Without The Special.
"When the measure of your work, is the measure of your worth, then you better make it work."
-Jets To Brazil.
Don't Take This Personally.
Siobhan lights a joint and I think of when she came out of the motel bathroom earlier, her shoulders red as if she’d been sunburnt. It made me want to fuck her. I was sitting on the bed, the bible balanced on my knees, doing lines as if the end of the world had arrived. And in a way, it had. I’d been against calling Jace since I knew I’d ask if he had some coke and I also knew he’d bring some, whether he did or not. But Siobhan insisted so here we are, three days later, coming down from a binge in her shitty truck, my rent money blown. There’s music I’ve heard but don’t recognise blaring from the stereo and all I can feel is this terrible taste in my mouth; so thick, it’s spreading into the air around me. God, I’m fucking wired.
I flick a glance towards Siobhan, innerved by her slow, deep drags. She isn’t looking good: hair hanging limp in her neck, her face glistening with sweat. I want to grab the joint, smoke it quick and get the fuck out of her car -an insult to the hippie she claims to be, really. It pisses me off to remember all that nature shit she rants about while polluting and stuffing her nose with chemicals every chance she gets. Right now, I don’t want to fuck her at all and wonder why I ever have. She catches me staring and smiles, finally handing me the joint. I search my pockets for a lighter and try to ignore Jace groaning in the backseat. The bastard puked all over himself last night and no one cares if his shirt got ruined. I sure don’t want to fuck him either.
I check the rear-view mirror and realise I look like shit. Purple bags under my eyes, greasy bangs and cheeks punched in from skipping too many meals. To think I once was an attractive human. I shift around, getting impatient and puffing on the joint, unsure about giving the rest to Jace.
“Come on, man. Pass it over.”
His voice is too whiney. I shuffle through the glove box and find a chocolate bar; it’s stale and who knows how often it has melted and hardened again. I wolf it down anyway, which grosses Siobhan out.
“That’s nasty.”
“And you’re a stupid bitch.”
She shuts up and I hate her tiptoeing, like I’m going to break if she tells me to fuck off. It’s been this way ever since I sliced my forearms -I didn’t want to die, okay; it was a lame cry for help. You just give up sometimes and that’s that. Maybe I’ll get the evidence covered in tattoos one day and claim it’s progress. Oh, can’t wait to grow up now.
I catch Siobhan stroking her own scars and I don’t know whom I resent more at the moment: her, for implying pathetic sob stories; me, for acting like an asshole or Jace, for being the useless moron he is. I shouldn’t even be here. We aren’t friends. We stick to the pretence but hey, the other two won’t be around for long. My mood swings are enough to keep anyone away, not to mention people would rather let you die than admit they can’t handle your psychosis -drift away, leave meaningless voicemails, never questioning why you don’t reply in the first place. But I want those pricks to need me, all for wrong reasons too. I balance their dependence with my addictions so I can have something to rely on. What a mockery of affection. Loud laughter gets stuck in my throat; I’m on the verge of hysteria just thinking about it.
Siobhan asks what the joke is. I tell her to drive me home.
It takes seven minutes and forty-three seconds to get there and I regret not recognising the area enough to have walked instead. Jace is licking the insides of an empty coke bag while Siobhan mentions plans for tomorrow. I’m not listening but still wait for her to finish, drumming my fingers against the window.
“Okay?”
I nod then heave my body out the door; relieved I won’t have to bear their presence any longer. Siobhan honks as they drive off, Jace making a last retarded gesture. I urge myself to wave back, knowing I’ll be calling one or both whenever I need drugs or want to get laid. I can’t help scoffing at this but if shame doesn’t stop me, what will -reason? Fuck that. I gloomily stare at the building in front of me; reminded of my flatmate, the bitchfest that will ensue once she realises I can’t pay the bills. This can wait.
I push myself down the street, my strides growing steadier as I go. It’s quiet and I wish I’d brought my Discman along, although I’m used to the paranoia guaranteed by heavy coke use by now. I think: this is the last time I do this -fully aware it’s a lie. Each city light stabs into my eyes and I trudge towards wherever it seems the darkest. Got no clue when I left but it’s four am and I’m fucking shaking. Exhausted, I lean against some wall and light a cigarette. It’s been over seventy-two hours I haven’t slept.
The air feels muggy but the moon is bright as fuck, announcing a clear sky. I wipe some sweat from my nose and hope I’ll be asleep once the heat starts torching like a supernova. It’s an all too familiar picture: the lone bed, how I’ll sprawl over the sheets and knead damp spots into the mattress, fan spinning and wheezing, the dizziness of it all. Lie down, smoke a joint or two and wait for it to die, right. It’s easy to forget about the present and I’ve been rushing past; my life feeling like a dream, a hazy memory I can brush off like nothing ever matters. I wonder if I’ll tire of this. It’s painful to think I might not.
When I still lived at my parents’, I’d go stand in the kitchen instead of churning sick in my room. I’d listen to the humming of the refrigerator or drink a glass of water and coming down wouldn’t be so difficult. My mother would find me slouched on the floor in the morning; she’d sigh then make some coffee and I’d feel grateful she never turned the lights on. We’d talk, sometimes. She’d ask how I was doing; I’d rub my eyes, not wanting to be a stranger but unable to tell her how I’ve always pushed too hard, how it always breaks -how I always seem to break. This weariness I can’t explain and never knowing what to do. So, I’d mumble: “I’m okay.” And she’d leave for work; I’d slump down, take more drugs -eventually dropped out of college, moved away; drew little and wrote even less.
I kind of miss scrawling sloppy letters for her to read, when my throat was too dry to croak out any words. After all, I could send her one now, why not. I take the notebook out of my back pocket, skim through the pages; hissing at the handwriting, searching for something worth the effort. Most of it is bullshit. I should have the pride to burn it but I’m too scared and sacred to do that. I could call, but after spending so much time turning myself into my home, it doesn’t feel right. It isn’t like I’ve got anything to say that she’d actually want to hear. I know my mother tries but she’s too hung up on safety to understand why I’m this reckless, always acting out. She’s seen me happy like only a kid can be and look how I’ve turned out. But really, I want to fix things, I want to make them better. I’m tired of feeling guilty for everything gone wrong. There are only so many times you can say you care until people start believing you’re a liar. And maybe I am.
I can count my blessings on one hand: food, shelter, water, electricity and… money? Not even my own. Education? Like I’ve learned a fuck in school. What about love or talent or anything too sparse to deserve an entire finger? Oh, I am truly blessed. I think of this while I roll another joint or snort another line, pop those pills, drink that vodka; anything to dull this ache. And I’m being such a fucking hypocrite when I look down on Siobhan and Jace for wasting their parents’ cash as if they’ve earned it; my father, for flaunting his upper middle-class values; my sisters, for being too good-looking to think they could ever need a personality. I’m lost and ungrateful. I’m fucking angry at the world for not keeping a place for me, so I can be a part of it instead of having to hide all the time.
Often, I can feel myself slipping away, like I don’t even belong in my own body; that noisy chaos pushing me out and I end up a hollow shell, sitting on the curb of my emotions, wondering: where’s my teenage rage, man. I’ve spent more time dying than actually living. And it tears at me to know that the one lesson I learned in life is that I can only rely on myself. Only myself. And that has turned me blind to any outstretched hand; I don’t know if I should blame my walls, others’ inconsistent affections or if there’s even something I can point fingers at. Fuck you, Life. What have you done to me? I was never meant to be a mourner.
My jaws hurt from clenching my teeth so much; I fumble after a cigarette and hope it will loosen them. Hell, I’d get off if I weren’t so drained. I think of Siobhan; her measly blonde head, those nice tits. The sloppy sex -good but that was the coke. I can’t remember the last time I’ve fucked sober and that completely turns me off. All my past relationships feel like bastard thrills now; I can’t tell if they held meaning or not, if I even thought they did at the moment. I’m an aimless type of person, I’ll do anything and anyone if I don’t find a reason not to. Sure, I’ve thought I was in love but if that was love, what is anything? I’ve bought red roses and I’ve waited around bathrooms for a cheap fuck, it’s all the same in the end. My last crush was this girl called Melissa who, after I told her she looked good, had retorted: “You don’t.” I hadn’t minded since she stayed talking anyway and it’d been interesting. Jace then appeared with several grams and I left, not asking for her number.
I feel very small and ridiculous, stranded in the middle of nowhere; deluding myself into thinking she could’ve been something great. I’ve barely seen her since. Actually, I’d forgotten all about her since I went crazy that summer, breaking all the mirrors in the house. It can be difficult to realise people stay around because they find you attractive or know you’ve got the drugs, when you’re trying to be more than that. I stare at my hands; making out the faded cuts and purple scars in the moonlight, wondering if I’ll ever use them for better things than masturbation and holding cigarettes. I’m like some chaos of half-truths, all more complex or simple than what I’ll ever let on. I tried to be God but it’s fucking lonely up there, with nothing but walls to reverberate your thoughts. But I fail as a human so what can I do, how can I perforate this silence I’m trapped into? I can’t leave myself behind and I’m hard to befriend; I’m doing the best I can and it’s never enough.
Fuck, I’m crying. Is it that I just give all the wrong answers?
It doesn’t take long for me to calm down but I push the tears a little since it feels good. It’s scary how my misery can make me feel complete, how all the puzzle pieces just fly back into my head once I give in to sorrow. But they’re still a jumbled mess and I’m not sure what the image is. I feel so light-headed, I laugh. I won’t apologise for my life or who I am; I don’t have many regrets, my mistakes turned into experiences. I’ve got an escape plan, I’ve got tons of those but I’ve got shit to lose; if I didn’t, it wouldn’t be running off, it’d be a choice I’ve made. It isn’t that hope is gone, it’s just been too bitter to feast on but I’m not going to stay here, hurting because it’s easier than closing the door and walking away. I’m sick of looking into the mirror and only seeing the noise in my head, never the dreams in my eyes.
Dreams used to exhilarate me, man. I thought I deserved everything good in the world. I still think I can make it though, even if I’m slow and things are speeding by so fast. I never know where to start; it’s never less than confusing. But I have it in me, somewhere. One day, I’ll pack myself into a car, a train, a plane and leave all that has made me so I can build myself anew, without my past leering over my shoulder like a terrible ghost. I’ll forget my ancestry and how unforgiving it can be. I’ll make up with my mother. I’ll write a book. I’ll go for a walk when it rains and another, when it shines. I’ll make new friends. I’ll learn as much as I can. I’ll find a job I like. I’ll stop taking so many drugs. I’ll get up whenever I get knocked down. I’ll be wrong. I’ll be right. And, maybe, I’ll meet someone along the way with whom I can get naked and lay on the floor -just wasting time. Just wasting time.
-Jets To Brazil.
Don't Take This Personally.
Siobhan lights a joint and I think of when she came out of the motel bathroom earlier, her shoulders red as if she’d been sunburnt. It made me want to fuck her. I was sitting on the bed, the bible balanced on my knees, doing lines as if the end of the world had arrived. And in a way, it had. I’d been against calling Jace since I knew I’d ask if he had some coke and I also knew he’d bring some, whether he did or not. But Siobhan insisted so here we are, three days later, coming down from a binge in her shitty truck, my rent money blown. There’s music I’ve heard but don’t recognise blaring from the stereo and all I can feel is this terrible taste in my mouth; so thick, it’s spreading into the air around me. God, I’m fucking wired.
I flick a glance towards Siobhan, innerved by her slow, deep drags. She isn’t looking good: hair hanging limp in her neck, her face glistening with sweat. I want to grab the joint, smoke it quick and get the fuck out of her car -an insult to the hippie she claims to be, really. It pisses me off to remember all that nature shit she rants about while polluting and stuffing her nose with chemicals every chance she gets. Right now, I don’t want to fuck her at all and wonder why I ever have. She catches me staring and smiles, finally handing me the joint. I search my pockets for a lighter and try to ignore Jace groaning in the backseat. The bastard puked all over himself last night and no one cares if his shirt got ruined. I sure don’t want to fuck him either.
I check the rear-view mirror and realise I look like shit. Purple bags under my eyes, greasy bangs and cheeks punched in from skipping too many meals. To think I once was an attractive human. I shift around, getting impatient and puffing on the joint, unsure about giving the rest to Jace.
“Come on, man. Pass it over.”
His voice is too whiney. I shuffle through the glove box and find a chocolate bar; it’s stale and who knows how often it has melted and hardened again. I wolf it down anyway, which grosses Siobhan out.
“That’s nasty.”
“And you’re a stupid bitch.”
She shuts up and I hate her tiptoeing, like I’m going to break if she tells me to fuck off. It’s been this way ever since I sliced my forearms -I didn’t want to die, okay; it was a lame cry for help. You just give up sometimes and that’s that. Maybe I’ll get the evidence covered in tattoos one day and claim it’s progress. Oh, can’t wait to grow up now.
I catch Siobhan stroking her own scars and I don’t know whom I resent more at the moment: her, for implying pathetic sob stories; me, for acting like an asshole or Jace, for being the useless moron he is. I shouldn’t even be here. We aren’t friends. We stick to the pretence but hey, the other two won’t be around for long. My mood swings are enough to keep anyone away, not to mention people would rather let you die than admit they can’t handle your psychosis -drift away, leave meaningless voicemails, never questioning why you don’t reply in the first place. But I want those pricks to need me, all for wrong reasons too. I balance their dependence with my addictions so I can have something to rely on. What a mockery of affection. Loud laughter gets stuck in my throat; I’m on the verge of hysteria just thinking about it.
Siobhan asks what the joke is. I tell her to drive me home.
It takes seven minutes and forty-three seconds to get there and I regret not recognising the area enough to have walked instead. Jace is licking the insides of an empty coke bag while Siobhan mentions plans for tomorrow. I’m not listening but still wait for her to finish, drumming my fingers against the window.
“Okay?”
I nod then heave my body out the door; relieved I won’t have to bear their presence any longer. Siobhan honks as they drive off, Jace making a last retarded gesture. I urge myself to wave back, knowing I’ll be calling one or both whenever I need drugs or want to get laid. I can’t help scoffing at this but if shame doesn’t stop me, what will -reason? Fuck that. I gloomily stare at the building in front of me; reminded of my flatmate, the bitchfest that will ensue once she realises I can’t pay the bills. This can wait.
I push myself down the street, my strides growing steadier as I go. It’s quiet and I wish I’d brought my Discman along, although I’m used to the paranoia guaranteed by heavy coke use by now. I think: this is the last time I do this -fully aware it’s a lie. Each city light stabs into my eyes and I trudge towards wherever it seems the darkest. Got no clue when I left but it’s four am and I’m fucking shaking. Exhausted, I lean against some wall and light a cigarette. It’s been over seventy-two hours I haven’t slept.
The air feels muggy but the moon is bright as fuck, announcing a clear sky. I wipe some sweat from my nose and hope I’ll be asleep once the heat starts torching like a supernova. It’s an all too familiar picture: the lone bed, how I’ll sprawl over the sheets and knead damp spots into the mattress, fan spinning and wheezing, the dizziness of it all. Lie down, smoke a joint or two and wait for it to die, right. It’s easy to forget about the present and I’ve been rushing past; my life feeling like a dream, a hazy memory I can brush off like nothing ever matters. I wonder if I’ll tire of this. It’s painful to think I might not.
When I still lived at my parents’, I’d go stand in the kitchen instead of churning sick in my room. I’d listen to the humming of the refrigerator or drink a glass of water and coming down wouldn’t be so difficult. My mother would find me slouched on the floor in the morning; she’d sigh then make some coffee and I’d feel grateful she never turned the lights on. We’d talk, sometimes. She’d ask how I was doing; I’d rub my eyes, not wanting to be a stranger but unable to tell her how I’ve always pushed too hard, how it always breaks -how I always seem to break. This weariness I can’t explain and never knowing what to do. So, I’d mumble: “I’m okay.” And she’d leave for work; I’d slump down, take more drugs -eventually dropped out of college, moved away; drew little and wrote even less.
I kind of miss scrawling sloppy letters for her to read, when my throat was too dry to croak out any words. After all, I could send her one now, why not. I take the notebook out of my back pocket, skim through the pages; hissing at the handwriting, searching for something worth the effort. Most of it is bullshit. I should have the pride to burn it but I’m too scared and sacred to do that. I could call, but after spending so much time turning myself into my home, it doesn’t feel right. It isn’t like I’ve got anything to say that she’d actually want to hear. I know my mother tries but she’s too hung up on safety to understand why I’m this reckless, always acting out. She’s seen me happy like only a kid can be and look how I’ve turned out. But really, I want to fix things, I want to make them better. I’m tired of feeling guilty for everything gone wrong. There are only so many times you can say you care until people start believing you’re a liar. And maybe I am.
I can count my blessings on one hand: food, shelter, water, electricity and… money? Not even my own. Education? Like I’ve learned a fuck in school. What about love or talent or anything too sparse to deserve an entire finger? Oh, I am truly blessed. I think of this while I roll another joint or snort another line, pop those pills, drink that vodka; anything to dull this ache. And I’m being such a fucking hypocrite when I look down on Siobhan and Jace for wasting their parents’ cash as if they’ve earned it; my father, for flaunting his upper middle-class values; my sisters, for being too good-looking to think they could ever need a personality. I’m lost and ungrateful. I’m fucking angry at the world for not keeping a place for me, so I can be a part of it instead of having to hide all the time.
Often, I can feel myself slipping away, like I don’t even belong in my own body; that noisy chaos pushing me out and I end up a hollow shell, sitting on the curb of my emotions, wondering: where’s my teenage rage, man. I’ve spent more time dying than actually living. And it tears at me to know that the one lesson I learned in life is that I can only rely on myself. Only myself. And that has turned me blind to any outstretched hand; I don’t know if I should blame my walls, others’ inconsistent affections or if there’s even something I can point fingers at. Fuck you, Life. What have you done to me? I was never meant to be a mourner.
My jaws hurt from clenching my teeth so much; I fumble after a cigarette and hope it will loosen them. Hell, I’d get off if I weren’t so drained. I think of Siobhan; her measly blonde head, those nice tits. The sloppy sex -good but that was the coke. I can’t remember the last time I’ve fucked sober and that completely turns me off. All my past relationships feel like bastard thrills now; I can’t tell if they held meaning or not, if I even thought they did at the moment. I’m an aimless type of person, I’ll do anything and anyone if I don’t find a reason not to. Sure, I’ve thought I was in love but if that was love, what is anything? I’ve bought red roses and I’ve waited around bathrooms for a cheap fuck, it’s all the same in the end. My last crush was this girl called Melissa who, after I told her she looked good, had retorted: “You don’t.” I hadn’t minded since she stayed talking anyway and it’d been interesting. Jace then appeared with several grams and I left, not asking for her number.
I feel very small and ridiculous, stranded in the middle of nowhere; deluding myself into thinking she could’ve been something great. I’ve barely seen her since. Actually, I’d forgotten all about her since I went crazy that summer, breaking all the mirrors in the house. It can be difficult to realise people stay around because they find you attractive or know you’ve got the drugs, when you’re trying to be more than that. I stare at my hands; making out the faded cuts and purple scars in the moonlight, wondering if I’ll ever use them for better things than masturbation and holding cigarettes. I’m like some chaos of half-truths, all more complex or simple than what I’ll ever let on. I tried to be God but it’s fucking lonely up there, with nothing but walls to reverberate your thoughts. But I fail as a human so what can I do, how can I perforate this silence I’m trapped into? I can’t leave myself behind and I’m hard to befriend; I’m doing the best I can and it’s never enough.
Fuck, I’m crying. Is it that I just give all the wrong answers?
It doesn’t take long for me to calm down but I push the tears a little since it feels good. It’s scary how my misery can make me feel complete, how all the puzzle pieces just fly back into my head once I give in to sorrow. But they’re still a jumbled mess and I’m not sure what the image is. I feel so light-headed, I laugh. I won’t apologise for my life or who I am; I don’t have many regrets, my mistakes turned into experiences. I’ve got an escape plan, I’ve got tons of those but I’ve got shit to lose; if I didn’t, it wouldn’t be running off, it’d be a choice I’ve made. It isn’t that hope is gone, it’s just been too bitter to feast on but I’m not going to stay here, hurting because it’s easier than closing the door and walking away. I’m sick of looking into the mirror and only seeing the noise in my head, never the dreams in my eyes.
Dreams used to exhilarate me, man. I thought I deserved everything good in the world. I still think I can make it though, even if I’m slow and things are speeding by so fast. I never know where to start; it’s never less than confusing. But I have it in me, somewhere. One day, I’ll pack myself into a car, a train, a plane and leave all that has made me so I can build myself anew, without my past leering over my shoulder like a terrible ghost. I’ll forget my ancestry and how unforgiving it can be. I’ll make up with my mother. I’ll write a book. I’ll go for a walk when it rains and another, when it shines. I’ll make new friends. I’ll learn as much as I can. I’ll find a job I like. I’ll stop taking so many drugs. I’ll get up whenever I get knocked down. I’ll be wrong. I’ll be right. And, maybe, I’ll meet someone along the way with whom I can get naked and lay on the floor -just wasting time. Just wasting time.