Sun Grasping

This isnt based off of anything, just a short story I wrote, if anyone actually feels like reading it here it is....oh, and it contains some graphic stuff, language and such..just to let you know

Sun Grasping-

Chapter 1:
Rainbows and Voodoo Dolls
(Thirty minutes or we let you shoot us.)
One ugly picture can erase a million beautiful words.
I hadn't seen Ms. Internet Love Interest commonly known as Gangrlvampyre (her net handle) yet and my imagination was running wild and anymore, I just couldn't stand it.
What's beautiful is not always real and what is real is not always beautiful.
She sent me a picture of herself accompanied by precisely seven other photographs and a short letter. The envelope was colored, decorated, made up of the kinds of rainbow colors you'd expect to find in a kids playroom with the balls that you drown in, choke on, piss and shit in, steal…
There is no end to the rainbow and the colors are ever changing.
The positive prints, recorded by a camera and reproduced on a photosensitive surface were those of ketchup bottles in quaint mid western restaurants, of plastic moldings shaped like eighties cartoon characters, of (insert random objects here)…
She sent pictures filled with images and my heart developed those images in a way only the heart is capable of and the resulting print was that of love and yearning and…stupidity.
I'm not claiming to be smart now, I was never smart.
The letter was short and sweet the way a red lickerish is when you get it down just so much.
Short, red, sweet.
The adjectives of a desperate man.
Following the letter was a poem that her friend once wrote. It read:

Voodoo Doll

With a pin through his heart
And his mouth sewn shut
Buttons for eyes
And moss padding his butt

Dear Voodoo Doll sits
In the same happy pose
He knows how to cause things
Nobody else knows

With a stick of a pin
he controls all your aches
With a spark from a flame
Your heartburn he makes

You'll suffer if he falls
Or jumps off the shelf
But if it makes you feel better,
He also hurts himself…
She sent me small memories of places I'd never seen, memories of her face for one.
I felt like “Anymore, I just don't want to deal with love.”
I felt like, “Me not being attracted to her physically was somehow me being superficial.”
I could have thought, “Outside appearance does not make a person.”
But I didn't.
I could have fooled myself into thinking she was beautiful.
I did.
Love's rainbow never ends and the colors sometimes shine dull.
It wasn't fair to her and it wasn't fair to me.
My mother always said, “Nobody ever said life was fair.”
My father always said, “What's fair is fair.” On one occasion right after he swindled my uncle out of a beat up old Chevy truck with a broken taillight.
Mirror mirror on the wall. Who's the fairest of them all?
Survey says, nobody I know.
Gangrlvampyre wasn't fair, life wasn't fair, and nothing was fair.
Fair is fair.
In the end I got hurt. The typical depression associated with a virgin heart broken by loves strong grip. I was the voodoo doll…or she was. In the end we both got hurt and in the end we both felt each other's pain and in the end any time you hurt somebody else you also hurt yourself.
One ugly picture can erase a million beautiful words but only love can resurrect them into something marvelous.
I'm not claiming to be smart now, I was never smart.
Gangrlvampyre is now a memory and I'm dead. The most useless things come to you when life packs its bags and leaves the country.
I thought, “Why the hell did I wait so long to cut all that hair off my head?”
I thought, “Why did I waste so much time watching television stoned?”
My free thinking ended and I thought again of the idiot box.
“Why did I sit and watch a piece of furniture for hours and hours and laugh at the false worlds that were created before me?”
The whole world is false. Television just shows you the fantasy world you're living in through a third person perspective.
My Dad always said “Don't ever change the channel when I'm watching a show.”
My mom always said, “I hate those soap operas to no end.”
My mom watched them religiously every day of her life until she died. She had in back log over ten thousand blah hours of daytime dramas.
I wonder now, as I'm about to join her “Is there a contest you can win for that?”
I wonder, “Where do I sign up?”
Things haven't changed much since she was among the living.
My Internet infatuation disguised as love disguised as lust disguised as casual flirting via an instant messenger, it all seems most silly, almost ridiculous, to me now.
I'm not claiming to be smart now - I was never smart.
I'm the voodoo doll that comes complimentary with every pot of gold at the end of every rainbow called love.
I only hurt you because you hurt me…and vice versa.
Nothing is beautiful the same way nothing is repulsive.
Love is the best of both worlds and Gangrlvampyre was the first woman to show me that.

Chapter 2:
Mary Jane
I'm traveling down the black tunnel towards the white light and I wonder, “Is there a speed limit here?”
I wonder, “Is this how death is supposed to be?”
I wonder, “Am I going to heaven or hell?”
I wonder, “Is there time to stop and smoke a bowl?”
The only woman who will never leave you is Mary Jane.
I was introduced to Mary Jane by my sister and her boyfriend who would be her fiancée who would be her husband who would be her ex-husband who would be somebody not at all related to me now except that I call him my brother and treat him as such.
Some bonds can never be broken the same way a Weeble Wobble can never fall down.
After taking a couple hits out of the blah mass-produced looking pipe my eye lids fattened up, a small smile crept up on my face and everything in the world, everything totally and completely…seemed un-fucking-believably perfect.
I asked, “Is this what it feels like?”
They smiled, “Hell yeah.”
I said, “Shit.”
They said, “Hell yeah.”
I'm not claiming to be smart now - I was never smart.
On one night in that one summer during that one life of mine that I just left behind I smoked out of a Pepsi can with two guys I knew and conversed with occasionally - friends?
Friends are defined as people whom you know, like, and trust. I wonder now if I ever had any friends.
We smoked for forty five minutes in my drive way, shielded by garage, house and automobile, shielded from the world that would take such pleasures from us and would have us working eight hour a day jobs serving each other with false smiles and hellos and all the while pretending that everything in the world wasn't fucked up. The garage and the house and the automobile protected us from such influences and instead we talked, laughed and enjoyed life.
I remember only one instant of those forty-five minutes.
An instant of laughter, of smiles, of joy, of contentedness.
Give me a genuine perfect instant that will last forever and I'll give you the key to a meaningful life.
Speeding at what only looks like one hundred gajillion miles per hour I wish I could feel the wind in my face. Really, I wish I could just feel, but instead I am empty in all ways save my memories and my thoughts.
Traveling down the dark mysterious corridor at a blinding rate I can't help but wonder, “How did I end up here?”
I wonder, “Did that guy really have to shoot me?”
I wonder, “Why did I have to deliver that pizza?”
One time I ate a pizza laced with shrooms. I tripped and fell into the deep end of life where nothing can touch you, where heaven meets earth.
I call it blissfulness.
You can feel as good as you think possible but there's always something better.
After that one time with the pizza I `accidentally' ate shrooms laced with shrooms.
Just for the record, this wasn't actually an accident.
If you try to grab the sun from the sky you'll just end up with an empty hand - that, or a really nasty burn.
Drugs were never a problem for me. I always just assumed that what didn't kill me made me stronger. My father told me that once after I changed the channel during one of his programs and somehow managed to break my wrist in the process. I fell down some stairs. I tripped and fell and my wrist broke. My father never hurt me, not on purpose and besides he said, “What doesn't kill you makes you stronger.”
A smile and a pat on the back and I'm supposed to be a kid again.
I fell down some stairs and became addicted to drugs long enough so I could waste what little time I had on the planet before I was shot to death while delivering a large pepperoni and pineapple pizza.
I wonder, “Is there weed in heaven?”
I wonder, “Will the angels say “Hell yeah”?”
I decide as the black speeds by me in the same way nothingness passes by nothingness, “It doesn't matter.”
For an instant I would have smiled had I possessed any lips…or any physical body for that matter.
An instant of laughter, of smiles, of joy, of contentedness.
Give me a genuine perfect instant that will last forever and I'll give you the key to a meaningful life.
My meaningful life ended when a speeding projectile hit me in the head.
I fell down some stairs and now I'm dead.
My killer never hurt me, not on purpose and besides I say, “What doesn't kill you makes you stronger.”
Just for the record, I'm not any stronger now.
I'm traveling down the black tunnel towards the white light and I wonder, “Is there a speed limit here?”
I wonder, “Do highway patrol officers in limbo have a quota?”

Chapter 3:
The Grimb
I wonder what life would have been like if I weren't me.
My existence was made up of delivering freshly baked pizza pies for a mom and pop pizzeria owned by an old couple named Mr. And Mrs. Grimb. Judy and Abner Grimb were like one old person split in two that chose to walk everywhere with its other half and only divided when it came time for bed where upon they would retire to separate mattresses. They had not fucked in over twenty years. Abner's penis didn't work anymore. Judy never felt in the mood.
If you live long enough even sex becomes a chore.
When we are no longer able to reproduce our sole reason for existing is void. We become the battery-operated dildo that doesn't work and that sits static because its owner is too embarrassed to exchange it for a new one.
Abner and Judy.
They were really only one person because you never saw one without the other and you never heard one without at least hearing a discord or two out of the other.
Together, they made the monster I called The Grimb.
The Grimb controlled my life like everybody, like everything, else did. The Grimb, my job. The parents, my life. The truth, my dreams. The drugs, my emotions.
My emotions needed controlling.
Raging beasts, emotions, uncivilized creatures that inhabit us all, only sedated when ones inner tamer plays his soothing song.
I did not possess any such tamer.
Mary Jane became my tamer.
I delivered pizzas for the Grimb and I wonder what life would have been like if I weren't me, if I were, perhaps, somebody smart.
Half of the Grimb rode in a wheel chair and the other half of the Grimb pushed it around using the handles as its own personal walker.
If all cripples could function this way I wouldn't mind not having the use of my legs.
The Grimb did not walk but merely methodically marched about with its ever-watchful four eyes (occasionally two when sleep overtook half the beast).
I wonder, “Why didn't I kill those old pathetic people when I had the chance?”
I worked with sharp objects.
I wonder, “Why did I ever feel afraid of them?”
I wonder why I ever made two elderly, crusty, impotent people into a monster in the first place?
The worst-case scenario is born in our minds to prepare us for what we know will be a disappointment.
This only looks like understanding reality.
The Grimb once mumbled while half of it drooled, “Didn't your parents ever teach you anything?”
My father once said, “If I teach you anything at all please remember that you only get out of life what you put into it.”
My father put in his alcoholism, his temper, his “stairs”, and his teachings.
I answer the Grimb while it sort of wobbles back and forth almost falling down both ways, like the Weeble Wobble - only sinister.
I want to break them.
I answer, “No.”
The Grimb once gurgled, “We'll make an honest man out of you yet.”
Just for the record, I stole from the cash register every day.
My father once said, “Son, one day I won't be here and you'll be on your own and it won't be the endless party you think it's going to be either.”
My father was hurting inside, I could tell. My father died - his liver gave out on him.
Just for the record, I never once thought it would be a party without him.
Just for the record, I had a blast.
The Grimb one night gave me an order to fill so I prepared the specified pizza and commenced with the delivery of said item.
The Grimb said, “Hurry back so you can wash the dishes before closing.”
The Grimb said, “You keep this kind of work up and you can be expecting a quarter raise soon.”
I never was able to wash the dishes. I never was able to close.
I hope they didn't take it too personally when I never showed up to receive that raise of theirs.
I could have spent that extra quarter on so many things.
I wonder what life would have been like if I weren't me.
The Grimb complained one Saturday in the afternoon when business was slow, “You kids today, [We] don't understand you. Always with your loud music and your clothes that don't fit. When [We] was a kid [We] respected [our] elders.”
The Grimb spoke as if it were one changing [I] to [We] whenever applicable.
Just for the record, I always listened to loud music, wore baggy clothes and was generally disagreeable to anybody over the age of thirty.
Just for the record, Judy of the Grimb frequently, as a teenager, told her parents off and spent nights having unprotected sex with strangers in dark corners all the while telling herself “If mom could only see me now she'd sure be sorry she ever said no to that new car.”
We punish ourselves to punish others.
We are all just voodoo dolls.
The Grimb sent me to my death and I never even took the opportunity to tell them to politely, “FUCK OFF!”
I'm not claiming to be smart now, I was never smart.
The Grimb once said, “We're doing this for you own good.”
My Mother once said, “I'm doing this for your own good.”
My father once said, “I'm doing this for your own good.”
I wonder if my own good wasn't theirs all along.
Why is it we never know the answers to the hard questions until after the test is over?

Chapter 4:
Keith
I remember that night I died, this night I mean.
It all seems so long ago now.
Keith said, “Catch you in a few comrade.” - over the phone with his “sick” voice.
I worked with Keith and he was always trying to say things differently.
He stopped using the word friend and instead referred to everybody by comrade. Keith wasn't a Communist, Keith wasn't a Socialist and Keith sure as hell wasn't a Capitalist. Keith was Keith and that above all else was probably the most dangerous thing to be.
When we are ourselves we emanate the most power.
Keith had power.
He had a mop of strait strawberry blond hair on his head covered with an old and faded green baseball cap, which sported our businesses logo “Grimb Pizzaria.”
Not an Italian name but we still got enough business to pull a profit, much to my surprise I assure you.
Especially considering the copious amounts of cash I pilfered everyday.
Keith always smiled, squinted and smoked illegal drugs - marijuana.
Keith and me one time had a contest to see who could smoke the most marijuana.
We were both on our seventh bowl when I said, “Shit.”
Keith said, “You fucking pussy.”
Keith always seemed to be daring me to do more, to see more, to experience more, to live. If Keith was anything to me he was guidance and therapy. He was my disease and my cure the same way that love is for many people.
The same way it was for me.
Keith asked, as we rounded into our tenth bowl, our strings of thoughts constantly being cut short, our eyes a sea of red fruit juice, and the generic Jolly Good plainly labeled `Root Beer' we drank much to sweet -
Short, red, sweet.
The adjectives of a desperate man.
Keith asked, “Why do you wake up in the morning?”
And I just sort of looked at him trying to focus the frame presented before me into a visible image and I must have looked confused.
I said, “Shit…”
And shrugged.
That was Keith for you and he did win that contest. I passed out and woke up to his dog having sex with my leg…for the second time that night.
I went to the bathroom to clean up.
For an instant, the dog questioned the value of his own life.
I remember that night I died, this night I mean.
It all seems so long ago now.
One night while we weren't especially busy, Keith was playing with some blocks of cheese. Both resembled abstract disproportionate men.
Keith said he never meant for them to look like anything in particular and that the pieces missing were due mainly to him hacking off portions to eat every now and again.
Keith said, “We determine our own reality.”
I said, “Yeah…”
Keith said, “You may see a couple of deformed guys and I may see just some cheese.”
I said, “Yeah…”
Keith said, “Did you know that most people question the value of their own life even before they have sex for the first time?”
I said, “Yeah, so?”
Keith said, “Well, the value of ones life is based on the amount of sex they have. The point of life is to have sex. The point of life is to reproduce. We are here to proliferate and pass on our genes. We are here to plant our seed. Have sex, experience reproduction, and then question your life's worth. Really, it's a simple matter of keeping the proper chain of events. We are here to make more of us and then die.”
I fell down the stairs and died without ever getting a girl pregnant.
My life was a failure.
I said, “Keith, you want to go out back and smoke a bowl?”
Keith looks at me awkwardly as if he expected me to be blown away by his statement. Like he expects me to be surprised he said what he did.
I'm not surprised when the plunger unplugs my toilet.
I said, “Well?”
Keith, shaking his awkward look, said, “Hell yeah.”
I worked with Keith and he was always trying to say things differently.
One day I told Keith I would work for him because he felt “ill” and after being given orders by the Grimb I got shot and died.
I never did have the chance to tell Keith how interesting he was.
I wonder if anybody I knew was surprised I got shot.
They're probably not surprised when the plunger unplugs the toilet.

Chapter 5:
Keith's Retainer
The way your mouth looks after you have had braces is mangled, in pain, suffering - a wounded beast.
It looks like its girlfriend just dumped it.
The gums are under a constant pressure by those teeth, which the metal brackets, and rubber bands had moved so far from their origins. The teeth, with a natural and ancient instinct, want to go home, where they first were before the invasion of the braces. So they push and the gum feels their force and responds accordingly. Its screams and it swells, big and pink, like an oversized water balloon ready to burst and release its aching blood.
Like the tick you find on the back of your neck after camping with your alcoholic father and your soap opera obsessed mother.
The way your mouth looks after you have had a mouth full of metal is a lot like a mouth full of plastic. The way your mouth looks after you have had braces is a lot like a retainer. A mold, a copy, of the roof of your mouth, it fits snug and clasps itself onto your teeth with the aid of its always reaching thin metal wire claws. Its smooth to the touch the way a freshly waxed tile floor is.
You slide your tongue across it at least once a minute.
That's 1440 times a day.
That's 10,080 times a week.
That's 302, 400 times a month.
That's 3, 628,800 times a year.
Really, that, that right there, really that's not as interesting as it sounds.
Just for the record, I have heard retainers are deplorable to wear.
Just for the record, I never use the word deplorable.
Keith had a retainer, peach colored - flesh colored. Keith wasn't supposed to have one. He had done the braces thing and the dentist had installed a permanent wire behind both his top and his bottom rows of teeth. They were supposed to keep the teeth in place and discourage any movement that may occur. They were supposed to work.
I'm supposed to be alive right now.
Keith noticed his teeth shifting back to their original positions. Gradually they moved further and further and Keith shrugged it off, packed another bowl, and forgot to care for one more day.
I forgot to care for four and a half months once.
Just for the record, that was a lot of pot.
My dad once said, “Son, don't make the same mistakes I did.”
My father passed out drunk one night and woke up next to my future mother.
Well Pop, I hope you're proud of me. I never touched a drop of alcohol nor have I ever knocked up a woman I don't know.
Now I'm dead.
The Dentist said, “There's been some movement here.”
The Dentist asked, “Did you notice the movement?”
Keith shrugged, his eyes cashed. That boggled expression of stoners, “Yeah, I guess I did.”
The dentist said, “We'll schedule you to get that top wire out, a mold of your mouth taken, and a retainer made up for you within the month.”
Keith said, “Ummm…okay.”
The Dentist told Keith it would be no extra charge beyond the existing bill.
Just for the record, Keith's teeth are worth over four thousand dollars.
Just for the record, I've never had four thousand dollars.
I wondered, “Could I kill him and sell his teeth?”
I wondered, “What's the retail price on those?”
Keith's mouth was full of plastic and a thin metal wire.
Keith now talked with an occasional lisp and or a mispronounced word here and there. Anymore, people just didn't take him seriously.
Just for the record, nobody ever took him seriously.
If Keith didn't seem like a science fiction watching, dungeons and dragons playing, Internet surfing, video game dork before he sure did now.
Just for the record, D&D rocked.
“Keith” I said one day, “Why don't you just stop wearing the damn thing if it's such a hassle?”
I'm not claiming to be smart now, I was never smart.
This was the day before Keith called in “sick.”
Keith said, “I need strait teeth man.”
I said, “Why?”
Keith said, “I dunno…”
He paused that pause of thinkers and of the mentally handicapped.
He paused that pause of mentally handicapped people thinking.
Keith said, “I suppose it's just the `thing to do'.”
Really, I think it had something to do with the “virus” that made Keith “sick” the night I died.
I said, “Keith, since when have you ever cared about doing the `thing to do' just because it was the `thing to do'”?
He paused that pause again.
More contemplating retards.
Keith said, “You're right.”
He spit out the fucking thing into the toilet at work and flushed.
Keith was always working on his apathy and sometimes he would forget to not care.
Just for the record, that retainer caused a back up in the pipes.
Just for the record, there was a bill from the plumbers for well over a hundred dollars by the time the fiasco was resolved.
I'm not claiming to be smart now, I was never smart.
Keith and I, we nearly lost our jobs.
I wish now that I had.
The way your mouth looks after you have had braces is mangled, in pain, suffering - a wounded beast.
It looks like it just got beat up by a jealous boyfriend of a girl you just fucked in the back of a small green pinto.
The teeth, with a natural and ancient instinct, want to go home, where they first were before the invasion of the braces. Keith's teeth were going home now and nature was in full bloom.
Through man, the heart of nature and of god can be found.
Keith's teeth are, as I speak, returning home.

Chapter 6:
The Key
Keith asked me once, “So, on average, would you say you trust people with blue eyes or brown eyes more?”
This came out of nowhere. Keith was weird that way.
I said, “Blue.”
It's probably a racially motivated answer but I'm sure some psychologist knows my mind better than I.
Sarcasm.
Keith asked, “If you were stranded with somebody on a desert island and you had to eat them to survive, would you?”
I say, “No.”
I'm disgusted for some reason.
Keith says, “What if they die first, you know, of natural causes?”
I said, “Well…maybe…probably.”
Just for the record, we would all do it.
Survival, when you get right down to it, makes most of our decisions for us.
I'm not claiming to be smart now, I was never smart.
Keith asked, “Do you think you burn calories when you hold your piss in?”
Keith said, “You know, when you really have to go bad and you're sitting there holding it in and it burns and you're just squeezing your muscles hard trying to control your bladder.”
I blinked once or twice.
I said, “I don't know Keith. I would assume you burn a couple.”
Keith smiled.
He said, “I wonder if somebody could get skinny just sitting around and not going to the bathroom.”
Keith was weird that way.
Keith had power.
Keith asked, “If you could be totally submerged in a giant jell-o mold what flavor would it be and would you be naked or not?”
I blinked some more.
Just for the record, sometimes Keith seemed like the coolest fucking guy on the planet.
Just for the record, in the end Keith was not one of the coolest fucking guys on the planet.
I said, “It would have to be Arctic blue because I enjoy the color and the taste is cool yet sensual.”
I said, “Yeah, I'd be nude.”
I said, “Especially if I had a lady friend with me.”
Just for the record, I've only ever had one REAL lady friend.
Sorry Gangrlvampyre.
Keith said, “You're good at answering questions.”
I say, “Anybody can answer a question.”
I say, “Now answering them correctly, that's the key.”
I'm not claiming to be smart now, I was never smart.
My father once said, “There's no such thing as a stupid question…just a stupid kid.”
Well, he was half right.
Keith asked some really stupid questions all those nights we worked together.
He asked me once, “What do you think happens after we die?”
Keith was staring off into space, his mouth hanging open, droplets of saliva forming at both corners of his lips.
I said, “I don't know.”
I said, “I really can't answer that.”
I said, “Sorry…”
Anybody can answer a question but answering it correctly, that's the key.
The key to the secret door that nobody cares about opening - to meaningfulness?
I can answer it now for you Keith. After we die we remember and fly.
Remember the past and fly to our future.
The white light. Salvation. Heaven. Hell. The unknown.
The end of the rainbow?
My head would hurt now, if I had one - a bullet being lodged in it and all.
I saw his face when he shot me.
I said, “Shit.”
I should have thought, “Makes sense.”
All our lives we try to sort things out, file everything alphabetically. Create order. When we die we get to stop trying. Order just happens.
I haven't been trying for what seems like forever.
I've been dead for what seems like forever.
What seems like forever is probably only an instant.
Just for the record, I'm not at all upset or bitter or jaded or ornery on the account of me being dead.
Just for the record, life wasn't that good anyhow.

Chapter 7:
My Girlfriend
My teacher once said, “Jack, what your name is will never be important. Now your ideas, your opinions, your thoughts, those are things to hold on to.”
He said this after he forgot my name for the fifth time that hour.
Just for the record, he never knew my name.
I dated my sister's wife.
See, my sister was a friend with my first and only girlfriend before she became my first and only girlfriend. My sister called her wife and she referred to my sister as husband.
Something like that.
Anymore, I just don't try to figure it all out. They were teenage girls.
The only thing worse is a teenage boy, warped by the very culture which punishes him for acting out against an oppressive aggressor who attempts to brainwash said teenage boy into believing that with enough order comes enough happiness or enough love or enough of whatever you have ever wanted in your life.
Teenage boys like that grow their hair long.
I had longer hair than my sister's wife.
She came to me with lustful eyes and through a cheesy instant messenger revealed her secret love for me and propositioned me to except her request to try a relationship out.
Just for the record, this was after Gangrelvampyre.
Just for the record, this was after I learned about love.
I typed, “I have never had a girlfriend.”
Sorry Gangrlvampyre.
She typed, “Then you don't know what it feels like to be held.”
I typed, “…but I know what it feels like to be forgotten.”
Thanks Gangrelvampyre.
She went on relentlessly and I shrugged and my stomach danced and suddenly I was the voodoo doll again…or she was.
Love is disguised as lust more often than not.
I'm not claiming to be smart now, I was never smart.
Just for the record, in the beginning it was great, marvelous, joyous, and beautiful.
Just for the record, in the end it was horrible, deplorable, depressing, and repulsive.
Nothing is beautiful the same way nothing is repulsive.
Love is the best of both worlds and my sister's wife was the second woman to show me that.
Just for the record, she was the only other woman to show me that.
Dieing has that affect. You just lose all opportunities.
During our relationship I would often write her sappy love poems, short prose letting her know what was on my mind, little pictures I hoped would make her smile her angelic smile.
Whoever you love becomes an angel.
Whoever you hate becomes a devil.
More often than not most angels become devils and nothing is ever permanent.
Just for the record, she wrote her share of poems.
This only looks like mutual understanding.
A kiss is a disease that once acquired will fester within you for the rest of your life. It fills you with something that wasn't there before and when its over you want more. Nothing can ever satisfy the hunger you feel except another kiss and when without one you suffer a torment, which rivals any torture living a life dumb to relationships could ever hope to deliver.
Nothing is beautiful the same way nothing is repulsive.
Near the end I smoked a lot more marijuana. My bowl needed cleaning every few days so quick the resin was apt to accumulate.
I let my hair grow the longest it's ever been in my life the months I spent with my first REAL girlfriend. She liked it and because of this, I liked it.
This happens more often than you think.
Just for the record, my dead body had a shaved head.
Haircuts only cost $11.95 at Cost Cutters.
$11.95 doesn't seem like that much at all when you want to get rid of everything that reminds you of your lost kiss giving love, like a head full of hair for instance.
I did love her.
Love is disguised as lust more often than not.
More often than not the only reason you want to stay with somebody is because they make you feel secure with yourself the way you can never feel when you are single.
More often than not this is what people call love.
I did love her.
Just for the record, I also loved Gangrelvampyre.
Near the end everything fell apart and I was spending whole days ripped and trying not to think about my failing relationship and why for some reason I felt as though there was something I could have done to make things better.
Don't worry about what you have no control over and do not pretend to have control over anything.
When she finally broke up with me it was a relief the same way it's a relief when the doctor tells you that they only have to amputate one of your legs as opposed to the previously mentioned two.
It felt that good.
It felt that bittersweet.
So my first REAL girlfriend that was once my sister's wife and who all the while managed to keep her hair shorter than mine broke up with me and we decided to be friends.
Just for the record, I haven't talked to her in forever.
Keith said, “Forget about her man.”
Keith said, “Nothing lasts forever.”
Keith said, “Don't think your depression is special. People break up everyday and everyday people recover from it. Today is your day to recover.”
He said all this when I came into work feeling rather forlorn.
Dress me in black, apply eye shadow, put a guitar in my hand, and name the band Teenage Depression.
We play Emo and are available for nightly shows.
Just for the record, Teenage Depression is a made up band.
That's how utterly sad I appeared.
That's how utterly pathetic I was.
I'm not claiming to be smart now, I was never smart.
I was the voodoo doll. My sister's wife stuck pins in me and I wept. She wept too, most likely, I hope - probably not.
In the end you can never date somebody who understands you too much, loves you too much, respects you too much, cares about you too much, is too perfect.
In the end you are only really comfortable with people who make you work for their affection.
And
If you plan to say hello, don't be surprised when you have to say goodbye.

Chapter 8:
Keith's Girlfriend
Keith met his girlfriend one night in the back of a small green pinto.
Just for the record, they were both under the influence of alcohol.
My father once said, “Son, never drink.”
My father said, “You know why you shouldn't drink?”
I looked at my father and knew everything.
My father said, “Because it will kill you!”
My father often over dramatized to get us kids to listen to him. Especially with a couple of beers warming his ulcer filled stomach.
More often than not when a car is rocking back in forth in a parking lot and the windows are fogged up its probably two homo sapiens having sexual intercourse.
On at least one of these instances it was Keith and his girlfriend.
Just for the record, Keith and his girlfriend were never officially dating.
Keith's girlfriend had a boy friend. A mean white boy, hardened by years of abuse delivered from the society around him, with short black spikes of hair on his head to match the silver ones he wore over most of his body. He was a prick.
Even a prick doesn't deserve to find his girlfriend fucking another guy in the back of a small green pinto.
Blood, sweat, clothes, and a limp Keith lay on the parking lot pavement before the night was through.
The smack, smack sound a fist makes when it hits flesh and bone.
Smack.
Smack.
That aching feeling of a slow pain constantly throbbing from everywhere within you.
That, that right there, it doesn't begin to describe how Keith felt.
Mr. Spike wearing punk said, “If I ever catch you with her again I'll fucking kill you.”
Just for the record, Keith had sex with that girl three more times before Mr. Spike wearing punk did anything.
With Keith's lifeless, just-had-sex body moaning on the ground and Mr. Spike wearing punk hovering over him you could just feel the jealousy in the air, the contempt, the spitefulness, the anger, the blah novelty emotions associated with catching your girlfriend fucking another guy in the back of a small green pinto.
Keith nearly lost his retainer with a kick to the face.
I said, “Jesus, you look like shit.” - this, the next night after the adultery and the severe beating.
Keith shrugged, smiled and squinted.
Keith said, “I'm seeing her again tomorrow night.”
Keith said, “I'm in love.”
Love is disguised as lust more often than not.
I said, “Love is bullshit.”
Just for the record, this is after Gangrlvampyre and my sister's wife.
Keith shrugged, smiled and squinted.
Keith said, “If love is bullshit than let me at that steers ass.”
Keith certainly had a way with words.
Just for the record, Keith had sex with that girl three more times before Mr. Spike wearing punk did anything.
He was a coward in love, the punk I mean.
There's nothing scarier than a coward in love.
Except perhaps finding somebody who's actually surprised when a plunger unplugs the toilet.

last chapter-

Chapter 9:
The Phone Call And Resolutions
By this time in my life my hands had been burned and blistered so many times that anymore, I didn't even flinch when the sun resisted my reaching arm and scorched me with discontent.
The truth is I never really wanted it anyway.
The truth is nobody really wants to get what he or she strives for.
The coward in love picked up the telephone, a simple communication device, one day and dialed a number.
The bring, bring sound the phone makes when it rings.
Bring.
Bring.
I said, “Hello, Grimb Pizzeria. How can I help you?”
The coward in love said, “I'd like a large pepperoni and pineapple pizza.”
I said, “Will this be delivery or carry out?”
The coward in love said, “Delivery”
I ask for the address.
I tell him thirty minutes.
Just for the record, its not free if we don't get there in thirty minutes, its just cold.
Keith was supposed to be working that night, which is still this night.
I'm supposed to be alive right now.
Just for the record, Keith was fucking that girl, for the fourth time, in a bathroom stall in some back alley tavern, staring at a small picture of a cock drawn on the wall with a telephone number under it.
Keith wondered, “Who's number is that?”
He pounded away.
Just for the record, the number belonged to some Nikki chick.
The Grimb that night, gave me an order to fill so I prepared the specified pizza and commenced with the delivery of said item.
The Grimb said, “Hurry back so you can wash the dishes before closing.”
The Grimb said, “You keep this kind of work up and you can be expecting a quarter raise soon.”
I never was able to wash the dishes. I never was able to close.
I hope they didn't take it too personally when I never showed up to receive that raise of theirs.
I could have spent that extra quarter on so many things.
The Grimb sent me to my death and I never even took the opportunity to tell them to politely, “FUCK OFF!”
Just for the record, “FUCK OFF JUDY! FUCK OFF ABNER!”
Just for the record, “I'M GLAD YOU DON'T HAVE PROPER USE OF YOUR PENIS!”
I think, “PEOPLE LIKE THAT SHOULD NEVER BREED ANYWAY!”
I drive to the address given to me on the phone and I knock.
That tap, tap sound of somebody knocking.
Tap.
Tap.
Open.
Boom.
“Shit.”
I got shot in the head and ended up dead.
Poetry by the deceased racing towards oblivion at an unknown velocity thinking about some Nikki chick and I why I never attempted to make her my second REAL girlfriend.
Sorry Gangrelvampyre.
Keith ejaculated that night right as the bullet entered my skull.
For an instant Keith questioned the value of his own life.
Keith's cock went limp on him just as my body did on me.
Thanks Keith, thanks for being interesting.
I was the voodoo doll for the whole lot of them…or they were just one big voodoo doll for me.
In the end we all get hurt and in the end we all feel each other's pain and in the end any time you hurt somebody else you also hurt yourself.
Just for the record I hope Mr. Spike wearing punk coward in love is hurting really bad right now.
My rainbow is turning white now, its colors fading away, my tunnel is coming to a close.
This only looks like deliverance.
I'm still searching for the end, for my pot of gold, for my voodoo doll, and for love not disguised as anything but it's self.
Give me a genuine perfect instant that will last forever and I'll give you the key to a meaningful life.
I'm going to find my instant.
You find your key.
Just for the record, and although I know its not as important as my ideas, my opinions, and my thoughts…
(Thanks Mr. Teacher.)
…My name is Jack and I will never use the adjectives, short, red, or sweet ever again.

*claps*

Awesome, Pessoba. 🙂

thanks Rex...its the only thing ive actually finished

It's good so far...or is that the end of it?

I need to work on my stories some more...or at least post some more of it.

thats the end i guess

Oh damn...

Right some more stories! I've got a ton...

ya...ill be working on some

Right? Why the hell did I spell the wrong write?

i didnt even notice that..ahhaha

I'm very critical of my own spelling.