i have already posted some of this. but then i rewrote some of it. so here goes nothing.
This is caffeine. It blocks the nerve signals that let you know you’re tired. Really, it’s another form of denial. But you miss out on so much when you sleep. At least that’s what I used to think. You miss a lot more when you never dream. My eyes, I’m fairly certain, will always have these dark circles around them.
I was drinking close to ten hot caffeinated beverages daily. If it wasn’t strong coffee it was black Indian tea. I drink tea and coffee the same way. I make it really dark. Really dark, and really strong. Then pour in enough milk, whole milk, until it’s about the color of sand. Add three parts sugar. Stir. Gulp it down. Embrace the initial shock. Get back to work. He said it was going to kill me if I kept it up. A different he. There’ve been a lot of them. I was gone for a while. We kept in touch, you know how that goes. Called every night. I was out under the stars. Lying among mosquitoes and weeds. When the bugs got me, I lay down a towel and sprawled out on the cabin ramp. When he got to me, I hung up the phone. It’s late, almost midnight, I have to get up and cook at six. It’s late…and the caffeine is wearing thing.
Goodnight. Goodnight. Goodnight. Goodbye. Goodbye. Goodbye.
I was never one to embrace the night for its intended purpose. If, that is, it really has an intended purpose. I was always running around, lost in the darkness. It gave me passion. Energy. Excitement. The black air that surrounded me led me into the moonlight. You can never fully appreciate the bright light morning draws in if you don’t stay awake throughout the full period of darkness.
It’s an extended metaphor for life. They teach you about all that happy stuff in English. AP English. My senior year. I think the only thing that course truly taught me was that if you look at the syntax and diction of a poem too much, you’ll hate it. Oh, that, and the fact that I have very little tolerance for most of my peers. Tolerance for all sorts of other things. But not them. Maybe later though, hun.
The females around me all had an ungodly love for designer shoes. Designer bags. Designer jackets. Designer-million-of-a-kind personalities and platinum blonde dye jobs. And they won’t talk to you. It’s because you’re trash. Newsflash bitches, in ten years you’ll be employed to clean my bathroom. That’s what the psychiatrists tell you to believe. Everyone who made you feel like hell will live through their own period of darkness eventually. Again. Extended metaphor. Again, English class.
I suppose on the whole, I never was too overly fond of women. And no. It’s not at all hypocritical. I was never too fond of myself either. Little things used to set me off. She used to apologize for everything. And I do mean everything. If you were within a foot of her she’d say, “I’m sorry” for breathing your air. And no, that’s not in any way flattering. It’s sickening. I remember she was always trying to prove herself to somebody. Little things used to set me off. If I hear the words “FUCKING HELL….er…dangit! you know I never curse” one more time. Well lets just say, it’s not pretty. I’m still not sure what she wanted to prove to all of us. She bragged of bulimia. My beloved and I stood there and pondered our own shrunken stomachs and wanted to kill her. We were both a mess. We didn’t need a third party to dramatize it for us. Been there, do that, shut the fuck up.
And another one. She wandered into the art room one day. That art room was my second home for four years. I spent just about every spare moment I had on one of those rusting stools devouring any new technique I could find. Every art room I entered became another home to me. She wished it felt like home. She painted with slashed black lines a dotted path across her wrist. Small smudgy letters. “Why live.” And again. We looked at each other. We’re pulling sleeves down. We’re tucking in shirts. You don’t know the half of it. We’re fidgeting nervously. We really don’t like you right about now. And again. It’s nothing to brag about. And it’s nothing we want you to be shoving in our faces. Thanks. Thanks a lot, kid.
to be continued....