Random Scribbles

When America’s most trusted news source, TMZ, confirmed rumors of the impending divorce between Katy Perry and Russell Brand something hellacious happened: People gave a shit. Many considered the split of the loose party animal and the sober homebody bad news. I, for one, am disgusted it was news at all.

The significance society places on celebrity love birds is growing at a pace as staggering as our nation’s divorce rate. I can’t help but wonder if the two are inversely related. Are we focusing more attention on the Bennifers and Brangelinas of Hollywood than our own personal relationships? (By the way, objectifying these couples by branding them with awkward syllable-shaving monikers is annoying and serves only to accurse them. That means you, TomKat.)

Perhaps the Mayan calendar is accurate. If enough people in America are dense enough to be not only upset but surprised by the end of the time bomb relationship between Ashton Kutcher and Demi Moore we’ll be lucky to see another September. You can’t tell me you thought the only thing to come between those two would be a 15 plus year age gap. Seriously, girls, want your men to stop hot-beef injecting your gal pals? Cancel your In Touch subscription. And guys, if you have a subscription to In Touch, cancel everything. True story: I once knew a couple that broke up solely due to a celebrity love affair infatuation. Okay… not a true story, but only because I choose not to associate with complete nimrods. But I guarantee it has happened.

Of course, I understand the allure of the glamorous lives led by celebs. Or even the desire to live vicariously through the young, care-free, hopelessly rich and famous. But keep in mind: Ashton Kutcher isn’t the multi-millionaire replacement for both Charlie Sheen and Bruce Willis because he stayed up all night following your Tweets. Katy Perry isn’t bouncing her immaculate, probably insured funbags around the globe thanks to the hours she spent gossiping about your last break-up. The point is that some people are leaders (albeit laughable) and others are followers. And even shitty leaders are more authentic than weak followers. So consider the time you waste studying the love lives of others against the energy you put into your own, and see if you can’t make it just a little less pathetic.

Billy and Amy v.2

Anticipation paired with anxiety arrested any threats of sleep. She hadn’t slept yet; hadn’t planned on it. Eagerness alone would not have allowed it. Her mind was preoccupied with planning, preparing. She’d visualized all conceivable outcomes, good and bad, and forced herself to dismiss the latter. She had to in order to make it work.

Considering the positive effects kept Amy’s will strong. While doing so in the dark, somber bedroom, a slender smile crept its way onto her face. But that brief smile was leveled by the abrupt return of her game face. Her brow re-flexed. Careful, can’t get ahead of myself. She knew that if her grip slackened even a little the reins could be jerked from her control. And that would not be tolerated. Not tonight. Amy had many things to do that night, sleep not being one of them. No, it was not rest that compelled her to lie down on that tired mattress next to her husband.

She was saying goodbye.

#

Her eyes adjusted to the dark. Each heartbeat came closer to catching up to the previous. It seemed they would soon overlap and pump a solid bass line from her chest. Amy inhaled a quiet, deep breath. Stress induced nausea churned in her belly, anxious to be freed. Her bladder throbbed; an issue of inferior priority for which time did not allow.

Closing her eyes, she conjured what had to be enough strength to ignore her discomforts. Amy exhaled. Her index traced the length of a scar that rested on her temple, the mark left by an authoritative back-hand, laced with a wedding band. A reminder. Tonight, a motivator.

Innumerable nights had been wasted next to Daryl in that same fashion; him passed out, her the opposite. Awake was the state in which she truly dreamed. About William. Billy, she called him. About being with only Billy. This night could have developed the same empty structure as every other, but it wouldn’t. It was to be the last. Amy would rebel against the oppressive routine and spend her days with the one she adored. To this thought she surrendered a second smile, but with her gaze trained on Daryl’s face it was immediately stifled. She decided to issue her inarticulate farewell.

#

Amy scanned her husband’s features. Wrinkled, slack eyelids veiled what she used to regard as ‘penetrating’ blue eyes. She struggled to recall the last endearing glance received from them, fruitlessly. In recent years, Daryl viewed Amy with looks more often reserved for barren wells. She could remember the powerful jaw line that was now blanketed by a weathered hide. The last time it rose and fell to the phrase ‘I love you,’ she could not. Thoughts of his emphatic voice summoned colloquialisms more similar to ‘shut up, bitch,’ in Amy’s head. ‘Get up, you slut’ was probably still echoing its way through the back of the house. ‘Stop crying!’

Daryl’s meaty lips were parenthesized by smile lines boasting rumors of a happily married man. Marionette lines suggested an age well beyond his actual. Deep crow’s feet did the same. Daryl was a handsome, sturdy man when Amy fell for him years ago, but alcoholism and vacant choices had long since undermined these attributes, rendering the man an overweight, hopeless cliché. If I can pull this off, Amy mused, this’ll be the last time I ever have to look at this ugly mug.

Amy closed her eyes and saw the much more appealing face of Billy. She ached for it, so youthful, untainted by wrinkles and lines. As smooth and comforting as fresh linens. She envisioned his smile, heard his laugh. Desired his touch, a touch gentle enough to make sifted flour seem rigid. Mere hours ago she’d felt this, but yearned for it still. Lying next to Daryl cultivated an even deeper love for Billy. It was there that she realized she’d never loved Daryl even half as much as she did Billy. Sure, it was a different brand of love, but this realization served as confirmation. This is the right thing to do. Billy was the first person to bestow in her his unabated trust. Unlike her husband, he could not live in her absence. He depended on her. When he first came into her life, because of how he made her feel, Amy’s insecurity began giving way to confidence. Modesty gave way to pride. Her apprehensions, at last; to courage.

The glowing digits of the clock radio warned of an approaching three a.m. Daryl would be in his deepest stage of drunken sleep now, with lead way still on the clock. Amy wanted not to forsake her marriage, but her safety and welfare could survive few more threats. The window of opportunity was open its widest.

It was time.

#

Amy crept out of bed with slothlike movements. Even though a gunshot might not have guaranteed Daryl’s arousal, she’d been victimized by Murphy’s Law before. Her husband’s tenured abuse denied him the grace of a final glance as she exited the bedroom. Save for material belongings, the only thing Amy left in that room was fear. She made her way to the bathroom armed with a draconian commitment to silence. The beginning stages of solace went to work clearing her head. She retrieved the medium sized duffel bag from behind the shower curtain. Already packed. Just a few changes of clothes and basic toiletries. In the mirror, Amy caught a fleeting glimpse of a quarter-inch, round mark just below her ear. Her punishment for misplacing Daryl’s ashtray while cleaning months ago. An exclamation point, for this night’s big decision. She proceeded towards the kitchen.

She pulled a bottle out of a drawer. Her trembling hand struggled to fill it with eight ounces of rice milk. Cold. The microwave door was opened with one second left to avoid the beeping. As Amy tip-toed down the hall, she analyzed her mental checklist one last time:

Her clothes- by the front door.

A small supply of food- likewise.

His clothes and accessories- already in the car.

Each other’s entire love and presence- soon.

Amy spent nearly a full minute opening his door, attempting to sidestep the snaps and creaks that might’ve prematurely awakened the baby. Once in, the night-light allowed her to survey the nursery. The only thing I might miss about this place. She moved over to the crib and peered in at her boy. Like an archeologist might a fossil, she lifted him. The bottle kept him quiet. A tender kiss on the forehead supplemented.

Due to determination, and possibly fear, she didn’t notice she’d let her bladder go until her baby was buckled into the carseat. She didn’t care. She kissed her sleeping baby once more on his velvet cheek. I love you Billy, Amy whispered, and sat in the driver’s seat, turned over the engine, and pulled out of the driveway.

Billy and Amy

Another project from the workshop. In short, we were to write a piece based on a song lyric of our choice. Mine was from the Foo Fighters' song Come Alive- "The reason you left me to survive, You saved me the day you came alive." (Thanks to Michael Sonbert- author of The Never Enders.)

Her eyes had adjusted to the dark. She hadn’t slept yet; hadn’t planned on it. Anticipation paired with anxiety would arrest any threats of sleep. Eagerness alone would not have allowed it. Her mind was preoccupied with planning, preparing. She’d visualized all conceivable outcomes, good and bad, and forced herself to dismiss the latter. She had to in order to make it work. Considering the positive effects is what kept her will strong. While doing so in the dark bedroom, a slender smile crept its way onto Amy’s face. But that brief smile was flattened by the abrupt return of her game face. Her brow re-flexed. Careful, she thought, can’t get ahead of myself. She knew that if her grip slackened even a little the reins could be jerked from her control. And that would not be tolerated. Not tonight. She had many things to do that night, sleep not being one of them. No, it was not rest that compelled Amy to lie down on that tired mattress next to her husband.

She was saying goodbye.

Innumerable nights had been wasted next to Daryl in that same fashion; him passed out, her awake. That was the only state in which she truly dreamed. About William. Billy, as she called him. About being with only Billy. Tonight could have developed the same empty structure as every other night, but it wouldn’t. It was to be the last. She would rebel against the oppressive routine and spend her days with the one she adored. To this thought Amy surrendered a second smile. But with her gaze trained on Daryl’s face it was immediately stifled. She decided to issue her inarticulate farewell.

She scanned her husband’s features. She recalled the powerful jaw line that was now blanketed by a weathered hide. Wrinkled, slack eyelids veiled what she used to regard as ‘penetrating’ blue eyes. In recent years, she viewed those eyes with a look more often reserved for barren wells. His meaty lips were parenthesized by smile lines, though she could not recollect his smile. Marionette lines suggested an age well beyond his actual. Deep crow’s feet did the same. Daryl was a handsome, sturdy man when Amy fell for him years ago, but alcoholism and vacant choices had long since undermined these attributes, rendering the man an overweight, hopeless cliché. If I can pull this off, Amy mused, this will be the last time I ever look at this ugly mug.

She closed her eyes and saw the much more appealing face of Billy. She envisioned his smile, heard his laugh. She ached for his soft skin. Desired his gentle touch. Mere hours ago she had felt this, but yearned for it still. Lying next to Daryl cultivated an even deeper love for Billy. It was there that she realized she’d never loved Daryl even half as much as she did Billy. Sure, it was a different brand of love, but this realization served as confirmation for Amy. This was the right thing to do. Billy was the first male to bestow in her his unabated trust. The first person. When he first came into her life, Amy’s insecurity gave way to confidence. Her modesty gave way to pride. Her apprehensions, at last; to courage.

The glowing digits of the clock radio warned of the approaching three a.m.

It was time.

Amy crept out of bed with sloth like movements. Even though a gunshot might not have guaranteed Daryl’s arousal, she’d been victimized by Murphy’s Law before. She was still fully dressed. Shoes, even. She retrieved a medium sized duffel bag from her closet. Already packed. Just a few changes of clothes were plenty. Her husband’s tenured abuse denied him the grace of a final glance as she exited the bedroom. Save for material belongings, the only thing she left in that room was fear. She proceeded towards the kitchen.

She pulled a bottle out of a drawer. Filled it with six- no eight- ounces of rice milk. Cold. The microwave door was opened with one second left in order to avoid the beeping. As she tip-toed down the hall, she went over her mental checklist one last time:

Her clothes- by the front door.

A small supply of food- same.

His clothes and accessories- already in the car.

Anything else they might need- fuck it.

She must’ve spent a full minute opening his door; attempting to sidestep the snaps and creaks that might prematurely awaken him. Once in, the night-light allowed her to survey the nursery. The only thing I might miss, she thought. She moved over to the crib and peered in at her boy. She lifted him like an archeologist might a fossil. The bottle kept him quiet. A tender kiss on the forehead supplemented.

She didn’t even notice she’d let her bladder go until her baby was buckled into the car seat. She didn’t care. She kissed her sleeping baby once more on his soft cheek. I love you Billy, Amy whispered, and began their journey to somewhere else; somewhere safe.

Unpopular

Another one word writing prompt (See: Short-Fuse, below). This time the word was 'Unpopular.' Here's my take:







Wood shavings collected at her feet. She had been carving for a while now and was growing impatient. Her superior strength made it easy to snap that short length off of the broom handle, but the point was going to take some time. Besides a small mound of gray dust, the stake would be all that remained. It had to be done soon.
Very few possessed the ability to discern the reality of her condition. Many would even label it a blessing, while she considered it a curse. Some might view it as a gift; her, an affliction. It had been glamorized and sugar-coated by literature and film. Nobody knew what it was like, she thought, to be stuck in your teen-aged years for what seemed like an eternity. For what was an eternity. She was expected to relate with her high school peers, kids she was innumerable times wiser than. Keeping it a secret was possibly the most wearying part.
The broken-off piece of broom handle was now beginning to resemble a mini spear. Not yet sharp enough, but she continued carving unwavered. The blade sliced downward into the blunt stake at an astonishing rate. She whittled away, channeling the perseverance of a retired carpenter with nothing to spare but time and passion. Her bed (which of course was solely for show) swayed with each stroke. She would never tire.
The zeal that was characteristic of her strain had long since faded. The horror had lost its allure. The challenge, a drag. The insatiable thirst had become a burden. To the others it was a driving force. She would call it a crutch. She was manufactured to live a strictly natural life. Tonight, she would revisit nature.
The tip of the stake was at last sharp. She tested it with her fingertip. The sight of the rich, crimson fluid teased her tenacity. She allowed her tongue to clean it up. Her canines extended slightly; they ached. No, she reasoned, no more. The bloodlust had to end. Failure, coupled with weakness, had vanquished many previous attempts. This time was different. This time lives would be saved.
With this prospect arousing her mind, she stood. It was time. Tears cascaded down her pale face. So human, she thought, as a slight smile materialized. She started to reminisce over the last hundred-plus years and stopped. Fuck that. Ironically, she had never felt as alive as in those final moments before her death. This time she would actually be terminated, not turned. She gripped the stake tightly with both fists and held it perpendicular to her body. The point just touching her chest. The floor directly in front of her was already cleared. The tears were gushing now, the smile ear to ear. Her head had never been as clear as it was in those last couple seconds. She felt so real. In her mind, she was no longer a murderous, blood-sucking vampire. She was just another delusional teenager, dying to live.

Short-fuse

Here's a fun little piece from an online forum I'm always on. I was given a one-word (or one-phrase) writing prompt. It was given at random, and I had just had to write something related or inspired by the word. Nothing very long. I scribbled it out in less than an hour without revising. My word was Short-fuse. This is what I came up with:

“Why even bother with all of this, Bobby, you know how you get.”

“Because, Ev,” Bobby griped, “I’m a patriot, and this is what we do on the Fourth.”

“You fought for your country’s freedom hon, isn’t that enough?”

“That will never be enough!” he barked, realizing even himself that he was teasing the cusp. He settled the matchbook into his trouser pocket. Letting the fervent July air enter his weathered lungs, he gathered himself. His line of sight climbed the flagpole in his front lawn. Old Glory awaited his gaze atop the pole, dancing a tired dance in the evening’s tepid breeze. For the first time Bobby saw the banner as a piece of defeated cloth. It seemed to yearn for the ground, as if too much had been asked of it. Not unlike the old man, he thought.

Evelyn knew her husband had calmed down. Her concerned expression was transitioning into a neutral one on her wrinkled mug. The war had rendered her lover an emotional wreck. Undiagnosed bipolar disorder, she was sure. So what if he had crawled across mine-riddled fields for a handful of months so long ago, she thought, she had been the one evading explosions in the many years since. However sure-footed for her old age, she hadn’t taken a comfortable step in decades.

“What’ya say we do one more and head on in?” Evelyn suggested.

“Yeah… okay, babe.”

Bobby was calm now. He collected the matches from his pocket and an unspent mortar. He struck a match and introduced it to the wick. Evelyn caught a glimpse of a courageous man in the orange glow that painted her husband’s face. The smoky scent of sulfur yielded a mild ache in her head.

“Drop it, hon.”

“Wanna make sure it doesn’t go out,” Bobby retorted, despite the lively sparks darting at him. He clutched the small explosive as the sparks raced down the wick. Daring it.

“Dammit, Bobby,” Evelyn snapped, “drop it in!”

Bobby placed the mortar into the canister.

“I know what I’m doin’ Ev, don’t you question that!” The composure was gone. Evelyn paused, anticipating the bang. There was no bang.

“Son of a bitch,” Bobby spit, and started over to the canister. Yeah, the blast of the mortar would rattle his soul, but he owed this to his freedoms. To his country.

“Give it a minute, Bob.” Evelyn held out an arm in a weak halting gesture.

“It’sa dud…” His voice trailed off. He leaned over the canister and peered into the cardboard cannon. “Damn thing’s upside-down, wick’s on the bottom.”

Evelyn remained silent. She didn’t know why. She knew Bobby should’ve tipped the canister over. Maybe the old woman was too worn out from avoiding mines. Jaded from living in fear.

Evelyn didn’t jump when it went off. She simply watched as the explosion devoured her husband’s face, granting her a freedom forever unknown to Bobby.

The Vanity of God (Chapter 1)

Note: This is not an essay, it's the first chapter(rough draft) of a project entitled The Vanity of God. Therefore, many items in the story will be left open-ending or unexplained. Also, the first person narrative does not indicate that the narrator is me. This is purely fiction. Thank you for reading.





The television is on mute, leaving those who are unintrigued by the conversation and those too stoned to contribute merely guessing what is going on in Tom & Jerry. Replacing the classical music that would most likely be the cartoon's score is Roberta Flack's Chapter Two, which while honorable in it's own right, is an album with few party anthems. In order to fulfill the host's desire to be "ironic", Roberta's soulful voice is updating us on the misdoings of Reverend Lee via phonograph, a medium that has aged sufficiently enough to be re-recognized as cool by a new generation. Considering this, I wonder what lead said generation to misinterpret the meaning of "irony", a concept that has been redefined as a combination of pseudo-sophistication and coincidence. Damn you, I'm thinking, horseshoe mustache and Alanis Morissette.
Catching myself before sinking into hopelessly deep anti-thought, I shake my head, irrational ponderings flinging aside, and notice a small vial on the coffee table my feet rest upon. Taking two large bumps of the mediocre coke, I rapidly change gears, and jumping to my feet exclaim: "A'ight y'all, we've proved how grown up we are, let's get some upbeat tempos goin'!" Even though my rendition of a 90's house d.j. is most likely as inaccurate as a white 90-year-old imitating a gangsta rapper, I carry on. Downgrading my parody from d.j. to any given dance floor attendee, I bob my head and pump my fist sarcastically, generating only a slight rise from my disheveled peers. I move to the turntable while rolling my eyes, determined to resuscitate the evening's ambiance. Just as I lift the stylus from the groove, I realize that the bass line from a certain commercial rap song was sampled from Gone Away, but ultimately decide to recede my admission of guilt. I settle on RjD2's Since We Last Spoke, CD format, and with this more appropriate theme music, proceed with my campaign.
My first move consists of picking up where I left off with my sarcastic jig, modifying it slightly to include a shuffle that taxis me into the kitchen, offering a shot to anyone interested. This offer I announce eagerly, my head slightly turned to the side as I exit the living room, trying to emphasize a rapidly approaching expiration date in order to recruit candidates victimized by impulse. My pride of pioneership quickly fades as I re-direct my gaze into the kitchen. Fortunately, the relief of acquiring a shot-taking buddy overrides my temporary grief. While Todd retrieves a second shot glass, we cordially exchange thanks'; mine for the invitation and his for my spirit contribution.
"No problem", I say, "never leave the house without a bottle of Cutty, I presume you'd like a shot?"
"I would absolutely love one," he says, with a cocked head and squinted eyes.
"Make it two doubles then, you smug son-of-a-bitch." He pours the two shots, both amounts teasing the rims of the already tall shot glasses.
"I see that you're employing the strategy necessary to get fucked up tonight," I say. Completely serious, Todd replies, "yeah, that and I took too much Adderall, trying to counteract it." We take the shots.
"Sounds reasonable," I say with wide, questioning eyes. "Why not just go lift it off?," an equally healthy solution, I admit.
"'Cause I worked out for four hours off and on today." Todd says this so casually that I am truly convinced that he thinks this is healthy. Yes, the gym in his basement has rendered his upper body very strong and defined, but what must be going on inside of him can only be medical mayhem. I too am a drug user, just much more moderate in frequency and cautious in variety. Also, unlike Todd, I remain sober when we lift weights together.
I look away from his bulging bicep, withdrawing my glance just seconds before it becomes an official stare. Two more double shots materialize, and I gladly accept one. The scotch is harsh by nature, but shot count and smoothness are heavily correlated. But with a relatively low count of four, I still need a chaser, liquid or otherwise.
"Let's go have a ciggy," I command.
"Got an extra?"
"No." The corners of my mouth slowly make their ways to each ear until I'm donning an expression more suitable for The Joker. Todd stands by, grimacing in disarray.
"Let's go dumb ass."
Unable to comprehend my dry sarcasm due to his current state of mental deficiency he shakes his confusion off. Of the many common side effects of Adderall, increased cognitive performance is not one that applies to to Todd's usage. By the time he steps into his well worn boat shoes that are parked by the rear door he has forgotten about my lackluster attempt at humor and we both step outside.
The cityscape from Todd's back deck is gorgeous, especially at night. The city's glowing lights pierce the pure black sky, their glares reaching up towards untouchable stars. I assist in their efforts by squinting my eyes, and they get much closer. Not close enough though, and upon failure they return to their sources. The eastward view from the hills of Portland is remarkable, the many bridges and highways intertwining to form a radiant, unknown calligraphy. I'm convinced that Todd could make money charging artists an hourly rate to utilize this choice real estate, tripod or easel not included. I myself almost ask for a pen and paper to scribble down the few lines of poetry my inspired mind has constructed, but two facts dictate otherwise: I prefer not to write keyed up(so as not to adopt a Jim Morrison-type habit), and Todd's obtrusive vocalization.
"Shit is nice, huh Pil?"
"You sure do have a way with words," I respond, intrigued by his eloquent description of the view. My thoughts transmogrify into his words and poetry happens. Ha.
"Uh, yeah... so you got that extra?" Todd rubs his hands together as if working in some stubborn lotion and sucks in both lips, eyes bulging. Considering all the Adderall, alcohol, and coke in his system he's holding himself together well. Still, the gap between mother and cub is closing rapidly, with me in the center, so I evade a possible mauling by producing a cancer stick. Todd lights the Camel Light and takes a deep drag, and I shortly thereafter follow suit. I find it impossible not to shut my eyes while exhaling that first hit. Both of us reassume the positions of our composed selves.
"So do you mind if we go up to your office after this?," I ask.
"Dude, thanks, but I'm not really in the mood for a blow job." Todd erupts with laughter and suffers the pain of doing so with smoke-filled lungs.
"You wish, fucker, I just need a prescription refilled."
"I knew it, you never show up unless you need a doctor's note."
"You want me to find someone else?!," I threaten, both of us knowing I would never follow through, that we would both take a loss.
"Oh, come on, I'm just sayin' you should kick it more, neither of us have real jobs and shit...," he trails off, unable to produce any further arguments.
"Alright, alright, but I do need to get goin' soon tonight, got some shit to do."
"Dude, Pil, at what, like one a.m.?! You're nuts... whatever." Todd shakes his head to exhibit his disappointment and flicks his cigarette butt.
"Okay, listen, A: why would an insensitive bastard like you give a fuck? And B: when have you ever not been in the mood for a blowjob?" My attempt at changing the subject via humor proves successful, and Todd does just that, excitedly.
"Because I've been getting them on the regular!" He reports this news in such an animated fashion that I am forced to counter: "Oh, I see, who's the lucky guy?"
"That's right, I knew you'd be jealous." Todd repeatedly nods his head 'yes' with a mischievous grin.
"Dammit, you can tell?" I deliver this completely deadpan.
"At least pretend to be happy for me. I'm finally getting my dick wet, and this chick's actually pretty cool..., smart, and... yeah."
"No man, I am, congrats." I slap him on the back. "Proud of ya mate, maybe I'll meet her sometime."
"Yeah, for sure."
I am pleased to have effectively feigned interest. Afraid that my improvisation skills have just about been used up on one scene, I ask, "well, should we cruise up to your office?"
"Alright man, let's do it."
I proceed through the kitchen and through the living room, turning at the base of the stairs to monitor Todd's progress. He shuffles listlessly(odd I'm thinking, for someone with increased levels of norepinephrine and dopamine) through the party, nodding and exchanging small talk with those still coherent. He scolds two drunk guys who are trying to scratch on the phonograph. I continue up the stairs and step into the office about a minute before him. I sit in an office chair, facing a large, solid wood desk(it's not just a figure of speech, the guy really does have an office). Todd takes his place in the much more luxurious chair behind the desk. "So my friend, what can I do ya for?"
"Some cola and some dro." He looks at me with an expression that says "and?."
"Eight ball and half ounce, respectively." Without replying, he rummages through several drawers until he comes up with multiple bags of coke and weed, along with a triple beam scale.
"Puhlease," I say, referencing the scale, and he shrugs and puts it back. I have been a loyal client of Todd's for a while now, and thoroughly trust his services. My loyalty has not gone unnoticed, and Todd assembles my eight ball from four individually bagged grams, providing me with much more and better quality cocaine than the ready-made eight balls. The same courtesy applies to my weed. I count out 400 dollars and hand it to Todd and retrieve the product.
"Alright then, thanks chief," I say.
"Hey, you wanna roast before you bail?"
"No, I better get home, thanks though."
"I figured as much... why is that?"
"Why is what?"
"I've been selling you weed for like, I don't know, a long time, and we've never puffed together... that's weird." I hurriedly try to pull together a believable excuse. "Oh, I don't know, it's not you, I guess I'm just not a social smoker." Feeble, but he seems to accept it, or doesn't care enough to delve further into the mystery.
"So you just giggle all by your lonesome?," he asks.
"Yep, just lay around and laugh at my own-"
"Alright, Pil," cutting me off, finished with my sub par justifications, "thanks, always a pleasure."
He salutes me as I exit the office. "Oh yeah, bro," Todd shouts out just before I descend the stairs. "I told Claire about your uh, what is it you write, homoeroticism?"
"It's called poetry, dumb fuck, and who the hell is Claire?"
"That's my girlfriend, we were just talking about her?"
"Oh... okay, right on."
"Yeah, 'cause she's into that, she's always reading."
"Cool man." I find it hard to believe that any girl that would bed with this guy is interested in literature, so I just fire off an aimless "thanks" and make my way down the stairs.
In the living room I locate my backpack underneath the coffee table and semi-discreetly load up the drugs. I say goodbye to Jesse and Scott, two guys I know from these infamous get-togethers, grab the bottle of scotch from the kitchen, walk out the front door, hop on my ten-speed and embark on my journey home.

Biting Your Ear

It is so quiet in here. I can hear only the occasional muted pops and cracks of the structures on-going and tedious settling process, the 2x4's or possibly 2x6's multi-decade transition from weight bearing solid wood to rot. Also, every few minutes a gallon or so of water rushes through the plumbing, eagerly submitting to the beckon of an occupant with dirty hands or an empty glass. Exhausted from sitting stagnant, the water hurriedly gushes from the faucet simultaneous with the turning on, so as not to miss it's opportunity to shine(modern plumbing makes it seem this way at least). Aside from these audible fixtures of any mixed-use residential structure- I hear nothing.

This silence is almost too much. While it may be cliche to label it deafening, I do understand the phrase. It's so quiet in here, without even the often ignored, distant suburban soundtrack that is frequently disregarded in attempts to identify a space or moment as 'quiet'. Seasoned city folk retreat to bedrooms with single-paned windows that struggle to keep the sounds of airplanes, sirens, weather, and barking dogs at bay. They merely filter this metropolitan music, dampening the shrill highs and cushioning the blow of the rattling lows. It is these noises however, that most of society is very much accustomed to, almost comforted by. These laconic lullabies are responsible for tucking in and putting to sleep the masses, each and every night.

It is due to this fact, that the quiet in here is so prevalent. It is not so much silence per se, more the lack of actual sound. In fact, this intangible void that should be filled with the meaningless but dependable chants of a city, is temporarily the host to a certain buzzing noise. Noise may be an ill-fitting term, but I'll be damned if even silence, when there's enough of it, has it's own audible accompaniment. It's as if the hearing process, if ever interrupted by literal quiet time, given a break from listening, would flourish in it's freedom and cease operations permanently. That is, of course, assuming said hearing process has the capacity to maintain it's own free will and the knowledge to exercise other options...

Being a part of this silence makes me feel small, unnecessary. I feel, for example, like an r, a lower case r. Just another letter amongst many other available and more interesting letters. An r cannot boast the essence of a vowel, as a word can be constructed without one. An r also lacks the oomph of some of it's stronger counterparts, J's, K's, or X's and so on. Just a middle ground, average, run-of-the-mill letter. Asian cultures don't even reserve a spot for our poor r in their languages. When speaking English, non-westernized natives will leave it out completely, sometimes with the awkward fumblings of replacing it with an l or w sound, seemingly just to spite the r.

My role in this silence, much like our anti-hero the r, can generate more significance than one might anticipate. I have the ability, at any given moment, to break this heavy silence. To shatter it's unsuspecting ass and splatter it's delusions of grandeur to a screeching halt(the screeching particularly upsetting to the stubborn silence).Is it possible the the r can bear the same load as any member of the alphabet? That it just chooses to fly under the radar, unnoticed? Maybe an r is only summoned for questioning when it doesn't show up. Consider the role of our little protagonist in the word 'important'. Sure, if it's not included in the word, the a should be exchanged for an e, but who cares about careless misspellings when they realize you're shooting blanks? Who cares about improper vowel usage when the news has just been broken that you're baking with sugar-free nookie dough? An infertile woman is revered as tragically deprived of the authentic experience that is motherhood, sans child labor, a victim, and few would disagree. Inversely, should an impotent man be rendered obsolete? A man who's swimmers can't muster up the courage to exit the wading pool?- A personal failure, a dud. A firework with a long misleading wick offering ultimately, a let down. No shower of sparks. Hence, the necessity of the wolf in sheep's clothing that is the r, with the power to make or break. Today, however, this silence is welcomed, so I will not utilize my power to break, and continue in my submission.

My pocketed cell phone on the other hand, does not comply. I receive a text message, and the phone responds by vibrating what might be louder than if I had chosen the ring setting. The momentary break in silence startles me, and I decide to read and possibly respond to the message later, as right now is a peaceful moment. There is also an ensuing project at hand, and my unadulterated effort will most likely yield better results.

It is at this time that I notice the big grey circle on the rug directly in front of my feet. Suddenly, I feel as if I'm being watched. I immediately gain the knowledge that this grey circle is imitating my every slight move. If I move my head partially to the left, so does the flat grey blob. When I jerk my head quickly back to the right, it follows suit. Almost, I try not to convince myself, beating me by fractions of seconds. Next I move my head back, away from the circle, and it seems to grow in size, as if to say "that's right, back up fool!", and puffs in a masculine fashion up to appear more powerful. I decide to man up, darting my head back forward, toward the area on the rug the shape occupies, and it cowers back down to regular size, ashamed of having feigned toughness just half a moment ago. So the verdict is as follows: no matter how rapid or unpredictable your movements, you can never out smart a shadow. After an honest effort on my part, it remains in the same category as biting your ear. Disappointed, I accept defeat by the shadow on the rug cast by my head, grimace, and look away.

Redirecting my line of sight straight ahead, I realize that when analyzing a closed door for an extended period of time and with a keen eye, you are almost guaranteed to find signs of shotty carpentry. At least in apartment homes. The reveal on the jamb has nearly a quarter inch difference from bottom to top; the miter on would-be adjoining pieces of trim is a few degrees off; the caulking appears to have been applied by a blind four year old with a hook for a hand who rakes in a wage far bellow the industry standard(the child's rate of pay signifying a disgruntled attitude that translates into poor craftsmanship); things like that.

While considering these finish carpentry blunders, I rest at the edge of a reservoir of sorts. Atop a reservoir I should say. The fluid contained in this reservoir resembles lemon flavored tea that has undergone far too long of a steeping process. So long that it can only be referred to as unpotable. It has sat stagnant for so long in it's containment that it leaves a crude version of a watermark at it's current level. If the fluid were to be drained or contributed to, the watermark will remind us of levels past. I take a mental note of this, and make tentative plans to later scrub.

Suddenly, with a climactic splash, a low flying chromatic mini-zeppelin makes a final crashing descent into aforementioned receiving pond. I wipe my ass with what seems like half the role of toilet paper, settling for only a trace of brown smear on the final swipe, in lieu of possible red smears on any following attempts. With a loud flush, I put that proverbial exclamation point on a successfully peaceful session, accepting the conclusion of silence, and exit the bathroom.