Chapter one, or something

He awoke abruptly.

I should clarify: he woke up gently, thought for a moment that there was no rush, thought again, and was jolted out of bed on second thought.

The hangover was of no consequence. It manifested itself merely as a creeping malaise through his limbs, and as a severe lack of will to do anything.

They drove. Pep talks. Get through the day, focus. Just a little longer. Miraculously on time, miraculously sober. The few hours that divided the drunk and the next day were enough to leave them with only discomfort. Probably would've been more comfortable the other way.

Life doesn't give a shit about your comfort, it seems.

Then he waited for a bus. He worried about her a bit, but the mind was blank. There was a need to fill it. Music does that well. People pass, they're all so different, but really, on the whole, they're boring. Boring, and bored.
And he wants nothing to do with them.

And this one, you've seen a million of this one. He sits, a bit closer than is necessary. You can tell he wants to talk to someone. I wonder if he's ever really talked to anyone, or just talked at people. That's just it, everyone talks at each other, everybody else talks back at them. Don't expect me to say anything.

Neither said a word.

He catches one glancing at him on the bus. She lacks the look in her eyes of someone who thinks. Why is that such a hard look to find. He thinks of the one he loves. She's got that look. That's why he loves her.

The smell and taste of vomit preoccupies him - I shouldn't rush in like that - He and his love, and another, drank. Copiously. Then the trio sat in the parking lot, at 3AM, vomiting. That was the primary function of the parking lot that night: to be vomited in.

Cigarettes. Each tiny butt replaced by the next full cigarette. You may find it fascinating that he relished the butts and resented the full ones. Something in his head about being anti-establishment. You may find it fascinating, I wouldn't.

He loves to hide behind those aviators. He avoids the tired stories with his headphones. He avoids the judgments hidden so clearly in eye contact. And he can wait that way, listening to the meaningless music over the meaningless background chatter.

They chatter like crickets. Only they don't give indication of the temperature, as real crickets do. They're packed together like ants in an anthill. Only they can't lift one thousand times their own weight.

They're thrown back and forth. When will they realize that physics is the only thing keeping them from falling right off the face of the earth.

Will is nowhere to be found. And indifference is a dangerous sentiment. I should tell you, I know from experience. This time, though, he's lucky. He's so used to the motions he can go through them without thinking. Without being anywhere at all. They come naturally, and effortlessly. And he does gather the will to thank himself for that.

One of those fucking 'I-love-my-sorority-I-hate-my-friends-oh-my-gawd-look-at-me-and-my-coach-gucci-prada-fucking-purse' fucking girls. To be clear, we're talking about the fucking archetype here. Nothing going on upstairs, standard pretension (do I have to mention she was on the phone. They're always on the phone. I don't want to. It hurts my soul a little). Anyway she's running toward the bus as its pulling away. Not running. That'd paint her as someone to be sympathized with. This is not the case. She's more walking and trying to tell the bus to stop, like it's a goddamn cab. I'd have run her over. Needless to say the bus did not stop. And she gave a quick little 'what-the-hell-I-thought-the-world-revolved-around-me' little hand wave thing.

So that was a long story about nothing - I bring it up because he smiled.

I've created a new blog...

where I will write things for you to read them.