Just be.

I punched a wall.

That was stupid.

I walk back and forth to the mirror most days, yet every time I check it's still just me in the reflection. I've always been obsessed with mirrors. I thought if I could look at other people and see into there existence, then maybe I could understand my own in the looking glass. I've yet to make anything but fallible sense of me.

I think I'm to the point in all of this where I just get on my knees and beg for forgiveness. Which is exactly what I did...after I punched the wall. I wear this necklace around my neck, so obviously my most prized possession, featuring 2 charms of contrasting worth but equal value. One, a shamrock my cousin Kayla bought for me for two quarters at a garage sale in Rochester. We also bought peace sign and flower jewelry cuz we thought the 70's were cool that summer. Big mistake. The other charm is a pinky ring, which doesn't even fit my pinky, that belonged to my great great grandmother. It has been passed down from mother to first daughter for a good many generations. My grandmother, the greatest women to ever live in the history of women living, gave it to my eldest Aunt. Eldest, not oldest. Yes, there's a difference. My aunt didnt have any childer and thus, the scandal arose when she chose to give it to me, not the eldest niece and not the rightful heir. Still, I've worn this thing everywhere but onstage with me, when either my Mom or the most trustworthy techie in the joint wears it. I like that it has seen the good stuff and the bad stuff. Its like a family member in that way.

I always heard getting what you want isn't what it seems. I just didn't know it was true. Seems to me no luck is perfect luck, no wish comes with accurate karma. Dreams come true, they just aren't painted in the same colors you'd imagined. I think the smart people find a way to accept this. Afterall, isn't reality more exciting than a script?

And this is, the final lie. The ultimate lie. In order to get what I now need, I have to let so much wash away from me. Like a silk scarf into a river. Or a ring in the bottom of the drain.

The life of rebel is no afterparty. It's shit and dumb luck, bad luck and constant intensity. Mine is a continued history of brilliance, a smile as direct result of a laughable outspokenness. Yet every spotlight has its shadow. I have my lies, and secrets, my scapegoats and phony alibis. I wish it were an honest path to get to where I am, but nothing real is golden. It's a little bit silver. I have no bronze. Shit, who do you think I am?! There was a time in my life when all that matter was Bronze, Silver, and Gold. One got you the worst, disappointed silence I could ever imagine, one brought reprimand via boot camp, and the last got you, "Why isn't this Elite Gold?" Satisfaction was never the issue, it was how well you told the lie. I can't believe I grew up as an artist like that.

What's more important, lying in order to move on, or having an honest heart?

I won't make this about the past. I will do how I do and take a shot at answering the aforementioned question. How did this night become the enemy? It's over, it's over, it's over.

Just be.
I have never felt more here than I do in this moment. Never more alive, at least recently, and unattached to the mistakes I have been making for such a long time coming. Maybe forgiveness and faith are like milk and cookies, sun and summer, scarves and rivers.






..Ricky.
"Take My Hand" by: The Cab

this.is.the ending of the beginning.

Girls don't get dressed up for boys, they get dressed for the other girls that are going to be there. I stand in this familiar stance before the full-length mirror in cute scene garb, trying to be critical of this 3rd outfit choice but I know I like what I see. There are a zillion variations on the little black dress and I have mastered them all. My repertoire is seriously fabulous. I laugh at my Nathenisms and grab a bright red sweater before trotting out to my car.

I have the new All Time Low cd in the passengers seat, but I would rather listen to Score 24's latest. What a sick little scene girl I am! The ride to Vibe is like it always is; heartbeatingly grueling but musically perfect. I love your clothes I love you sober! My least favorite part of any show is pulling in and walking up. Your insides are anxious to get settled in, but your outsides must be totally cool. Sunglasses are such a savior at this point. When I walk up today Sam Wore Black, Matt and Anthony In Color, and @ash_veltch are standing apart from the constant young obnoxious scene kids. Any doubt I have is shattered when Matt hollers acknowledgments of my presence. "Hug me damnit!" I feel more comfortable standing around outside this venue than I do in my own kitchen. If outside is the kitchen, downstairs is the living room, and the stage is the bedroom. Obviously.

Our little group fades away and Matt and I are left doing what we do. We trade secrets. It's business really. We figured out a long time ago we could help each other out, and what a beautifully educated friendship this could be. I don't mind that you can never really be sure what's fact and what's fiction from Matt's mouth. What he gives are tips, leads on juicy stories to come. Matt is just one of my (no longer) anonymous insiders. He makes a comment about how long I've known him and we smile on it for a second because it seems odd to realize. Scene time clocks twice as fast as real time. I love Matt similar to the way I love Kevin (which they both would kill me for saying if they ever read this.) It's a love sort of in respect for the past. Something must have happened back then in those early Stereo Skyline days with us- something that makes what's done, just done, and that makes me not so much mind Matt's lies or Kev's absence. Arnold Palmer and a Pack of 27's. Hospital lines.

There are a lot of shitty bands in this world. There are even more mildly decent ones that I just can't get into. We sit, cool kids behind the merch tables on brand new old couches in the recently painted Vibe Lounge and wait smugly for this fucking set to be over. Our postures suggest that we don't want to be bothered and our expressions confirm that we could give a fuck about your existence. I laugh as Matt sings in my ear, pointing out this band's blatant copy of Click 5 melodies. Ashley sarcastically picks on the singer's "sweet moves" and Genna straight up plugs her ears. We're the cool kids behind the merch tables, sitting smugly with Blackberrys and Jac Vanek bracelets to prove we are the It crowd and seriously, don't give a fuck.

Bride takes the stage and I put my notes away, half because I just want to take in every part of this last set and half because Matt, Sam, Mike, and Ant have already asked 3 times each what I'm gonna write tonight. The set starts off with Sean getting gang raped by a group of kids that recognize him from what school he went to. It's a school name I won't mention since he's apparently been trying to keep his alma mater a secret thus far. These are the same group of kids that will be at Sean's beckon command for the rest of the show. If he says clap, there isn't a hand that goes untempoed. If he says dance, there isn't a body that goes unmoshed. If he says keep throwing change, there isn't a nickel that goes unlaunched at the band. Yeah, that happened.

I think of all the things I could write about Sam, as he trashes around in front of a spotlight, illuminated with sweat and sheer energy. Or Mike, who's got the kids reaching out on bended knee for more bass. Yet all I can think of is how I've said before, I wish I could keep them like this. Let them skip all the bad shows and dead crowds, all the times the van is gonna break down and they're gonna run out of money. Let them just have this or better, constantly. I'm happy when the scene boys are happy, and looking at Tibby tonight makes me wonder if I should be happier about all of them being gone for the summer. It's what they want. "I tried I tried my best to keep us alive, but with each mile I drive another piece of us dies." Of course my 11:11 moment is glorious and I can't help but think I'd rather be here and work through a Stereo Skyline show any day.

Afterwards Devin is sarcastically annoyed with me for giving my honest opinion of how they sounded. If you want to be doted on in the Matt sex voice then ask one of the scene sluts at the top of the stairs what they thought, otherwise take what I give you. For the record though, Pray to the Porcelain God was my favorite, Sean is amusing no matter how he sounds, Sam's strokes were eh, okay, Devin gives this scene's most seamless stalls, and Mike... Mike could kick Cal Knapp's scrawny ass any time on the watch.

Outside on the the sidewalk behind the trailer I find myself simultaneously saying goodbye to Bride and writing the last page of the Book. As always I wonder what the next one will hold, and through my fears I hope that it will not out rule nights like this one. I look around and see things have changed; I'm not the girl loading the trailer to earn attention and despite what they may think, I'm not trying to get with anyone in the band. I have no sidekick anymore and in most outfits, I'm cool with that. I know where I belong, now I just have to move with it.

This Book has so many affectations; the chipped corners where it got dropped in the mosh pit, the bubbled back cover where Andre stuck youth medium marked masking tape. The "LOVE" on the front that symbolizes the scene at the time it was written. People recognize this book, I guess it's my job to make sure they recognize the next one too. This last page marks the end of the beginning for me, the personal close to stories that I will be uncovering slowly for you guys as the right rhetoric arises. I think it's appropriate to end the Book with a lyric, but which one? Ahh yes...



"And if you're counting on me to keep my head and heart high, I can't promise results but I can promise to try."






...Ricky.
what's your favorite LI/NYC scene song?

No ones wins until someone gives up.

"Heyy, what's up?"

Never before has there seemed to be such a brooding philosophical question. What IS up with me? Anger, a lot of anger. And bitterness. There's a lot of unforgiving going on, a lot of inability to let go. There's a picture of Johnny Rotten on my desktop and a Book unwritten on the table to the left of me. Its last pages are coming up and I won't have them filled with inconclusiveness. Another unreturned text, another explosion of punk rage. I lie to myself to keep my memory safe. But I had this dream:

Andre is staring at me. He's sitting on the Love Cruiser, also known as Valet Parking's trailer. Lefty Campbell is parked at the end of the block. Everyone is texting. Everyone is wearing sunglasses even though the thunder set in ten minutes ago. We are in the shade of the trees in Westerleigh Park, but somehow I don't feel anchored to this time and place.

Andre is cutting Joey's hair. Jerry thinks he can do it better but instead of taking over he goes quiet for a good fifteen minutes making plans to open his own Scene Cut/Music Venue business. I think it could really work. "Get your hair cut, see a show? Fuck, of course!"

In this dream I have come to find out the realities of these boys mid-tour, but all I see is tough love. They have half a bag of stale pretzels and can't find the water bottles, though some skate a few blocks to splurge on KFC. Chris is sick in the backseat of the van. His bandmates are courteous and let him sleep, however the van serves not only as bedroom, but living room, dining room, and veranda so noise levels and traffic can't be making the drummer feel much better.

A downpour commences and I am locked away in the driver's seat in front of the Love Cruiser. I try to remember what rain means in dreams. When it's time to load in, the vans pull around to a gazebo and procrastinate. Sometimes Jamie and I watch the memorial service for Michael Jackson in the van. I punch Valet Nick when he makes ignorant comments about previous King of Pop allegations. Sorry about your collarbone, kid.

I like the way Valet Parking plays in flip flops or no shoes at all. I like that I don't really care what they are wearing, though if I could convince Nick to wear a black t-shirt every show, I would. Chris has been unanimously diagnosed with a fever, but I guess c'est la tour. I want to take many of their lyrics back to reality with me, maybe stick them to my head like magnets as a constant reminder, a pick-me-up. "After the letdown and the lies, I'm just happy to be alive."

Suddenly the scene kids start to ooze out of the woodworking, coming around corners on bikes and scooters in full Hot Topic gear and stern 'impress me' faces. I can tell these merchandised rockers have never been off this un-scened island and I want Score 24 to break through all their piercings and tough attitudes.

Score's harmonies are off and I wonder if "technical difficulties" can really be an excuse at this point. Yet their antics and pants make it easier to get over their musical mistakes than it should be. I look over and see the girl with 3 lip rings and a Monroe start to bounce. Joey stands at the side of the stage despite our constant All Time Low 'Weightless' video reference jabs and I appreciate him doing his time. He's towards the end of a self-sentenced parole, and when they let him come onstage to sing a part or two, I can tell his hair is always done and lips are always wet, ready on command to make his comeback. Joey with an acoustic in his hands closely resembles a certain one of his idols, which I think he wouldn't mind knowing since these bands are constantly sound checking with "I'm No Hero" or "The Timing." They don't make me want to Party, but they do force me to remember what it was to be a Good Girl.

The scene after the sets could not be painted more perfect. "It's like...everyone's normal again." Jamie points out. Ryan is skating. Rob is dancing like an idiot but doing it well. Joey is air-guitaring. Jerry is air-jerking off. Everything makes sense in my dream. The only lingering sadness is that of my pesty grip on reality. With the songs already played I can feel my time here is counted. I took a walk with Jay thinking, I don't know, we could find some plateau or shoreline to give up on. Instead we came to a corner shrubbery and he told me he thinks I bring this misery upon myself. I knew then that the war was not ending today. When I fight I'm like a mason and brick walls have to come down before the grudges are let go of. I need to be taught how to let go. A part of me illy wonders if the other part of me will ever release. Jay says he needs at least the rest of the time they're gone to be away from me, I am not yet forgiven. But how can I expect to be if I have not yet forgave? I am still in search for the ability to forgive. I'm like a bandaid that won't stick, but I want to stay in my place. That's what's been so difficult. I have defined my place and worth by what these scene boys need of me. The sum of absence, misjudgment, scars, and fears has left me with no definition of my self. I gaze across this after-set scene and think this might be the last dream of it's kind. I start to cry and Jay says, "no tears." He explains to me that the real lesson I need to learn is that they're there even if I can't see them. He said I would always have him and Andre. I look across the lawn and sidewalk, over at the merch table where Andre sits awkward and hunched over, offering Jerry one of his S'mores Pop Tarts. Jerry declines, pointing to his own box of Chips Ahoy, the second one I've seen him dig out of the van today. The band onstage is playing a cover of Journey. Everyone is texting. I'm in the shade of the trees in Westerleigh Park and somehow when I'm gone, I hope I can get back to this time and place.

I wake up from a dream. At first I don't know where I am but I can feel the absence, the confusion. My head is heavy and I reach up to feel something is stuck to it. "So just let it go after an all time low. If this is what she wants then this is what she'll get." Maybe forgiveness is.....moving on.





...Ricky.
"Small White Lie" by: Valet Parking

They told me, a man should be faithful..and walk when not able.. and fight till the end, but I'm only human.

June 25, 2009
I wrote at 7:43pm

Michael Jackson has died.

They say we will always remember where we were the day Elvis Presley died. Or when the first and second planes crashed into the World Trade Centers on 9/11. I sure can. On September 11, 2001, I was in Mr. Mitchell’s honors math class sitting a row over from my long-time friend Kristin Yerkie, whom I fondly called ‘Janet.’ She knew me as ‘Mikey’ in return. When the news of terror finally made it’s way upstate and into my small classroom, I was not even paying attention. In fact I didn’t notice something was wrong until Mr. Mitchell walked out to compose himself. Instead I was daydreaming, wiggling in my seat and using my no. 2 pencil to jot down sequined details that I wanted in my upcoming Jackson family full stage tribute show.

Name a point in my life and I will tell you a story of how Michael Jackson was there. When I first discovered him my younger cousin Kayla had made me fast forward through all of our Free Willy VHS to get to the MJ video that rolled after the credits. I will never forget how she imitated his melodic screeches and howls, or how annoyed she was when I wouldn’t watch her. But my eyes were stuck on him; this man with his arms out and face to the sky, in a torn white shirt with a heart that seemed to radiate beyond his tiny frame. I remember deciding I wanted to be epic like that.

Michael Jackson was there when I made my mother drive me to Party City so that I could buy a cardboard fedora just like the one Michael wore in Smooth Criminal. I used to say that hat was my most prized possession. It was a song that changed my entire dance career. For a year I carried around a backpack that cased black jazz shoes, white ankle socks, a white v-neck, black pants that I’d learned to hem up myself, and a red button down shirt that I’d stolen out of my father’s closet. And of course, one white glove. The hat I carried outside of the bag, naturally, so it’s acutely curved brim would stay exactly like Michael’s. I performed my version of Smooth Criminal everywhere and anywhere that year; basements, school dances, family barbeques. I still believe seeing me perform that routine was what convinced my parents that I was really going to move to the city to find my spotlight.

Some people are part of a movement, Michael Jackson WAS a movement. The way he saw the world, translated it into his art, the way he inspired millions of people to make a change just by taking a look in the mirror. Everything about this man was special, from the toes of his mesmerizing patent leather shoes, to the tips of his single sequined white glove. People say they will always remember where they were when Michael Jackson blew up his Motown Anniversary TV spot with the never before seen Moonwalk. I can tell you what my chest felt like when I finally got the footage of it on tape. I don’t remember how many times rewinding it took me to learn it. They say he was inhuman, mental, sick, instable, dangerous, and broke. But Michael Jackson represented everybody, in all places of the world. How can you expect him to be just another stereotype? Sha’mon people, sha’mon.

When the King of Pop died, I was sitting on the front stoop of my post-grad Long Island home. It had been a rough day. Sometimes I get these feelings, inklings that something bad is about to happen. These days, they are hard to distinguish. I was not answering my phone that day, but something caused me to set to opening the 8 new text messages it was holding. The first one was from my brother:

MJ is dead.

I remember the way the phone sounded as it hit against the slate porch and how I scraped my foot running into the living room. The first thing I thought was; he is faking his own death. Genius. It seemed to take an eternity for the remote to find CNN. At this point Michael was reportedly in a coma and I remember not knowing whether to hold my breath or drop to my knees. There were images of helicopters over Neverland and the entrance of the UCLA medical center where he had been taken. And when the news brief came that “singer Michael Jackson is dead,” I remember a brief moment of weightless silence; a soft inhale before everything came crashing down in which magic and childhood was still real, in which it was possible to hold the hand of an angel and to dance with peace and harmony. I sat there on the couch sobbing, begging “no don’t leave me here” in between gasps of air. I called my mother, she hadn’t heard. I could barely speak to her and I apologize for any meanness that I portrayed in that phone call. There were a handful of missed calls and bunches of text messages from people who’d thought of me as soon as it happened. I thank and love those people, and again, apologize for not answering. The day that Michael Jackson died, I wouldn’t speak to anyone for another 2 days.

June 28, 2009

Three days later, I was at a high school graduation party for my cousin who is, ironically enough, named Michael. I hadn’t seen a spark in my eyes or a pop in my step for a long time. Reality does that to me. But something happened that night. Bringing the party inside as midnight rolled in, Michael’s older brother took to being the DJ for a room full of kids. It would be a brother of a Michael to initiate this. It began with “Jam” and Dangerous, an album that I had only had a burned copy of as a kid, and had spent hours writing down lyrics to from the speakers of this very house. I don’t remember how it got to be what it did but suddenly I found myself bleeding sweat and pouring every last morsel of passion into a full-fledged dance party featuring every kid at that party. My brother was among the ones in the spotlight. “Show ‘em what I taught you boy!” He’s good, lemme tell you, not too shabby at all. The footwork in this jam was fantastic, true to MJ-style, and the kid with the neck brace takes home first prize for the category. There was a boy who kept pushing me to dance harder, breathe deeper, who was nose to nose with me battling out the rap section to “Black or White” while the others stood around and gang-dropped their “ohhhhh!” I think we did every hit song at least twice, with “Black or White” being our main staple and getting 3 plays by popular demand. I have never seen such raw joy, such honest energies combined. It was the best therapy I could never ask for. My aunt cried at the sight of us. It would be a mother of boys who teared out of gratitude for our innocence and joy.

They say we will always remember where we were the day the King of Pop died. I think the question is; what will we say about it. How will we keep him alive. The day he passed there was Blood on the Dance Floor. There were Thrills of Remembering the Time, but it was Bad to think that the Dancing Machine could no longer Scream and tell us that it’s Human Nature. The Way he Made Me Feel will go down in HIStory, but no matter where I go, somewhere, inside a cannon of faith and magic, I will always be the PYT he believed I was. The Smooth Criminal he fired up and one more Man in the Mirror looking to “make that change.” We love you, Michael. Thank you.


“In our darkest hour, in my deepest despair,
Will you still care? Will you be there?
In my trials, and my tribulations,
through our doubts, and frustrations.
In my violence, in my turbulence,
through my fear and my confessions.
In my anguish and my pain
Through my joy and my sorrow
And the promise of another tomorrow,
I’ll never let you part
For you’re always in my heart.”



Erica

With just a little tape...

I am sitting outside Score24 practice...yes another one, and at the very thought of it I can't help but smile. I press my lips together in effort not to, because at this point bleeding is more of a release than pretending, but I can't fight it. I know who's behind this door. My hand reaches out, pressing firmly against the thin barrier, and I can feel the songs. The bass. This blog has set to uncovering a good many of the Long Island scene boys, but it has been neglecting somebody.

Through a variety of scene surnames, he has officially become to me- Just Joey, and finally in this setting that's all he is. Thank god. I would have bought and thrown away a thousand EPs just to get him back to this. When he asked me once why I didn't write about him, I told this fun-sized rocker that I did, but chose not to post the truth about what I saw. My job in this scene is not to report the facts, it is to control the honesty. So someday when a brotherly backstab has become mere dramatic entertainment, you will all hear of shotgun glares and side swipe remarks and of how Joey In Color was the pull pin on a self-reconstructing Score24 grenade. But not now. Now it's summer, and they'll all be gone in a matter of days. Right now you need to be told of the previously illicit smiles that were exchanged between the Fox brothers over one taped up microphone.

Today his clothes they look fitting, adding to his personality rather than defining it. I haven't seen him smile this much in months. I haven't seen him sweat this honestly in a dozen set lists. Which reminds me; Score24 has established a song order a whole 24 hours before a show. Watch out All Time Low. His hair is messy in the summer humidity, not panderingly poised to perfection. I lean against Lefty Campbell with my Book, watching the 2 brothers. Rob stands slightly in front of Joey; both in black t-shirts standing the exact same way, 2 black hats bent over Blackberrys. I laugh right out loud at how relieving quirky sibling similarities seem today. “Girl’s giggling at herself” Joey picks on me. “No, she’s giggling about whoever she’s writing about.” I just smile.

Rob holds a wad of merch money in the fly of his shorts imagining, “What if this is what dicks looked liked?” He fans it around, fascinated, then hauls off and smacks his brother with it. Mike Wore Black shouldn’t be offended; Rob24 is way more of a moron than he. The brothers say if the music thing doesn’t work they’d like to become Lost Boys. I wonder if they realize being a Lost Boy is being a musician. The van is your fairy dust, these songs your happy thoughts. To California and back is your Neverland.

There are moments, scenes, that will burn into the backs of your eyes. The way Nate looked at me the first time the audience overpowered him singing Red Letter. Or the way Kevin appeared walking towards us after Melana creeped him out of sleeping in the van at Parkway. This is how I will remember the moment Joey Fox re-joined the Party: Rob is bouncing and singing and showing off to me in Ryan Linzer’s tiny basement. It’s never just practice with Rob. Suddenly he punches a fist out, holding his white taped microphone to Joey so that his little brother may sing the parts he had once called his. He can’t even dream.

I wonder what they’ll think of this; these meager words I have to offer them. I question what I’ll write about where they are gone. I worry what the silence will do to me. I reach out and touch the door. The sound is in my memory.




...Ricky.
"Rob Fox's Freestyle Rapping Excellence" by: Rob Fox, egged on by Joe Fox

it's the most important thing

This is how it goes. This is how it always goes. Where did it start? I can hardly find the want to thumb back through the prompt cards of last night just to make sense of something that dots the ‘i’ in typical. I’ll begin with where I am now.

The room is dim. Everything is very quiet except for the birds chirping their fucking brains out on the front porch. Another one fell from the nest yesterday. It’s feathers and fluids splattered all over the smooth porch slate. My housemate shoveled it off with a snow scraper. But aside from the birds everything is quiet. Quiet and dim. The clock reads 3:53 pm, though its clarity fuzzes in and out in my vision. I don’t know if it’s because I’m drunk again already, or if it’s my inability to want to be conscious. My hands are steady for the first time in 5 days. My heartbeat is a thunderous hollow tympani in my chest, but it doesn’t make any noise. It just pounds. I think about a lot of things at this point. I think about toes, about fingers. I think about how I flinched when he went to put his hand on me and he asked if someone had hit me before. I think about how I lied. I think about how sore I am, about how it’s a good thing I sobered up enough to buy more Russian Vodka. I think about how I should really take out those recyclables. I think about cocaine. I think about razors. I think of things no one will ever know about if I’m good. I know I’m good. He said so last night.

I open my eyes. The first thing I notice is the obnoxious red plaid patterning of my dress; last night’s dress. Oh…shit. In initial remembrance of the night prior, I snap my body onto it’s other side to check. For half an instant my eyes gaze across the doorway, and I’m sure he’s used it by now. But rather than pressing reassuringly into a soft empty pillow, my nose jolts abruptly into a hard elbow and pain is sent resonating into the backs of my eyes. He is still here. The fact comforts me briefly then I’m back to, oh…shit. I lay on my back, touching my wincing face and wondering what to do next. Get up? I stir to test getting up. He moans and peeks open an eye. “Go back to sleep” he says. Typical: the girl lays there quiet, trying not to be obvious that she’s volleying the age-old regret; was it a mistake/was it not a mistake. Mostly she wants to know if he thinks it was a mistake. But typically, and this is typical, the he is lying there signal-less, asleep, and momentarily unconcerned about the body next to him. And it is just a body at this point. It’s not that he is heartless or apathetic necessarily, it’s just he’s a guy and breakfast is more important to him right now. And so the miscommunication begins.

The so-called body is me. I begin to look around the room for clues about all the things I think probably didn’t really happened. The place is a mess. Towels on the floor where we each spilled full glasses of sharp mixed drinks. Scattered papers everywhere, an uncapped black marker not far from them. Ok, this explains the array of notes and tattoos scribbled across my skin. I squint at my hand; “Go to Liquor Store. Srsly.” Alright, apparently we’re out. I should really take out those recyclables. I see random pillows on the floor and drawings of owls everywhere. I see everything has fallen, or maybe been pushed from my shelves. The lighter is on the chair where he put it when he took it away from me and youtube is streaming *NSYNC’s ByeByeBye on my laptop. Oh…shit. And ouch. A lot of ouch. I wiggled my toes to feel something I had still.

The air is cold. So much colder than it is to everyone else. I haven’t needed to eat well in days. Now I sip long from a green straw, having smartly mixed my Russian juice with Passion Tea. How fitting to find the need to liquor up passion. I am minutely content with in my metaphoric misery, although stuck when it comes to having bold enough words for this chapter. The frustration is just about to eat away at the last bit of my hope, then she walks in. No, she floats. She floats in and perches in the large plush chair opposite of me. Her mother makes sure it’s all right with me and I quickly learn this being is Polish and American, because she was born here but her parents are from Poland. She is five, allergic to peanuts, but loves the frosting of a vanilla cupcake. She has a Build-a-Bear named Sparkles. Her mom’s allergic to cats, which is why she can’t have one, although Cherrie her neighbor has two.

She tells me she is writing a novel. She’s stuck too. I suggest maybe we both clear our heads and write something together. This is what we put down:

Mikey the Cat is sleepy. He is happy. He is happy because he has Vivian and Erica. Mikey only meows but Vivian can speak 4 languages. She speaks English, Polish, Chinese, and Spanish. She teaches Erica how to say hello in all 4 languages. Her favorite food is a strawberry with brown sugar. Or macaroni with butter. Or cool whip, which she eats now on the end of a wooden stir stick. She says it’s tastier that way. She tells me how to say ‘yummy’ in Chinese.

We talk for what seems like hours and she strongly suggests I make my book a happy one. She likes happy stories. Then in a gasp of air all too much like the one she rode in on, Vivi leaves, saying goodbye and good luck, it was so nice to meet me. I sit, opposite a large plush chair, now empty. I am still. My fingers move quietly to the keys and gently, the line comes to me:

The angel’s name was Vivi.

And so it goes.

to be all those things you hated.

I am driving myself crazy. Seriously. Is this what they feel like? I've walked from my bedroom to the kitchen to Michelle's room to the bathroom at least 15 times. I made toast for no reason. I did dishes that weren't mine just to pass some time, but stopped 3 times to run and check my phone. If I send another text he'll surely kill me, let alone catch onto how unnerved I am. I don't know if I'm making the wrong decision or the right decision but I am sick of making no decision at all. The girls, they all want me to just marry Andre and make beautiful, weird Portuguese babies. I would...but not really. The List has always gotten the best of me. In fact it's the ones who completely destroy me that beat me at my own game. I love it when they win, good for them. Good for them for putting me in my place.

I have become a little brat since this Condition left. Not only do I not understand not getting what I want, but I also become annoyingly perplexed when immediate attention is not administered upon request. I am a spoiled brat. Jay knows this. So does Devin. Randi likes to say it in nicer ways. If he were here, Mike would sit me down and call me out as I pouted and scowled his way. We'd both know he was right and he'd say, "Oh stop. That face doesn't work on me."

I put myself on blog and book arrest for a day because I am driving myself crazy. Seriously. I am in disarray with this constant unsettling feeling. This inability to relax, to breathe. I feel like something's coming that I am not ready for and I don't know what hatches to batten down, thus I am left with noticeably shaking hands and a scared brow bone. But it's not this I am afraid of, is it. These perplexities are but a mask to keep warring sides at bay.

I think I'm dating like 12 guys. And here I sit. A few questionable decisions later, doing the same ritual of lesser intensity. Is this really my game? Or is it theirs? Player or pawn. I know I have to wait for the next text. The question is, will I be sane enough to receive it with grace.







...Ricky.
"A Steady Approach To Sanity" by: The Years Gone By