was actually pretty funny. Sometimes, you only realize how fucking crazy things are when you can’t understand what anyone’s saying.
“Sir Douchebag the First to you, lady.”
Mischa laughed, at either me or the guy shouting about hot plates.
“...Fine. Sir Douchebag the First, it’s getting late. You can crash here if you want.”
No, I have work tonight, I have to…
“Sure. I mean, if that’s, like, okay. I’ll make breakfast and shit, so…”
She smiled.
“...As long as you speak English and don’t do it on a hot plate.”
I laughed.
“That can be arranged.”
We watched the man scream some more. I tried to figure out why I’d thought one thing but answered with another.
*****
Mischa went to bed before me, mostly because we both knew I wasn’t really going to bed at all. I lied on her couch, which still smelled like deodorizers and thrift store. It was nice. But, despite the weirdly awesome smell, I still wondered what was going to happen to me. I’d never just flaked on a job before. And, even though I knew I was going to do it tomorrow, I didn’t know how the client would react to me being late. I’d probably just tell them I hurt myself, had to put it off, and would give them a discount. They’d believe me. I’d show them how I’d fucked up my face. And my wrist still hurt from way back when, so it would probably be easy to fake an injury. All I’d have to do is let myself act like I’m in pain.
Even that sounded like a pretty good deal. I could be tender and flinchy for once. I wouldn’t have to fool anyone. Not even myself. I’d milk that pain for all it’s worth, and then shut it back off again, letting all the other noise in my brain take over, like it always did.
And, as for tonight, I’d drag out the feeling of being a regular person for as long as possible.
...God only knows why. I hatedthe regular-person part of me. He was a whiny asshole, and a gigantic doofus, and didn’t know what the fuck he was doing anymore. I liked the part of me that was more like a machine, or a force of nature. Back to the wind, staring tirelessly to the sun, convinced of his power to build or break anything. But, regular-person-me thought being him was tiring. He couldn’t take it anymore. For that, I also hated him. And I couldn’t be talked out of it, even though there were some pretty good arguments.
Between nights, between jobs, when I wasn’t working for days on end, I had this whole other life. I found five dollar bills and perfectly good pairs of jeans in gutters. I told people why their cars were making noises and sometimes crawled under the hood myself, for lack of anything better to do. I gave half my sandwich to a family of stray cats in a parking lot. I let my favorite ex take stupid artsy pictures of me at an old construction site. But, you can’t make a life out of feckless shitting around. At least, contrary to popular belief, I couldn’t. I needed to be pushing ahead. Burning to down to the core with something. Or else it wasn’t a life. It was just a series of anecdotes nobody cares about. Not even me.
I mean, that’s what I like to think.
But I know that, when I hit a lull, between all-night drafting and carrying out yet another job, I’ll be ,itting in my car, slumped over the wheel, daydreaming about tomorrow, which, by then would be a few days ago. When I was/will be cooking shirtless in my old friend’s kitchen.
Stupid depressing needy fuck.
I hope the next guy gets the upper hand.
I hope someone knocks out all your teeth and smashes your cranium.
...Okay, I guess I’m feeling like my old self again.
Tomorrow night is going to go just fine.
I can take anything.
In either sense of the word.
Story: Corwin and Friends
Supplies and Styles: Glitter (https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/moon-fragment-0), Glue (May 22)
Characters: Spenser (POV), Mischa
Colors: Meme party 6 (Ridiculously Photogenic Guy), Rain Cloud 11 (Went in anyway)
Word Count: 2,768
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Choose not to warn.
Summary: Spenser is confronted with how a good friend sees him. Literally.
Note: I can't figure out if I've been writing this dude out of character lately, or am just kind of covering new ground with him.
Hell if I know why, but sleeping sometimes just backfires on me. I lie down with a worn-out body dragging a tirelessly firing mind, and wake up feeling like I just crawled out of my own fucking grave. But, hey, at least it’s still light outside. Even if I’m not feeling it now, I have a few good hours to get my shit together before I go to work. I’ll come up swinging in no time. Just watch. Fucker won’t know what hit ‘em. They’ll wish I’d never woken up today, that’s for sure.
Whatever.
My brain was chattering on like a demented motivational speaker. (You’ll fry the nerves you’ll crack the skull you’ll shatter the spine you’ll stop the heart you’ll…) The rest of me was pumping stale coffee into a paper cup at the gas station I normally only bothered with if I needed to take a crap or a sink bath. I filled it to the top, took a few sips to make sure I was getting my money’s worth, and gave it another pump.
“...Hey, jackass! Over here!”
Faster than I could think what’s a righteous badass like you doing in a dump like this, she was next to me. I kept trying to get the lid on the fucking cup.
“Hey, Mish! The hell are you doin’ here?”
She shrugged.
“Sour worms and an air freshener... Anyway! How’s it going? You’re looking good!”
That was nice of her, but I figured she was either oblivious or lying. I’d gotten zapped in the glasses again the other day, and still had a neon robot band-aid on the bridge of my nose. One of the lenses had heated and cracked, but it was small enough that I could still see, so I hadn’t bothered with digging out my spares. I looked like the walking dead, and my face probably still had indents from my backseat coffin. Just one look at my hair revealed that I was way overdue for my sink bath.
“Yeah, you too. I dig the hair! Or, like, the non-hair situation you have goin’ on there.”
Mischa used to hack off huge sections of her hair when she was angry, but she never really got angry anymore, so now I guess she just did it when she was bored. This time, it was buzzed bristly, so I guess she hadn’t had much left and just decided to start over.
“Thanks! Also, I’m paying for that.”
She pointed at the coffee cup in my hand, now strongly-lidded and ready for travel.
“Shit, wow, that’ll be great!”
Mischa laughed.
“Dude, chill, it’s like a buck and a half. So, you wanna go shit around for a while?”
For the record, she didn’t have to ask.
The great thing about Mischa is that we always get along, because, no matter what stage of life, we’re fucking ridiculous human beings. Back when we were together, we were weedy little runts who constantly got mistaken for twelve year olds. Now, we’re both big lumbering fools who act like twelve year olds. She made out better on that deal than I did, though. Mischa is broad-shouldered and sturdy and gorgeous. I ended up a stringy pile of wire hangers and rubber bands. We didn’t match the way we used to, but that’s okay. Matching is for chumps and shitty furniture people don’t want to let you sit on.
She told me about all the weird things she delivered around town on her bicycle. I told her about what I was working on, and how I’d managed to fuck up my face this time. She asked if I still had the same job. I said yes, then neither of us said anything. Aside from Hal, and Adam (and I forget if I ever told Tyler), Mischa was the only one who knew, and at least she never lectured me. Then again, she wasn’t the one who had to scrape me off the side of the road and drive me to a gross basement clinic. I remembered that I hadn’t seen her since I got stabbed, and was happy to have a good story for once. So I recounted the whole thing in painstaking detail, complete with hand gestures, embellishing the things I’d been too woozy to remember. For the grand finale, I lifted my shirt and showed her the raised, jagged scar between my ribs.
“Dude. Gross.”
She poked it once for good measure, which I didn’t mind, at least not until it made me think of Hal. If we were on speaking terms, I’d have dared him to do the exact same thing, so I could laugh at him when he cringed and started to wobble a little. I silenced those thoughts and gave Mischa my best toothy shit-eating grin.
“I know, right!?”
One of the many other great things about Mischa: she completely understands why a person would be proud of being repulsive.
“Pull up your shirt again! I gotta have a picture.”
“You got it!”
Holding my smile well past the point where it started to hurt, I did as she said. She whipped out her phone, snapped the picture, and inspected it for a bit.
“Oh man, this is great.”
She turned the screen to me. If you say so, I guess. I didn’t know anything about photography, and I saw myself every day, so I wasn’t sure what was supposed to be special.
“It is?”
Reverting to her teenage self for half a second, she socked me in the shoulder.
“Moron! It’s awesome! I always thought you took a great picture. Hold on… Go over there. Get up on that concrete tube thing.”
We’d been walking along that weird barrier zone between the wasteland and everything else, where buildings rattled loose by the shockwaves still stood, if in a few more pieces than intended. Walk long enough, and you’ll find abandoned construction sites, rusty graves of old plans. Mischa always liked them. There was never anyone (or at least anyone who cared much what you did) around, so she could always go to one when she wanted to break things. Towards the end of that era, she’d dug an old camera out of a storage unit someone forgot to lock, and would hang around taking pictures all afternoon, me following behind her. I guess she liked it so much she never stopped, even when I wasn’t around.
But, now I was here, so getting up on the tube was the least I could do. I complied with her request. She pulled out her phone again, and gave me a bunch of elaborate instructions on how to hold my head. Eventually, she must have been satisfied.
“Okay, now sit down! Put your legs over the edge!”
Again, I did as requested. I always wondered why she said I was so fucking photogenic. I couldn’t sit the heck still to save my miserable life, and that seemed like kind of a prerequisite. But, I tried my best, and I guess she got her shot.
“I want one of you, like, sitting in the tube!”
I hopped down, and sat in the fucking tube.
Without anything better to do, she took god knows how many pictures. Me reclining on the ground. Pretending to drive a rusted-out backhoe. Leaning back against a wall that was either half-finished or half destroyed. Doing nothing in particular but looking especially vacant. I saw them all, but I still didn’t get it. It was just me standing around in the dirt, with my filthy hair and the stupid band-aid I had to wear because I’d managed to burn my face with my own glasses. The only thing I felt was vaguely discouraged.
How the hell is this person going to do his shitty job and not get his ass kicked? How was anyone going to take him seriously enough to hire him? Jesus fucking Christ, a hitman sticking a headshot on his website is stupid enough in the first place, but it’s like, double-stupid for you, asshole.
Mischa was undaunted.
“Okay, one more! Take off your shirt and turn around!”
I was tired of posing, but hey, one more. I turned to face the sun, and figured that at least it wouldn’t matter that I was squinting. Then I waited.
“...You done?”
Her feet shuffled in the gravel.
“Almost… There! Done! Also, holy crap, this is great. Check yourself out.”
She shoved her phone in my face. And, this time, I actually agreed with her.
Only, this wasn’t me. Not really. It was how I imagined myself on my best days. The days when I was barely thinking clearly, but still somehow thought I had the world at my feet, and could kick it into submission if I wanted. Standing tall, lightning etched into my skin, metal glasses glowing like they’d been heated to white with a torch and were burning me all over again. This was the picture I had in my head when I’d just gotten through a messy job, or worked out an error in a circuit diagram and realized that I’d pretty much done the impossible. The image I could only hold until I saw my reflection, realized who I actually was, and remembered everything the picture didn’t show. The constant ringing in my left ear, the nerve damage, my shitty, shitty vision. Grimy hair, screaming wall-punching fits, the risks I took half-hoping I wouldn’t survive, paranoia that hijacked my rational mind and made me do shit so stupid I felt like breaking my own face.
...Okay, so it made me mad as hell when I looked at it too long. But still, it was nice to know that, when I saw that guy in my head, I wasn’t just fooling myself. Depending on the day, I might also be fooling everyone else, and I guess that’s what counts in the end.
If both of us can see me, I might really be there after all.
“Yeah, I admit that’s pretty fuckin’ boss.”
Mischa smiled. I smiled back, hoping I still looked the way I did in the picture.
“Like I said, you take good pictures. It’s built-in or something. Anyway, I’m starving. Want to go to my apartment and get a pizza or something?”
That idea actually sounded so amazing that I got worried and had to check with myself. When did you last, like, eat actual food? Well, crap. You’re a moron.
“...Hey, sounds like a plan!”
“Great! You’re so showering before you sit on my fucking couch, though.”
Food, a couch, and a shower. I couldn’t complain.
Mischa stuck my filthy clothes in her tabletop washing machine, and set me up with a pair of old black sweats and a threadbare t-shirt. My borrowed clothes were clean. I was clean. I was given a new band-aid and told it glowed in the dark, I had finally eaten, and now I was slumped on the couch and channel surfing, commenting on every vaguely noteworthy thing I saw while Mischa told more work stories. Both conversations were incredibly stimulating. Soon, I’d probably feel energized enough to go out on ten hits. I’d rest, recharge, excuse myself, and go. To get ready, I stared at that last picture again.
That’s you. You can do this. You can take anything. You can take it right to the head. You will take everything.
Somehow, it wasn’t working. The longer I stared at myself, the less stable I looked. I was standing tall, but I didn’t look like I was standing firmly. I looked like something that got knocked down over and over again, but kept getting up because it didn’t know any better. That was the real me. I couldn’t escape it, not even by seeing myself at my best.
“...Jesus, Spense, pick something and stay with it!”
I flipped the channel one last time. An infomercial for some kind of hot plate. In Spanish. Whatever.
“...Alright.”
Another punch in the shoulder.
“You fuckin’ douchebag!”
Still, she sat watching it with me, and it was actually pretty funny. Sometimes, you only realize how fucking crazy things are when you can’t understand what anyone’s saying.
“Sir Douchebag the First to you, lady.”
Mischa laughed, at either me or the guy shouting about hot plates.
“...Fine. Sir Douchebag the First, it’s getting late. You can crash here if you want.”
No, I have work tonight, I have to…
“Sure. I mean, if that’s, like, okay. I’ll make breakfast and shit, so…”
She smiled.
“...As long as you speak English and don’t do it on a hot plate.”
I laughed.
“That can be arranged.”
We watched the man scream some more. I tried to figure out why I’d thought one thing but answered with another.
Mischa went to bed before me, mostly because we both knew I wasn’t really going to bed at all. I lied on her couch, which still smelled like deodorizers and thrift store. It was nice. But, despite the weirdly awesome smell, I still wondered what was going to happen to me. I’d never just flaked on a job before. And, even though I knew I was going to do it tomorrow, I didn’t know how the client would react to me being late. I’d probably just tell them I hurt myself, had to put it off, and would give them a discount. They’d believe me. I’d show them how I’d fucked up my face. And my wrist still hurt from way back when, so it would probably be easy to fake an injury. All I’d have to do is let myself act like I’m in pain.
Even that sounded like a pretty good deal. I could be tender and flinchy for once. I wouldn’t have to fool anyone. Not even myself. I’d milk that pain for all it’s worth, and then shut it back off again, letting all the other noise in my brain take over, like it always did.
And, as for tonight, I’d drag out the feeling of being a regular person for as long as possible.
...God only knows why. I hatedthe regular-person part of me. He was a whiny asshole, and a gigantic doofus, and didn’t know what the fuck he was doing anymore. I liked the part of me that was more like a machine, or a force of nature. Back to the wind, staring tirelessly to the sun, convinced of his power to build or break anything. But, regular-person-me thought being him was tiring. He couldn’t take it anymore. For that, I also hated him. And I couldn’t be talked out of it, even though there were some pretty good arguments.
Between nights, between jobs, when I wasn’t working for days on end, I had this whole other life. I found five dollar bills and perfectly good pairs of jeans in gutters. I told people why their cars were making noises and sometimes crawled under the hood myself, for lack of anything better to do. I gave half my sandwich to a family of stray cats in a parking lot. I let my favorite ex take stupid artsy pictures of me at an old construction site. But, you can’t make a life out of feckless shitting around. At least, contrary to popular belief, I couldn’t. I needed to be pushing ahead. Burning to down to the core with something. Or else it wasn’t a life. It was just a series of anecdotes nobody cares about. Not even me.
I mean, that’s what I like to think.
But I know that, when I hit a lull, between all-night drafting and carrying out yet another job, I’ll be ,itting in my car, slumped over the wheel, daydreaming about tomorrow, which, by then would be a few days ago. When I was/will be cooking shirtless in my old friend’s kitchen.
Stupid depressing needy fuck.
I hope the next guy gets the upper hand.
I hope someone knocks out all your teeth and smashes your cranium.
...Okay, I guess I’m feeling like my old self again.
Tomorrow night is going to go just fine.
I can take anything.
In either sense of the word.
no subject
Is it weird that I want to wrap this fucked-up hot mess in a blanket, sit a kitty on his lap, feed him some pizza, and then forcibly make him attend therapy? I'm so attached to him. *pets*