The One Five. (Week 15)

"Here's the secret to finishing that first book. Don't rewrite as you go."
~ Laurell K. Hamilton

Choice #4. Betcha' didn't see that coming. 

I'm not exactly sure what my plans are, to be quite honest with you. And yes, because this isn't a theme or a prompt, I'm speaking directly to you. A lot of times throughout the semester, I've had to actively try not to do that. It was no easy task. I write a lot...Actually, I used to write a lot, but I was never 100% sure that anyone would ever read it, no matter where said writing was submitted. This was very different. Very...irritating. I might also cut the shit and admit that it was a hell of a lot of fun, even if I did want to run screaming from some of the prompts. 

Well...

Since I'm here, I may as well at least touch a little on everything that the Choice #4 category entails. 

We'll start with "hopes and dreams, strengths and weaknesses, ambitions and failures..."

I hope to hell that I can figure out just exactly what it is that I want to do with myself. I've been driven to write since the days in which I was scribbling angst in spiral notebooks with a Bic pen. I guess that graduating and smoking a lot of weed basically tossed me into a kitchen at some point, and I just became comfortable with the thought of doing that for the rest of my life. I was and still am goddamned good at doing that, but seeing as I had no real dreams of higher education until I was actually engaging in it, I just naturally assumed that I would continue doing just that. But upon being in the classroom; back in the habit of writing for a reason, and not just to unload thoughts or write lyrics for my music, I remembered why in the hell I was writing all of that shit in the first place: I just fucking love doing it. It's something I want to pursue in any capacity that I can, and hopefully get paid to do so. 

Which brings me to my failure, I suppose. 

As you so bluntly put it, there probably isn't much of a light at the end of that tunnel. Unfortunately for someone of my age, appearance and skill set, there aren't a whole hell of a lot of options left for me. I've hit that point in both my personal and professional life where I need to just decide to do something and ride it on out like a Harley on fire. The eventual outcome to doing both this and nothing at all is death, so I might as well at least do what I truly want to be doing, and do that damned thing to the best of my ability....or at least die trying to do that. 

I suppose I have too many romantic dreams, and have seen too goddamned many pictures of Hunter Thompson sitting by a window with a drink on his desk and a typewriter in front of him....but that's me, for better or worse. 

As is true for so many people, many of my greatest strengths are, ultimately, my greatest weaknesses and almost always eventually lead to my epic failures. I am a person that seems to enjoy learning the hard way, but somehow always manages to learn. 

And that brings us around to "reactions to the semester, what changed for better or worse in your writing; course experiences, problems, positives."

Hahahaha.

I've always been honest with you. In fact, I don't really have much to say on this part of the subject matter that I haven't said already throughout the course, itself. I am, after all, a reactionary human being. 

A lot has changed since starting this class, and though you may like to think otherwise, what you do is important. You said that you wouldn't recommend that anyone get an English degree, but you failed to see that despite your pay-grade and your apparent discomfort with it, people like you and Denise make a difference in some people's lives. I think that regardless of income, that says a lot about what people in your unique position are able to accomplish. I also think that regardless of my pay grade, were I in your position, that would make my life a slightly better place to reside. In short, it would be worth it. 

As for the positives and the negatives of the course....

Much like anything, there are pros and cons. Your "old fashioned" sensibilities make you slightly out of reach to someone who is a beacon of popular culture, such as myself. This works well to offer perspective and insight, but fails in your approach to prompts and the way you handle reading about material that is out of your comfort zone. I think your willingness to approach these things at all speaks well for your next round of students, though. Indeed, a willingness to adapt and understand goes a long way in reaching your audience, which is, of course, us...just as you are ours. 

Overall, I found this to be a monumentally pleasing experience, even when I was in the midst of writers block of the  most heinous nature. I appreciate having the opportunity to take one of you classes, and will probably do so again in one of my upcoming semesters. 

I recently read a quote that went something like this "Finishing a book is like taking a child outside and shooting it in the back yard." Or something to that tune. In a way, that's what this is like. I'll honestly miss having to bust my ass to do this every week, and can only say that due to the absence of not having a weekly goal, I may actually start getting some writing done for all of this goddamned music that I have sitting around. 

Thank you for your time, patience and most of all, just being there to give us this opportunity. 

I'm sure this isn't the last you'll hear from me, for good or for ill. 

Lot 13.

"Reality is the leading cause of stress among those in touch with it."
~ Lily Tomlin

One prompt is one prompt, is one prompt, right? As I sit here working on finishing up the last vestiges of work to end this semester of school, the idea that I would ever think such a thing is just outlandishly arrogant of me. Yes, one prompt isn't that big of a deal in the grand scheme of things...until it actually is. 

In the beginning, there were thing here and there that I just didn't give a shit about. Truth be told, a lot of them were directly proportionate to the so-called prompts my ENG professor had posted for me to write about. With things such as "The things I see as I walk down the street - that's heaven to me," as a springboard for writing anything other than episodes of Sesame Street, I figured...What the fuck? I can skip a few of these.

It always starts small. 

My avoidance of these prompts was akin to smoking a joint, if you believe anything that media tells you.  Skipping prompts was my gateway drug into being a total lazy jackass and just putting all kinds of shit off. See, when you only have a class ever-so-often, you kind of don't notice that missing it here and there stacks up on you. You don't realize that you're perilously close to failing the class....until you realize that you're about 15 prompts from being completely raped in the ass by a large Silverback Gorilla, and that you only have about three days in which to keep this awful form of hellish sodomy from happening to you...yes, you. You, who sat around and watched TV. You who decided that going out to the park was more important. You, who sat there on Friday night, drinking beer and playing Dragon Age until midnight, like that was some sort of amazing way to spend your spare time. 

And little did you know it then, but all of those "fuck it's" and I"ll just do five of them at once's" were adding up on you. That the F you would receive would cripple your already in-need-of-life-support GPA, because you thought your Algebra teacher was a jackass, and walked out of his class. 

And guess what?

Low GPA means not coming back. Not coming back means that you don't ear credits. Not earning credits....well...that means you can't transfer to a reputable four-year school, doesn't it? It means no getting that English degree, with a minor in professional writing, doesn't it? 

It means putting back on that goddamned ugly-ass pair of kitchen shoes (comfy and expensive, though they may have been), and grueling away for some asshole that thinks everyone is replaceable until you can buy your way into mediocrity. 

Ah, the ever expanding circle of the larger picture; where everything moves in a slow spiral outward, like the shockwaves of a nuclear blast. 

So here I sit, the stress of finishing my assignments weighing down on me. It would appear to me that as far as classes have gone this semester, I have learned about so goddamned much more than what the class description offered me. Taking culinary classes thought me that well-meaning instructors, no matter how good their intentions or personal accomplishments, don't make for great teachers. Which, consequently, made me realize that the culinary industry is full of shit (which I partially already sensed).  And my ENG course seems to have taught me more about the efficiency of time management and how I want to spend my future than it really has about writing. I'd say that both of these things were worth the money I paid for them, even if I wasn't wholly aware of it when I signed up. 

That being said, I can't think of anything more important than a single, solitary prompt. That one. That insignificant, lowly, worthless ONE... 

Just might be the one that breaks everything. 

Fourteenie.

"Life is a lively process of becoming."
~ Douglas MacArthur

It smiles. The damned thing actually smiles. 

The chrome tilts slightly upward, revealing a fine craftsmanship; little bars sliding down into what resembles a large open mouth with long, straight, shining teeth. Twin rockets fly from what appears to be the fat lower lip, curving around it's face, becoming a monstrous, mirror-like jaw. Circled in silver, the headlamps of it's eyes droop down in an ominous stare, backed by horizontal lines and set one on top of the other. The rounded hood pulls back to reveal a bullet flying through a circle, sitting neatly on the edge of the curve, waiting for a moment of speed to solidify the illusion. 

Down it's midnight blue frame, four shiny portholes give texture to the flawless, waxed surface, and beyond the slightly squared side view mirrors and the almost precise window-level door handles, the script "Roadmaster" sits slightly above and before the rear wheel wells. The signature red circle around the R sits in contrast to the unmarred purity of the whitewall tires, lending a welcome light to an otherwise sinister-looking piece of machinery. 

The rear boasts eight signaling lamps, with the largest four looking like the tip of a 50's sci-fi death-beam, rounded, red and slightly coned.  Between each of these, which are on either side of the trunk, are two smaller, circular red lamps, and sitting plainly under the trunk, there are the two medium-sized white reverse lamps. Under even these is the back bumper, polished to a point that a nighttime driver's headlamps would probably blind them, were they unfortunate enough to get behind this force of nature.

The trunk itself is big enough to hold a family of four, should the need ever arise, with a spot carved out in the right-hand side for a full-sized spare. 

The interior is pristine. Both the front and rear bench seats are two-tone, midnight blue and white. The leather is oiled and shiny, neither cracked or bleached by sun. The lap belts rest lazily on the blue ridges, waiting on a passenger to protect. 

The steering wheel just ominously out of it's column, skinny and frail looking, with an old-fashioned wheel-mounted horn mechanism, the automatic shifter for the 2 speed V8 resting just behind. 

All of these things can be seen, touched, realized and observed, but nothing can describe the desire for the drive; the hunger for the open road. There are no words for the shift in momentum, the danger of testing the boundaries of speed and performance. 

As it sits, waiting for another chance at that open-ended freedom...it smiles. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Six pairs of shoes. 

Well, technically there are five pairs of shoes and one pair of boots. Well, if the Docs count as boots, even though they're low-topped, then there are four pairs of shoes and two pairs of boots. 

That means that there is a possibility of skateboard riding, hiking, motorcycle riding, hours of kitchen work, at least two marathons and probably (most likely) one bad fall in there somewhere. The fact that almost none of these things (save one) will ever happen isn't important. What is important, however, is that there is the possibility of these things. 

Shoes for style, shoes for work, shoes for play. Shoes meant for play that never get used for anything, lest they get dirty, shoes meant for one thing, used for another, shoes buried under piles of clothing, shoes getting tripped over in the dark. Shoes in the way of things, shoes that are lost, shoes that are found. There is at least one pair of shoes that are seriously running the risk of never being used again. 

Six pairs of shoes. 

If there are only four pairs of shoes and two pairs of boots, then are there too many pairs of shoes? Does having "too many" pairs of shoes only count if all pairs of footwear are taken into the equation? 

Shoes for dancing, shoes for standing your ground. Shoes for running away and running to. Shoes for walking the mile, and walking a mile in someone else's shoes. Put the shoe on the other foot, shoeing out the old, scrounging for a shoe horn, trying to make that good ol' pair fit one more time. 

A lot can be said about a pair of shoes. 

A pair of shoes can say a lot. 

13. Unlucky for some.

"Everything's got space between it, the planets, trees, your eyes. Your eyes get too close together, it's a whole different world. You can lose perspective."
~ Mos Def

68.

As a human being, everyone likes to think that they're special. It's the grand conundrum of being a "sentient being." I guess the term, "I think, therefore I am," is about as good as a term as any for this misguided sense of worth. We all, on some level, think that just because we "are," that there is some sort of meaningful purpose or grand design, or some divine providence that makes us unique and worthwhile. On some base level, I guess that I somewhat agree with this. After all, admitting to the contrary would make my existence flawed and without worth, would it not? However, as the spiral moves outward, it's important to look at things from a much larger perspective. For example, I do  a lot, mean a lot and have an outcome over what happens in my house on a daily basis. But how much does my presence change what takes place on my street? Surely if I burned down my house, or drove into my neighbors kids, yes. But on an average day, anyone could live in this house, and it wouldn't change a goddamned thing that takes place on my street. Things certainly wouldn't change on my block. I've seen people come and people go since moving into this house. Aside from giving me something to gawk at and talk about for maybe 30 minutes, the lives of my neighbors hasn't miraculously changed the way in which I live, so the argument could certainly be pointed in the other direction. 

And that bodes the question of what this town would do without me living, breathing, playing and working in it. I have to come the logical conclusion that since the town got on just fine before I decided to grace it with my presence, that it would continue to do just that in my absence. Yes, I can vote in elections, my tax dollars go toward the welfare of the citizens and I'm sure that if I do what anyone who thinks rationally does, and buys from local purveyors, farmers and whatnot, that I directly contribute in some small way. But all of that only exists as a mere fraction. My vote only counts if the bill gets passed. Companies won't shut down because I bought my coffee at Starbucks one day, and Ma Kettle's Cafe and Bakery the next. Hannaford's big name brand lettuce in my salad won't kill Old McDonald's farm. I'm not even a cog in the wheel....I am simply a molecule in the lubricant of the machine. Knowing that, I certainly don't think that anything short of killing a Governor would ever make my day-to-day hum-drum mean anything on a state level. I compete in no events, work for no government agency, and find that writing letters and voting almost never yield the desired results (see George W. Bush), so that fairly kills me in the broad spectrum of the nationals. I won't even do myself the disservice of thinking about myself in global terms. I've never once set foot outside of this country. 

The funny thing about most of this, is that it's true for a lot of people. For the average household, this is life. It's focusing on the little things; the family, the job, the weeks of vacation, affording that new car, that little bit of free time, that makes life seem livable. You meet a man or a woman, you become special to them, you become a part of something small, but larger than just you. Friends, work, local charity. This all means something to the individual, yet nothing to the world at large. And that's the trick to all of it; taking pleasure and finding happiness where you can. 

The ability to use tools doesn't make me anything more than what I am, and the ability to think in a cognitive form doesn't make me anything but lonely. But even if I were a potted plant, I would still be.  

So I'm not even sure that "I think, therefor I am," really means much, when you really start to thi....ahhhh. See what I did there?  

67.

I was born in a marriage between rebellion, unity and air; birthed at the end of an arm and raised to show dissent, compassion and solidarity. I am Black Power, White Power, and have graced the Spanish Civil War. I have graced Afro Picks, occupied Wall Street, and banned medal winners from competing in the Olympic Games. Indeed, I have caused racial tension, been mistaken and can be considered a symbol of hate, even though I know of no such thing. After all, everyone that uses me thinks that they are somehow just. I am the Red Salute; held high on a Marxist right, while my anarchist left is held aloft by libertarian socialists. I am Food Not Bombs, Women's Liberation, the Italian Radical Party, and the People's National Party. I am United Farm Workers, Socialist Youth Front, and the Jewish Defense League. I stand for Anarcha-Feminism, the Antifeminist Movement, Black Panthers and The Rotfrontkämpferbund. The friends of my friends are my enemies and I am their friend, as well. I stand for oppression and peace, dominance and submission. I am used, misused, misguided and distorted; giving hope, holding on, breaking down and building up. I am new, old, washed up and squeaky clean, but more importantly, I am stronger than the five parts that make me. But who am I?

62. 

For need of dollars, the beer was lost. For want of the beer, patience was lost. For want of patience, the relationship was lost. For want of relations, the pride was lost. For want of pride, the home was lost. For want of a home, the job was lost. For want of a job, the income wast. All for want of some income for beer. 

12 Pack

Be courteous to all, but intimate with few, and let those few be well tried before you give them your confidence.

~ George Washington

This is a cliche. I'm warning you, the reader, that what you're about to dive into is going to be something that has been done a million times over and probably something that is fit for the Lifetime Channel. That being said, I'm going to breathe new life into it, make it palatable and most importantly, do the subject some serious justice while I'm at it. What the hell am I going on about, you ask? I'm going to write about my best friend in the whole wide world. 

In the summer of 1997,  I was working a real bullshit job at a movie theater in Charlotte, NC. This was one of those jobs that people take either because they have a lot going on in life, are lazy, want to see a shitload of free movies, or happen to have serious social lives that require them to be able to sleep until noon. At the time, I either fit into all of those categories, or I was just smoking so much weed at the time that it only seemed that way. This was one of those jobs that required the wearing of of a paisley vest and a bow tie, so I must have been smoking some amazing shit if I thought this was a good idea. But that is another story all in itself. 

While working at this fucking travesty of a theater (it was the last one in Charlotte to be reformatted with the now-standard "stadium seating),  I met a hard working, incredibly serious young man named Brandon Lunsford. I was completely oblivious to it at the time, but this meeting would inevitably alter the way I look at life in general, and impact the rest of my years in ways that my selfish young mind couldn't even perceive at the time.

Upon meeting this guy, I wasn't initially moved in any way. He was the friend of friends, you see. I had gotten the job through a guy named Brian, who knew a woman named Jenny, who happened to be the assistant manager of said establishment. As it turns out, that was just the beginning. I got my friend at the time, Will, a job there and it was he, initially, that ended up connecting to Brandon. At the time, I was more concerned with things like women, hanging out, smoking weed, drinking and being a general jackass than I was about anything else that might have been going on, which didn't land me in exactly a prime spot to become anything even resembling "close" with Mr. Lunsford. To the best of my ability to recall the past, he was already in college, working on what would later become a Master's degree. In short, despite the things we already had in common then, I just didn't really see a connection. He was working toward something greater in life, and I was working on becoming a fucking pariah. 

For the next few years, I would come across Brandon's path occasionally. I recall him letting me crash in small one bedroom apartment a few times, either when I had nowhere else to go or had late nights hanging out with him and a few others. Even then we got along really well, but I was more of a burden on him than anything else. He's an extremely generous human being, you see. If he can help someone out, he will, even at his own expense if he thinks it's worth it. I hate to admit it, but at the time of these exchanges, I was not. 

And on it went like this for a bit until one day, we just kind of lost touch. I mean, I would see him around. He was still friends with Will and that whole ex-movie theater crowd. This crowd, so far as I know, somehow still manages to be friends after all of these years.

In fact, I'm not exactly sure when things changed. He could probably say, but he isn't here. Nor is he being exactly prompt about returning my texts. Somehow, he and I started spending a lot of time together. I think he came over to my house with that movie theater crowd on night and stayed a little longer than everyone else. Or we hit it off and made plans without them. Something.... The point is that we ended up going out more and more, or he ended up coming by my house more and more. This just sort of magically took place, and went like that until I ended up leaving Charlotte. 

To be fair, I've omitted a lot of what went on, either because I don't feel like writing a fucking book on the subject, or just because a lot of it is the same, yet with subtle differences. For example, we used to frequent this bar/restaurant called The Penguin. On any given week we could be found there 2-3 nights a week, drinking pitchers of Yuengling, popping dollars into the jukebox and playing the same old shit. I'm sure the other regulars hated us coming through the door, as Rock Box, by RUN D.M.C. was never far to follow. I could write chapters and chapters on this, as just about everyone we knew would, at some point, make a cameo in our weekly ritual. The subtle changes in conversation, music and mood would do a lot to change the dull, smoky, red-and-black atmosphere of what writing about "The Bird" (as we affectionately called it) would be like. 

Then there were the "Bad Movie Wednesdays." Again, same shit, different environment/group of people. Brandon and I would meet up with a small group of our close circle of friends for dinner, beer and usually two-shitty B-Horror movies. The houses changed, as did the food and who showed up, but it was basically the same shit over and over again, yet with subtle changes. 

It's not all the same, though. We grew, we changed.
I ended up taking off to see the world, or as much of it as I could travel with what little I had and still have to my name. He decided to stake his claim in our home town, setting up camp and stoking the fires for visits and future endeavors.
Different women, different towns, different shades in the color spectrum of thinking, acting and living. Through it all, we still remain as close as ever. Yeah, I don't see him as much, but I talk to him a minimum of three or four times a week.
I can't help but feel like our adventure is need of more chapters, however. I guess that's part of living, though. Not a lot of people are content with the time they have and the things that get done in said time. But I'm not fortune teller. I can no longer predict what is to come between us than I was back when I decided to leave. I can only enjoy what I have, while I have it.
And I think that I do that very well. 

Twenty - 12 (ongoing)

"There are lies, damned lies and statistics."

~ Mark Twain

56.


When the lines start to blur and all of the mush that fills the happy little center of things starts to leak out all over the goddamned beige carpet of life, it's probably about high time to redirect the forward momentum of things. They say that the good die young, and that the old have it coming, but us of middle age are always sort of caught in-between all of that, right? 
The rock 'n roll generation has it's claim to fame in the high cocaine rush, the back stage pass, ludicrous hair styles and sexually transmitted mind control. It's Ronald Reagan wearing a Max Headroom mask, feeling his way through a generation by grabbing breasts and feigning emotion; the process of method acting. 
I look out on the streets today and I see the same tin-can-reality that made people like Jimmy Carter want to live in a fucking tent. With perspectives skewed and the prospect of "the eternal Hell" pressing in on the great white suburban mythic, the pressure on those that will come behind us seems down right torturous. After all, the sins of the fathers and their wives and their lives must weigh heavily on the heads of those babes that wish nothing more than a burning sensation and a spot on the tour bus. 
The slackers anthem screams at us from the sidelines, yet with all of our sweet nation's patience for the "life at home," have we all but forgotten where we came from?
If prohibition taught us anything, it's that you can't keep doors closed; that every word speaks easy, and that the good of the common decency will eventually be ruled out, as money can be made. With odds like that, who in their right minds would dare stand up and take anyone in arms? Who would bare arms and invite his fellow man into an embrace?
If I utilized things of green for anything other than cooking, I would probably like to  deny inhaling with a man named Clinton. Be it George or Bill, the outcome would be the same. After all, if it's not "One nation under a groove," then it's divided by people who support all of the wrong aspects of something that could almost be positive...were it not for the negatives. 
We've traded "H," "snow," grass," and ass for Autism, asbestos, 911 and some serious, undeniably real...estate; a serious bitch with a burning crotch, one that knows who's fucking who. 
If Ward Cleaver could see the puddle of the future, he might have wished to be a little more colorful in his metaphors. He might have looked at things in a less black and white manner. He might have....might have. 
If if's and and's were pots and pans, the goddamned cliches would probably keep writing lines and making judgments. 
Unfortunately, the Wheatley's of the world have taken all of the goddamned fun out of sex, drugs and rock 'n roll. 






57.


Ever heard of life? It's that thing that makes you think about sitting on the beach, sipping mixed drinks out of some sort of tropical fruit with a little paper umbrella while gazing out at the vast expanses of the majestic ocean, feeling the warm breeze roll across your half-naked body. But that's about it, really. You get to think about such things, because that damnable thing called "life" is really about watching the fucking kids, who happen to be out of school all summer. That fucking "life" thing means that instead of taking it easy, instead of having a week free from the everyday struggles of the grind, you get to be even more on the grind, because they'll be in the house 24 hours a day. Add working and going to school part time, and that's the best summer vacation that anyone could possibly want. And that's not really even sarcasm, because on this particular summer vacation, it all takes place in your head. Sadly, anyone who has a knack for storytelling or writing will agree that the reality of things is almost never as good as it sounds in the imagination or on paper. 
So as I sit back and "feel the sand on my toes," I'm just one square inch away from doing in with the whole bloody process and seeing just how much pressure can build up in an oil tank before it makes the house into a smoldering wreck. 
Ah....A campfire! Camping would certainly make for a wonderful vacation.....

Eleven Hours.

"Be able to notice all the confusion between fact and opinion that appears in the news."
~ Marilyn vos Savant

55.

What I feel about the situation ultimately doesn't matter, as there's not a damned thing that I can do about it. I can speculate, sure. I can count days, place blame, write short little essays, but in the end, much like all things of the past, the moment is forever lost and Delorians don't run on garbage. 

My mother's death isn't something that gets brought up a lot. I'm not even sure why. I guess it's because people have this ingrained sensibility that talking about things that are considered "taboo" is...well...taboo. It's completely absurd, if you ask me. I mean, leave it to a few radically unstable people in the world, and now everyone dances around certain subjects like life will end right then and there if they get brought up. 

She died when I was old enough to realize, rationalize and compartmentalize what that meant in the grand scheme of things, but still young enough to hold grudges and blame everyone but those responsible. Hey, it happens. It's not fair, but it happens. If that's not a song lyric, then I don't know what is. 

Truth be told, I don't remember much about her, other than the obvious. Just that little bit that was over-the-top. Sad to say, but the subtleties of that woman's existence are forever lost to those that knew her before I came into the picture. Those that "knew her best," I would dare to say. Me? I don't think I ever knew her at all, really. Even to this day, I don't ever say her name, as I didn't really know her as a "person." There's just this vague idea of a shadowy grey-spot where this instrumental force should have been. I'm getting ahead of myself. I think I should just tell the goddamned story. 

My mother was a depressing human being. I guess it wasn't helped any by the fact that she also thought of herself this way, which basically made her meaner than a sack full of rabid weasels, and subsequently lead to her always needing to feel like the victim. I guess that to her, everything in life was somehow stacked against her, which means that she could sit back and take no responsibility for anything that took place around her. 

I guess that's why she drank so goddamned much. On some level, she knew good and damned well what was taking place, she was just too terrified of ever having to own up to any of it to make any real or rational change. In all honesty, the thing I remember most about the woman was the booze. If a writer writes and a painter paints, then a self-destructive single woman with the mind of a teenager and an inability to grasp the basic principles of her own actions drinks. I guess that in a lot of uncompromisingly real ways, the booze was her way of keeping things at bay. It was a tool to her. Not only was it the prime method of her own undoing, but it was ultimately what she used to write, paint, chisel and weave her own tale. 

Throughout the years, I've wondered all kinds of strange things concerning her passing. For one, I never attended her funeral. This has led me to believe, on several occasions, that I may have been lied to about her passing. Anyone that knew me well enough at the time would have known that once I received anything even resembling closure with her, that I wouldn't have looked any deeper into the situation. It's not even remotely unreasonable that anyone who cared about me in the slightest would have concocted such a story to keep me away from her. However morbid that sounds, the reality of having lived it is all the more unsettling. Hell, even to this very day, I've never even bothered to check up on the tale. If it was all hocus-pocus, I accepted it. 

Secondly, and perhaps most importantly, it would have seemed that someone in a situation like that, living the lie, the nightmare, the confusion, would have learned at a very early age to stay the hell away from the booze. And if you were talking about someone other than myself, you'd more than likely be right. For whatever reasons, I ended up picking up the bottle, as well. Hell, in a lot of ways, I'm worse in that department than she ever was. I've picked up the bottle, the can, the grass, the powder, the pills, the little sheets of magical paper, the mushrooms. I'm not exactly sure what all of that means from a psychological standpoint, but I'm sure that there's a strong case for "mommy-issues" lodged in there somewhere. 

Last, but certainly not least, I think that in some way, she completely altered my perceptions of people as a whole. After all, parents are the child's model for normalcy. That was the bag that I was left holding, and much like the fantastical lie of the fat man that brings gifts every year in December, I've been carrying it ever since. I got a peek behind the curtain, and I have never been able to see anything but Oz ever since. 

For what it's worth, I think that everyone needs some sort of tool. I think that ice cream works for some people. I think that others carve life into the daily wood with exercise, others dance. People make music, they look to others, they climb large rocks, or jump out of machines that move at the speed of sound, miles above the ground. But the daily art of living can't be crafted without a tool of some sort. Even if that tool happens to be the memory of someone that you can't quite remember ever loving, but can't help but realize the impact that they had on your continued march forward into oblivion. 

54.

3397.
There was no more reason for it.

It could have been anything, really. After all, there were at least 3396 before it, but after having read through so many; seeing the way that a mind works when it clearly isn't working at all... I knew, I just fucking knew...This was the one.