Originally posted on Friday, November 21, 2008 on myspace.com
Pictures Pictures Pictures.
Pictures of the past.
Polaroids that will eventually fade away.
As will the memories.
No hope in preserving them.
I watch as they get brighter.
The shapes are beginning to dissipate.
Documentation of temporary happiness.
Happiness whose purpose will be lost.
Happiness I wish could be recovered.
Originally posted on Thursday, November 20, 2008 on myspace.com
A can of spray paint
A name written with big block letters
The writing screaming as loud as it can
Ten years later
The same wall, now decrepit
The letters illegible
A young boy stares intently
Trying to make out the shapes
Originally posted on Tuesday, November 11, 2008 on myspace.com
Teenage boys don’t understand sex.
I should have taken that advice.
It was given to me over and over by every single one of my family members.
I always thought it was about getting drunk, and getting laid.
That there wasn’t any feeling behind it.
I should have waited until I had the hormonal capacity to “make love” with a woman, and not just fuck.
I lost it at a party.
God was that a mistake.
I suggest not losing at a party, especially with basket case girl.
I mean, don’t get me wrong, basket case girl is cute in an emotionally unstable kind of way.
But I swear to god, if she smiles at me and says, “hey handsome” in her best “seductive” voice one more time, I’ll fucking punch her.
I fucked myself into a crippling emotional attachment.
Why was she even at a party?
Why did she have her hair done all nice, and that dress on that showed she really had a body?
Why was she so vulnerable and drunk with tears coming down her face?
Hey, I didn’t have a date to prom either, and I wasn’t crying.
It was probably that meathead jock who called her a crazy bitch.
That was probably it.
But why me?
I walked by her, red cup in hand, and she grabbed my arm.
I should have pulled away at that moment, like her skin exhaled acid on my arm or something.
I should have shouted, “JESUS CHRIST, GET ME TO A HOSPITAL, IT’S EATING MY SKIN.”
But instead, I looked down at that make-up stained face, and into those puppy dog eyes.
Then I kissed her.
Everyone saw it, too!
I mean, I wasn’t popular before, but now I’m really not.
I took advantage of the situation.
Like a dog in heat.
No feeling behind it.
No porno style moans.
Just 5 minutes of a new addiction, and the rest of my high school year with a lost dog following me.
Worst part, she calls me, all the time.
In a drunken stupor, I took a sharpie from my pocket and wrote my cell phone number on her forehead.
Brilliant, I know.
Even my handwriting was drunk.
Sad part is, I don’t think I can ever get to know this girl now.
I might have been able to look past all the rumors and gotten to know her for who she really is.
Then I could have had sex that made sense.
Instead, I have a cancerous growth on my hip.
Which is why I have to tell you what I said before.
Teenagers don’t fucking understand sex.
Masturbate until you can.