She Couldn't Sleep

Shorty after putting my journal on the nightstand, I flicked off the lamp and lied down next you. I had become accustomed to sleeping alone, and the heat of your body was a bit overwhelming. In an attempt to get more comfortable, I pushed the covers off of me and turned on the fan. Your hot wet skin was a welcome torture, and I pulled you closer as I slipped into oblivion. Not even an hour had passed before you began to squirm. Out of instinct, I tried to hold you down, but before I could get back to sleep, you pulled away from me again. Your arm brushed my cell phone, and you triggered the display. There was a soft blue glow, and I saw a glimpse of your naked body as you slipped into your pants. By the time I had gotten out of bed, you were fully dressed and stuffing things into your purse. I asked you to lie back down, but you refused. You hugged me and told me that you loved me. You whispered the words, "thank you" and walked out of my room while texting someone. After you left, I looked at the clock. It was three forty-two in the morning. Our entire visit was less than four hours, and I was more alone than ever. Seeing you made things worse. I hate myself right now. I hate you for this.

How Two Words Changed My Life.

It was so late, and I hadn't slept for three days. I'd been listening to your mix-tape for the past week, and the bed was colder than it had been since winter of last year. Whenever the chords changed from C to D, the tears would fall. Nothing could fix me, and I was absolutely broken to the core. The light in my bedroom lamp had blown out earlier that night, and I didn't have the energy to replace it. Other than the glow of the screen on my cellphone, the room was dark. It gave my skin a bit of a blue glow, and it reminded me of how we used to watch TV in bed. I had stopped weeping at this point. It wasn't even sobbing or whimpering anymore. It was just one tear after another, falling like a steady rain. I was too hurt to move, and they soaked my pillow to the point of discomfort. My face was dry from the salt, and my mouth was bitter and dry. I was staring at the phone and thinking of you. At that point, I think it was impossible for me to hurt anymore. It was the kind of pain that breeds desperation and makes you rationalize irrational thoughts. I had forgotten what your eyes looked like, and the way your skin felt. I'd forgotten the sound of your voice and the smell of your hair. All I had were memories that were triggered by songs, and those were fading fast. I'm not sure if I was sad because I missed you, or because I was forgetting you. Probably both. When I reached for my phone, I felt like I had lost control. I went into some type of emotional survival mode as I flipped through my contacts and pulled up your name. As I started to text you, the tears stopped and for the first time in a long time, I felt hope. My message contained two words: 

"Come over."

Right now, you are next to me, and I'm writing this as you sleep. Regardless of what happens when you wake up. Those two words changed my life tonight. Maybe forever.

Ten Reasons Why I Hate Emoticons

For over fifteen years, I've had conversations via chat room, text message, and e-mail. While communicating in this manner, I began to notice a disturbing trend. Our Language was being re-written with childish abbreviations. At first, it was only teenagers, but eventually adults started to utilize this new vernacular. The result was a bastardized version of the English language. I'm not happy about it, but I can live with it. 

On the other hand, I have no tolerance for emoticons. Humanity has spent thousands of years developing sophisticated and elaborate languages. To date, this is one of our greatest feats as a species. So, to watch humans replace words (or even full sentences) with a "smiley-icon" breaks my heart and makes my blood boil simultaneously. I knew I hated emoticons, but I couldn't quite verbalize why until now. Recently, while on a long bus ride, I received numerous annoying text messages (none of which I responded to). This led me to scribble out a list of reasons I despise emoticons. 

Here is that list: 

1. Using crude symbols instead of actual words is a step backwards for any society. 
2. No one really makes emoticon-style faces when they text or type. I beg you to find someone that sticks their tongue out and winks at their phone or computer while texting or typing.
3. If you have to signify flirting or innuendo with an emoticon, you're doing it wrong. 
4. Pre-school children communicate with emoticon-style drawings (happy faces, sad faces, etc). It's an infantile form of communication. Teenagers just adapted it and taught it to their parents. Hell, my grandma even sends emoticons via her Jitterbug now. 
5. Most everyone uses emoticons, but that doesn't make it right. Acceptance doesn't validate ignorance. 
6. If we keep it up, emoticons will be in the dictionary and/ or taught schools. 
7. The capitol-O/ underscore/ lowercase-o combo (O_o). I hate this one. It's the emoticon equivalent of a derp face. 
8. Keyboards are for words, not pictures. 
9. I only write what I can speak. Emoticons are an obvious regression from this concept.
10. When I ask a question, I want an answer. Not a smiley face. Is this too much to ask? 

Some say I'm overreacting, but try not using emoticons while communicating on the web or via text message. You'd be surprised how much you've come to rely on them. 

Michael the Tortoise

Lonesome George

A hundred-year-old tortoise died this month. That might not mean much to you, but to me, it's heart breaking. This particular tortoise was the last of his kind, and no other living specimens of his subspecies (Geochelone Abingdoni) are known to exist. Scientists were attempting to breed him with females of a similar genus before he passed on. If successful, he would have had some cute little hybrid babies. Alas, their attempts failed, and he died childless and alone.

Those who read my blog will probably understand why I find this particular story interesting. First, it's a sad story. I like sad stories. Second, his subspecies died because humans hunted the tortoises of the Galapagos Islands and decimated their natural habitat. That's what ultimately led to their extinction. Humans fucked up his life, and he had to deal with horrible circumstances beyond his control. I can relate to that. Lastly, he would rather die than propagate his species. He hated females, and he took that shit to the grave....literally. Hats off to him for that.

If it were up to me to propagate my species, humanity would be doomed. My personal aversion to females has robbed me of my natural instinct to mate. Any desire for companionship that I had was killed off years ago.

So, here's to you George. I look forward to seeing you in the next life. Maybe we can spend the rest of eternity bitching about how women and humanity ruined our natural lives.

Fifteen Cassette Tapes

The Night You Found Me

Our Endless Abnegation by Agnes Cecile

____________________________________________________________________

There was only one hour left before the point of no return. My eyes were red and swollen, and the stone was bitter to my tongue. It was dark, and your face was a mix of shadows amidst the blue shimmers of light. Rings of fire in the night sky opened the doors of heaven, and I was consumed by the minions of darkness.

Sleep was the enemy, and the war was ours. You held my sorrows against your breast, and your desires were mine. Our children had drowned in the crimson river, and we were like death incarnate. The babies gasped for breath as they twitched their feet beneath the covers. The rain wouldn't cleanse my soul. I was soaked in mud and doused in bleach. In the womb, devoid of thought and destiny. 

One thousand words in each hand, but they were all useless in the silence of the abyss. Death was my friend, and I sobbed at the revelation. I felt the serpents in the grass, and for a moment, the caves were empty. Exhausted, I surrendered, and we drifted into nothingness. A lifetime in a day, but forever never came. 

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From the Mailbox

Dear Micheal,

I still remember our first meeting. You were walking in your grandmothers yard. It was January of 1990, and if I recall correctly, you were about thirteen years old at the time. The cold was miserable, and your hair was tussled from the wind. Your jacket was puffy, cheap, and ill-fitting. The cold was brutal, but the look of contentment on your face was unmistakable. You were oblivious and magnetic. I knew from the moment I saw you, I had to have you.

I wasn't sure if you'd ever had a friend before, but my guess was never. When I first spoke to you, your eyes were wild and aimless. Every word you spoke was either a soft mumble or a wild rant.

We played together as the darkness crept in. Your grandparents didn't call you for dinner that night, and we danced for an eternity. The porch light caught glimmers of steam pouring from your mouth as you panted from exhaustion. Your face was flush with blood and shined like a dying sun amidst an endless void. Separation was misery, but we were content.

By the Summer of 1994, things had changed so much. The rain had fallen, and your hands could touch heaven. The wilderness consumed the sky, and all our paths were gone. I wasn't your only friend anymore, and I constantly fought for your attention. I had become completely invisible. A piece of you died with each hand that touched you. The life you gave me was born of innocence, and as the seasons changed, we lost it all. One sleepless summer night, I tried to console you. I couldn't grasp your despair...your restlessness..

I asked you to give me a name. You replied, "I need you to leave."

I asked, "For how long?"

You said, "Forever."

Since that night, no one has believed in me the way you did. Maybe someday I'll recapture what we once had. Until then, I'm just as alone as you are. I love you. I miss you, and I hope you feel the same. 

To me, you'll always be that kid with the awesome magic marker.

The nameless don't have signatures.

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