I am giddy with excitement. A whole week! I get to vacation with my best friend in a hotel on the beach for a whole week! To add to the festivities, our parents won’t be there to tell us what not to do. Sure, there will be one adult to chaperone, but he’ll be in convention meetings for most of the day.
She is excited too. We jump up and down in her plush room, giggling uncontrollably. We cannot wait!!!
The hotel room has two beds, spaced perfectly apart to jump from one to the other. Soon after we master our flips and landings, he asks us to get ice. We grab the bucket and run down the hall to the small room stuffed with machines that dump ice, soda, and candy. I can have snacks whenever I want as long as I have change. This is heaven.
This morning we wake with the sun. It’s time to hit the pool. I do not like wearing a swimsuit for everyone to see my oversized thighs and my pooch of a belly. But the fun is worth it.
“No going to the beach without me to make sure your safe,” he says as he leaves for the opening ceremony. Ugh, a rule. But there’s so much to explore in the hotel itself that we don’t mind waiting until later.
It’s been less than ten minutes since he’s left, and we’re ready. We giggle down the hall to the elevator. She has an obnoxious laugh that’s more of a scream and a haw. I know we wake people as we pass by. I begin to be concerned that we’ll get in trouble. From who, I do not know.
The elevator doors open and there are two boys our age smiling sheepishly. We enter and they chuckle. Weird. As she goes to press the button for the lobby she let’s out a scream. Every floor button is pressed. The boys laugh.
“Ummm…,” one begins to explain but the shorter one interrupts.
“Ya’ll want to ride with us?”
I do not think it’s a good idea. Who are they? But my friend tells them that it sounds like fun. So here I am, confined in close quarters with two cute boys I do not know and a friend who doesn’t know how to stop herself.
The elevator stops at each floor, opens its doors, waits for thirty seconds, then closes them when no one passes through. Until floor 9. A man steps into the elevator then pauses at the button panel. He turns and smirks at the four of us with a knowing look. By floor 6 he is irritated and steps off to catch the other elevator. Before the doors close, we are all laughing thunderously.
I’ve never actually talked to a boy before, at least not one who doesn’t go to my school. It’s kind of fun. I like it.
After the trip down, we decide to check out the top floor. Lobby exploration can wait until we see the view. We hit all 15 buttons, of course. Unfortunately, this is boring by floor 3 now that we have some place to go. The bigger, more disheveled, of the two stands at the panel and hits the “Door Close” button at each stop. He’s an expert within three floors. A lady tries to get on at floor 11, but it is too late. His timing is precise, and the doors shut within seconds of opening. Her red umbrella gets caught.
“Oh my gawd!” my friend wails at him. We’re going to get in trouble, I know it’s for sure this time.
The view is alright, but I’ve seen better. Two big chairs sit at the large window for those of us who can’t afford rooms on the penthouse floor. We talk about who we are, where we go to school, and why we’re hanging out in the hotel. The disheveled one’s mom is at the conference with our chaperone. Fun times begin.
We hang out at the pool together. I do not want to uncover my swimsuit. “She’s shy,” my friend explains about my awkwardness.
The younger boy laughs.“It’s not like we haven’t seen it all before.”
I wonder what he means by that.
It’s Tuesday morning, and I’m about to have my first date. The boys have asked us to brunch, which my friend explains is a combination of breakfast and lunch. I’m nervous. I’ve never been good at conversation. They’ve already seen me in a swimsuit. Now I’m supposed to eat in front of them too?
It’s obvious that the shorter guy will be with my friend. They are both outgoing and adventurous. I will be Disheveled’s date. I wish I talked more so that I had a chance with the cuter one, but I get it.
We explore the hotel some more until one of them suggests a game of Truth or Dare. I'm nervous about the idea. Just as they are about to convince me, my date mumbles something, my friend screams, then she runs into the women’s restroom. I give the guys an apologetic look and run after her.
“Did you hear what he said?” she yells as I enter.
No, I didn’t, but I know that she has a tendency towards the melodramatic.
“He said, ‘Don’t be virgins’!"
I’m not as much shocked about his audicity as I am relieved that now I don’t have to play the game.
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
Saturday, November 26, 2011
Scene 2wo
I stare at the dirty wooden table with drunken eyes. The pitcher of beer stands in the center, its golden shade of yellow dissolving into the grayish-white foam. Ashes and grains of salt lie scattered over the water-stained calendar of the bar’s upcoming events. The music overcomes the crowd with a fuel of intense passion as everyone drinks and talks, enjoying but not paying attention to, the band on stage. If there is any place where I belong, it is here.
Out of the corner of my eye I see my friend lean forward to put out his ashed cigarette and decide to snap out of my thoughts by jumping into his cowboy hat. When he leans across the table, stretching his arms and body over the array of condiment bottles, sugar trays, beer mugs, and shot glasses to retrieve his pack of Marlboro Lights, I stand, grabbing his trademark with one quick swipe. His reflex is a look of surprise as I lean back in my chair and stretch both legs onto the table. Then, he smiles with joking eyes.
“You ain’t no cowgirl!” Maybe not, but I know with that hat on that I am at least desirable.
“But ain’t I cute?” I purr, setting my chair back onto all fours and leaning towards the table so he can see my big, brown eyes. He places a new cigarette into his lips before answering.
“Darling,” begins his response, but he has none except to swipe his hat back and place it over his short, dark hair with a cowboy tip to me. He crashes into his chair, laughing as he lights the new, white cigarette.
Laughter booms across the table as I press out my bottom lip to fake the pout of a reprimanded child. It is all in fun and games. Everyone knows that this is nothing but a part of Wednesday night’s entertainment.
We meet here once a week to flirt, laugh, and have fun with one another. Some nights a newly formed couple will go home together, but we know that it is only due to the magic of the blues and the spirit from our beer.
Out of the corner of my eye I see my friend lean forward to put out his ashed cigarette and decide to snap out of my thoughts by jumping into his cowboy hat. When he leans across the table, stretching his arms and body over the array of condiment bottles, sugar trays, beer mugs, and shot glasses to retrieve his pack of Marlboro Lights, I stand, grabbing his trademark with one quick swipe. His reflex is a look of surprise as I lean back in my chair and stretch both legs onto the table. Then, he smiles with joking eyes.
“You ain’t no cowgirl!” Maybe not, but I know with that hat on that I am at least desirable.
“But ain’t I cute?” I purr, setting my chair back onto all fours and leaning towards the table so he can see my big, brown eyes. He places a new cigarette into his lips before answering.
“Darling,” begins his response, but he has none except to swipe his hat back and place it over his short, dark hair with a cowboy tip to me. He crashes into his chair, laughing as he lights the new, white cigarette.
Laughter booms across the table as I press out my bottom lip to fake the pout of a reprimanded child. It is all in fun and games. Everyone knows that this is nothing but a part of Wednesday night’s entertainment.
We meet here once a week to flirt, laugh, and have fun with one another. Some nights a newly formed couple will go home together, but we know that it is only due to the magic of the blues and the spirit from our beer.
Friday, November 25, 2011
Scene 1ne
Dreams are like assholes. Everyone’s got one and no one wants to hear you describe yours.
I’ve been told things in my dreams. Things that I’m not intelligent enough to think while I’m awake. I once had a dream tell me that a person I barely knew would become important in my life. It was true. That same dream ended with a moral. Sometimes, life is not about coming up with the solution as much as it is about being part of the story. I know, pretty clever. I wish I’d come up with it.
The cats switch places during the night, each one of the three taking turns to curl up on my chest or my back or my side, depending on how I’m lying. I have so many dreams throughout the night, I wonder if I’m not sharing theirs. But how do they know to cry when I’m shouting someone’s name as that person walks away, disgusted by inability to love? Perhaps they are the person walking away and are trying telepathically to tell me that I need to hold them now. But I never have a problem showing affection. I merely have a problem believing it.
My favorite dreams are the ones with the music. The melody is always sweet and tender, and lulls me into meditation the following morning. I work to capture the tune on piano or guitar or with my own voice, but my attempts are futile. I do not hold the talent to unlock the magic. It seems such a waste that no one will ever get to hear the music that I hear. It’s beautiful. One day I will learn to share.
I do not like the nights when I have no dream. Those nights make my life not worth sleeping through.
The reason for human existence? Nailed it. It came to me in a dream starring Angelina Jolie. I actually had to write that one out so that I remember. Here are my notes:
I am a raindrop. I compromise. Perhaps too often, but that is what I was told to do. I may not believe in religion or worldly powers, but who am I to question what I’ve been told by a deity who controls my thoughts when I’m not thinking?
My bed is uncomfortable. It used to be great. Then a too-big, too-drunk man fell into it after a night of drinking without me. It’s a strong word, but I hate that man. I get to hate him for all that he did to me. All of what I became that is negative came from him.
I shouldn’t say that because it’s not true. Most of my negativity comes from him. Another man is responsible too. I’ve been told by people that if I let go of the hate for both of them then my negativity will fall away. I dislike those people.
The uncomfortable bed is also my fault. I should clean my room. The fitted sheet isn’t on completely and rolls under me during the night. But it’s hard to put on a fitted sheet by yourself. It makes me sad. There should be someone here to help. That was the plan.
Plans, too, are also like assholes, but in the gender form. Plans pretend that they’ll be around and will come into fruition if you work hard enough. Plans are liars, because they leave at the first excuse to do so. If you ever hear me say, “That sounds like a nice plan,” I am being sardonic.
I suffer from sleep paralysis. You may have heard of it. My mind is awake, but I cannot move my body. I sense someone or something is in the room. I try to turn my head to see, but I can’t. I can’t even open my eyes. Some say it is a common nightmare. But it’s real. All I want to do is wake up and turn on a light. Not that it ever helps. Even with the light on, I can feel someone hover over me once I fall asleep. I try to scream, but my mouth won’t move. My voice is suffocated. I cry. I tell myself that it’s only a dream. Then it worsens. The sounds begin. A laugh, a scuffle. I try to think of other things. Then I hear the voices of everyone who has ever taunted me, like I’ve just hit play on a voice recorder that was set to record my entire life. Sometimes it’s friendly voices of nice things people have said to me. All the same, I wish they would be quiet.
Have you ever awakened exhausted? You probably forgot to breathe while you slept. I’ve woken with a howl and realized I’d been holding my breath. I don’t know why. I can’t hold my breath for very long when I’m awake. It seems that I’m much more talented when I sleep.
Perhaps I should not share these things. But I never know what’s right or wrong, so I will keep going. Tell me, does that bother you?
I’ve been told things in my dreams. Things that I’m not intelligent enough to think while I’m awake. I once had a dream tell me that a person I barely knew would become important in my life. It was true. That same dream ended with a moral. Sometimes, life is not about coming up with the solution as much as it is about being part of the story. I know, pretty clever. I wish I’d come up with it.
The cats switch places during the night, each one of the three taking turns to curl up on my chest or my back or my side, depending on how I’m lying. I have so many dreams throughout the night, I wonder if I’m not sharing theirs. But how do they know to cry when I’m shouting someone’s name as that person walks away, disgusted by inability to love? Perhaps they are the person walking away and are trying telepathically to tell me that I need to hold them now. But I never have a problem showing affection. I merely have a problem believing it.
My favorite dreams are the ones with the music. The melody is always sweet and tender, and lulls me into meditation the following morning. I work to capture the tune on piano or guitar or with my own voice, but my attempts are futile. I do not hold the talent to unlock the magic. It seems such a waste that no one will ever get to hear the music that I hear. It’s beautiful. One day I will learn to share.
I do not like the nights when I have no dream. Those nights make my life not worth sleeping through.
The reason for human existence? Nailed it. It came to me in a dream starring Angelina Jolie. I actually had to write that one out so that I remember. Here are my notes:
God made the Earth perfect. It was in a complete state of homeostasis. But it was dull.
The land was arid and dry. God made it rain for days. Each raindrop possessed an individual soul. The souls would enter the ground and fertilize the earth. As each raindrop is different, each soul is different.
As the rain falls, the earth turns from dust to a grassy Eden. The souls turn from grass to animals to humans.
We were purposely spread apart. The reason for our existence is to gather our contrasts into compromises, to love each other for our differences. To be individual raindrops that combine together to form one ocean.
I am a raindrop. I compromise. Perhaps too often, but that is what I was told to do. I may not believe in religion or worldly powers, but who am I to question what I’ve been told by a deity who controls my thoughts when I’m not thinking?
My bed is uncomfortable. It used to be great. Then a too-big, too-drunk man fell into it after a night of drinking without me. It’s a strong word, but I hate that man. I get to hate him for all that he did to me. All of what I became that is negative came from him.
I shouldn’t say that because it’s not true. Most of my negativity comes from him. Another man is responsible too. I’ve been told by people that if I let go of the hate for both of them then my negativity will fall away. I dislike those people.
The uncomfortable bed is also my fault. I should clean my room. The fitted sheet isn’t on completely and rolls under me during the night. But it’s hard to put on a fitted sheet by yourself. It makes me sad. There should be someone here to help. That was the plan.
Plans, too, are also like assholes, but in the gender form. Plans pretend that they’ll be around and will come into fruition if you work hard enough. Plans are liars, because they leave at the first excuse to do so. If you ever hear me say, “That sounds like a nice plan,” I am being sardonic.
I suffer from sleep paralysis. You may have heard of it. My mind is awake, but I cannot move my body. I sense someone or something is in the room. I try to turn my head to see, but I can’t. I can’t even open my eyes. Some say it is a common nightmare. But it’s real. All I want to do is wake up and turn on a light. Not that it ever helps. Even with the light on, I can feel someone hover over me once I fall asleep. I try to scream, but my mouth won’t move. My voice is suffocated. I cry. I tell myself that it’s only a dream. Then it worsens. The sounds begin. A laugh, a scuffle. I try to think of other things. Then I hear the voices of everyone who has ever taunted me, like I’ve just hit play on a voice recorder that was set to record my entire life. Sometimes it’s friendly voices of nice things people have said to me. All the same, I wish they would be quiet.
Have you ever awakened exhausted? You probably forgot to breathe while you slept. I’ve woken with a howl and realized I’d been holding my breath. I don’t know why. I can’t hold my breath for very long when I’m awake. It seems that I’m much more talented when I sleep.
Perhaps I should not share these things. But I never know what’s right or wrong, so I will keep going. Tell me, does that bother you?
Intro
It’s strange to know that your life will end in suicide.
The whiskey and the champagne flow at this get-together of mine. Pop! Thump! Bang! I hear a giggle, then laughter. My own countenance is overcome by its grin as I turn to see my mischievous roommate holding a freshly opened bottle of cheap champagne, the tasty bubbles spilling into the dirty white carpet. The cork had taken flight and is now lost, possibly behind the big TV that so dutifully provides our entertainment on the few nights that we don’t think to throw a party . I sense a nervousness from the ones who have not been here before, who anxiously wonder my reaction and what the immediate clean-up will entail. The carpet begins to stain and a cork is missing. The party must go on.
Tonight we are in a bar. I light a cigarette just for fun then pop it into my friend’s mouth. I do not have the habit of smoking. Not yet.
The piano sits in waiting. Its keys have been molested by so many talented fingers, fondled note by note into glorious rhythms and miraculous melodies. It has been a year since I’ve played. Who will hear me? Will I be one to cause passers-by to stop and listen? Or has my talent vanquished? Will my playing hinder the rehearsal of the music students next door? They rehearse; I practice. For what? I will not know for at least a decade.
I enjoy dating. I’m a great date. I laugh at the boy’s jokes and make several of my own. I never wonder where this will lead beyond a frivolous romp in one of our beds. This particular date isn’t as handsome as the others. He’s not my type. I never let him know.
The house craves attention. It is holding my phone hostage somewhere in its depth. Silly house, my guitar is right here.
Break-ups are awful and stimulating at the same time. I feel empty but independence owns a special sense of fulfillment. Fun multiplies itself by a hundred as friends gather to support and men vie to be the rebound. My personality becomes overwhelming. He always held me back. I was meant to be the center of attention and became tired of sharing the spotlight. Tonight is all mine.
I hold a secret. Does that bother you?
The whiskey and the champagne flow at this get-together of mine. Pop! Thump! Bang! I hear a giggle, then laughter. My own countenance is overcome by its grin as I turn to see my mischievous roommate holding a freshly opened bottle of cheap champagne, the tasty bubbles spilling into the dirty white carpet. The cork had taken flight and is now lost, possibly behind the big TV that so dutifully provides our entertainment on the few nights that we don’t think to throw a party . I sense a nervousness from the ones who have not been here before, who anxiously wonder my reaction and what the immediate clean-up will entail. The carpet begins to stain and a cork is missing. The party must go on.
Tonight we are in a bar. I light a cigarette just for fun then pop it into my friend’s mouth. I do not have the habit of smoking. Not yet.
The piano sits in waiting. Its keys have been molested by so many talented fingers, fondled note by note into glorious rhythms and miraculous melodies. It has been a year since I’ve played. Who will hear me? Will I be one to cause passers-by to stop and listen? Or has my talent vanquished? Will my playing hinder the rehearsal of the music students next door? They rehearse; I practice. For what? I will not know for at least a decade.
I enjoy dating. I’m a great date. I laugh at the boy’s jokes and make several of my own. I never wonder where this will lead beyond a frivolous romp in one of our beds. This particular date isn’t as handsome as the others. He’s not my type. I never let him know.
The house craves attention. It is holding my phone hostage somewhere in its depth. Silly house, my guitar is right here.
Break-ups are awful and stimulating at the same time. I feel empty but independence owns a special sense of fulfillment. Fun multiplies itself by a hundred as friends gather to support and men vie to be the rebound. My personality becomes overwhelming. He always held me back. I was meant to be the center of attention and became tired of sharing the spotlight. Tonight is all mine.
I hold a secret. Does that bother you?
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