I’m being stalked. Stalked by a woman who’s eyes stare at you like razor blades, and who’s charm is equivalent to the song of a Siren. She tracks my miserable existence on this rock; I see her jotting down her random thoughts and findings in a single black notebook. Black like her hair. Black like her fucking empty soul; and I want her.
So I drink. I drink and think about every moment of my life that has passed, and ever moment that I’ve lived in another time, and am reliving again. My options are to blend in, or simply die. I wish to do neither most times, and I do just that. I just exist. What else is there to do?
I… Wake up
Go to work
Write columns
Stare at Jill’s ridiculously chizeled tight ass
Sneer at her sperminator secret lover Jack
Send columns to the copy desk
Play Tetris, or maybe that new spider solitaire
And… Go the fuck home.
So, I drink. I also cry uncontrollably, while randomly navigating myself through the sea of humanity, otherwise known as LA traffic on the 101. These aren’t tears of joy, or tears of: “I fucking hate this congested shit-hole”. These tears I shed tears are made of what I remember from a lost past/future-perfect life, and loves that never existed or will ever exist, except in my fairytale, science fiction and fantasy, cardboard cut-out mind.
And so I drink, some more. I drink and disconnect in hopes of discovering an alternate reality that will take me back home. It never seems to work, because my mind knows there’s no escape. I am an emotional conduit, brought here to absorb all of your problems, one by one.
It’s cold in this place. Therefore I dream in technicolor, and will die by the bitter hand of betrayal. The one that is hunting me will not give up until I am theirs, and dieing in their arms again.
And so I laugh. I laugh and smile, breathing in short… short breaths as if they were my last, and pass out alone… Just like every other night.