Bad habits

I’ve gotten into the habit lately of taking a few shots of alcohol so I can relax and just write something. Its a bad habit, but writing is full of bad habits.

Writing is staying up late, staring at a computer screen. It’s clearing your browsing history just in case, and having nothing but a bag of fatty chips for dinner because who has time to cook when you’re nearly done with the first draft of the next chapter? It’s having that extra smoke and it’s putting aside everything to just watch one more episode of your favorite show before pulling up the writing program of your choice.

Writing is staring at blank documents and re-re-re reading what you have already written and trying not to drive yourself up the wall editing before you’ve given it time to soak and going back over it with a new set of eyes.

I’ve been working on my book the past few weeks, and I’ve not much to show for it. I’m proud to say that between work and the calls of my online friends, I’ve managed to make major headway on the story outline, character redesigning, and wrapped up the first draft of the first chapter, only to get drunk and dive into the second one.

…Then my computer froze, but luckily, I had saved my work. That is the one good habit I have.

Tomorrow night I will rest, and after that, I aim to finish the draft of chapter two within a week.

Molasses

Molasses

She felt like she was moving like molasses.

Waking up was a slow process, with burning, dry eyes and a heavy-set mind that never quite caught up to where she was. The cellphone on the nightstand rung out with a tone that was slow at first, but picked up after a few moments, as she thought it might make the ordeal easier if she were slowly introduced to it. It wasn’t. This was the ninth time that her alarm had gone off, and now, it was time to make herself get up.

Her mouth felt like sandpaper, and the water bottle she kept nearby was useless. Still, she clumsily twisted the cap off of it and took a long, deep drink of the plastic tasting water, spilling some on her jaw and neck. She didn’t care.

It only took five minutes to go downstairs, brush her teeth, take a piss, feed the cat, and stumble back upstairs to fall back onto the bed. The blankets were already starting to cool, and she gave a deep sigh as she fought to keep her eyes open. So far, her mornings were awfully similar to the mornings of people that she knew who weren’t the same, who didn’t get it, and who weren’t quite as tired as she.

An hour passes. She’s in bed still, tapping away at her phone, eyes warm and tired, hair still evidence of her slumber, and her phone’s battery slowly being eaten away by social media. It’s nearly time for work. Getting up and getting dressed was always an ordeal in the morning, but it was an ordeal that she must suffer through each day if she were to continue living on her own. Lightheaded, she managed to get out of bed and change into her work clothes as the buzzing in her ears began to dance with her vertigo.

Work was going to be a challenge, just like it was nearly every day. On the way there, she almost felt energized, as if stepping out into the fresh air and blasting her car radio was fuel enough to keep her going through the day. It never was enough. Within five minutes of arriving at her desk at work, the warm, hazy cloud was enveloping her again, and she stared blankly at the computer screen as it booted up.

Within an hour, the painful, physical need to sleep was crawling down her back. It didn’t matter if she got four, six, eight, of twelve hours of sleep. It was always like this. This heavy, encompassing feeling never went away, and the back of her mind always ached for something lesser, somewhere warmer, and somewhere darker. She yearned for the hot silence that her mind and body craved.

Seven hours later, and it was time to go home. She had nearly fallen asleep five times. Her bed was whispering in her mind as she turned into her driveway, and practically dragging her by the wrist by the time her front door was unlocked.

It was time to eat dinner and go to bed, then do it all over again. As she dragged herself up the stairs, she felt like molasses.

The Soundtrack To Her Teenaged Days

The Soundtrack To Her Teenaged Days

There’s a certain brand of nostalgia that comes from rediscovering music from one’s teenaged years.

Cat sighed as she scrolled through the music on her old iPod from when she was in high school, trying to find something of interest. It was mostly stuff she still listened to fifteen years after she had abandoned the little device, which somehow had survived being in closed drawer for so long. Sure, she had the shuffle playlist on, but nothing she had forgotten about.
Then that one song started to play. 

There’s always that one song. The one that causes butterflies to rise in your chest and your heart to feel like it weighs nothing at all. It sends shivers down your spine and makes you want to do all the things you had always wanted to do. The one that reminds you of your hopes, your dreams, and everything you’ve ever wanted to be.

Cat had a song like that.

She listened to the melody, heart beginning to thump as the sweet, soft voice of the female lead began to serenade her soul. Memories of that one girl flashed across Cat’s mind.

There was always that one girl. Everyone had one. At least, that’s what Cat had been led to believe. No, not all women have that one girl. She learned that the hard way. All the women she knew had that one guy, but never that one girl. She almost felt bad for them.

Cat’s mind wandered to all the times she had nearly clicked “looking for: Women” and all the times she slowed down as she passed by the gay bar, slowed down her scrolling when there was an ad for an LGBT meetup on Facebook, and all the times she stifled everything she had always wanted to say and hear and do and feel and believe and–

The song was over. Cat sat straight up on her bed, running her hands through her hair as the next song began to play. It meant nothing. She was nothing. Her feelings for her husband were nothing. She had known that since before he proposed. Even then, her thoughts wandered to the girl who made her latte every morning at Starbucks. Her thoughts still wander. 

Maybe it was time to stop denying it, and just get the divorce already.

I do

I do

He stared at her as she pulled off her thin veil, her soft blue eyes glistening as she looked up at him. He had always loved how short she was. She had always loved how tall he was.

He had always loved her laugh, her smile, her body, and her gaze. He loved how she cooked, how she slept, and how she only used flower scented hygiene products. She smelled like a garden. He loved how she loved him.

She loved how he held her, how he kissed her, how he carried her, and how he cradled her. She loved how he drove, how he worked, how he read, and how he was allergic to mint and used fruity kid’s toothpaste. He always tasted so sugary.

It was only a matter of time before he knew that their child wasn’t his, as she hadn’t let him touch her for nearly a year. 

Chai Tea Latte

Chai Tea Latte

Every morning, suddenly, I am awake. My hair falls in my face as I sluggishly rise from my overly pillowed bed, the warmth leaking out from my nest as soon as my feet hit the cool wooden floor. My chest feels heavy and my eyes burn from sleep. Sometimes I have an alarm to turn off, and other days I’ve woken up on my own.

Some days, I brush my teeth and comb out my hair, styling it in the same fashion as any work day. Loose around my shoulders with a plaid or solid colored headband. I apply a brown, matte lipstick and apply just enough eye makeup to hide the bags under my eyes and make it seem as if I had a good night’s rest. My cardigans always matched my headband and my skirts always had biking shorts underneath. My socks were always white, or if I was feeling daring that day, patterned with some kind of cute animal. I have an image to keep, as any accountant would.

Other days I let my body flow freely, wearing just a loose tanktop and a pair of basketball shorts around my apartment. My tattoos are exposed and my hair goes wild and unbrushed for the sake of freedom. I might be drunk by noon, and I might stay sober until the sun goes down. If it’s a special occasion, I might even order in takeout and get high until I feel sideways and don’t know which way is up.

Between my days, there’s one thing that is always consistent. The shop around the corner from my apartment complex always calls to me at the same time each day. Thirty minutes before the coffee shop closes, I stop in, either in my perfect work attire or my messy loungewear, and I see her smile and wave to me, her smile perfect and her eyes crinkling just so.

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The most difficult thing about writing down your dreams…

…is the urge to make story out of them. I used to keep a dream journal, but kept repeatedly losing it, or the pen, or just plain forgetting to write anything down, but I still remember some of the dreams I put in there very vividly. For a while now I’ve been working on a short story that was inspired by a dream I had, and I should be able to publish it soon. I’ve just had… some difficulty in converting the dream to something a human can understand in story format, I guess.

In the dream I was at these abandoned ruins with my mother, and the entire structure was mostly in tact but with one giant television screen on one wall inside. People were gathered around it, watching a woman who was tied up and being filmed. I think it was a stream from somewhere terrible in the deep web. I wanted to save her, so I went to the basement of the ruins and had to fight a giant skeleton to release her using only the power of music. It worked, I saved the girl, and then left the monument. Outside of it was no longer lush and green, but a desert, and also I had been transported to the year 5000. I was concerned about my own disappearance, and had to use a time traveling vibrator in order to open a portal to my best friend’s bathroom mirror and tell him what happened, and that I loved him.

…It’s not an easy dream to turn into a story, that’s for sure. But I’m working on it. Unfortunately I had to cut out the my mother, the girl, the vibrator, giant skeleton, and fighting using the power of music. As awesome as it was to dream about doing that, it’s just not going to work. However, I am making a story loosely based around the ruins or whatever, and being transported so far into the future. That’s not a huge spoiler alert.

 

Always returning

Always returning

Some people have an allure to them, an absolute chemical and social attraction that draws in even the most strong willed of minds. He had a draw like that, and each time he came back to me, my life was ruined.

We dated for two years. He taught me to play chess and I showed him all the best spots to hang out. He read philosophy notes to me over the phone while I dozed off. I drew him pictures and left cute notes in his hoodie pockets while he saved up his allowances to take me to see plays and fairs. I was so in love, and he was so in love.

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For Just A Moment

For Just A Moment

This is more of just a warmup, but since it turned out so well I decided to post it here.

My heart fluttered in my chest. I hadn’t actually traveled alone before. One of my hands gripped the handle on my luggage as I carefully pulled it behind me, the wheels clicking on the cracked pavement outside of the Greyhound station. This was just a layover between busses, and somehow waiting for the next bus the most nervewracking part of the journey.

I pulled open one of the heavy doors to the building, knowing I had to wait about half an hour for my bus. The inside of the station was… seedy, at best. The middle of the room was large and empty, with stray benches along one wall. The other had the ticket takers. I saw a sign advertising a deli towards the back of the room, right above some vending machines that had scratched, cloudy glass. Pressing my lips together, I thought it might be best to skip the probably sketchy bus station deli and not even think about anything from that vending machine. I’d rather wait four more hours to eat than possibly make myself sick on questionable food.

I turned around, promptly heading back outside where everyone else waiting for their busses were. I stationed myself next to a pillar in the middle, nervously putting my hands in my hoodie pockets. A mental inventory of what I had to eat came to half of a bottle of water, one can of coconut water, some nacho cheese, and a bag of goldfish crackers. In my luggage I had 3/4ths a bottle of strong vodka and some saltwater taffy. It’ll have to do.

Remembering that I had a pack of cigarettes in my satchel, I reached in and dug one out, along with my pack of matches. I quickly lit up, taking a nervous drag as I looked around me. Everyone was grouped up with other people. I was alone, in a strange city, hundreds of miles from home.

And then someone caught my attention.

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#Katsparty

#Katsparty

Inspired by a writing prompt on Reddit.


It’s my birthday again.

My roommate, Joey, had practically assaulted me in order to put a stupid cardboard party hat on my head. I stood in front of the mirror, staring at it. The hat stuck out like a goddamn sore thumb compared to the rest of my look. My clothes are black, black, and you guessed it, black. I leaned in, examining my face in the mirror. I supposed it was about time to change my lip piercing to something less subtle. The stud always sort of got boring after a while, but for some reason, I always put that one in. Sighing, I figured it didn’t matter. I had work to do today. It was the only way that I couldĀ earn more time.

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