eyes the size of...eyes

there's that feeling again. like suffocation. like nothing's happening. it seems like life's become drifting from one good memory to the next, looking back, thinking about then, trying to avoid now.

the shoving off and shrugging off just let it pile up like caked walls, coated in things you wished you'd never touched. the cement and plaster slopped on to hold it all together isn't enough, and now the walls are folding in on themselves at the top, cutting out the air, blacking out the clouds.
such is life.

i used to dream until i stopped writing fiction

ever get that feeling somedays when you feel like it's just better not to wake up?
i get that feeling ever day now. like maybe if i sleep enough all the bad things will go away. all that shit that seems to just pile up no matter how hard to try to clear it up.
where the fuck are time machines when you need them? instead there's just crazy people talking about how they exist, we just don't have the means to receive their messages,etc. fine you don't believe? you're already on the interwebs...look it up.

startling developments in the latter parts of super developed brains

so yeah, she said i'm not gonna be a dad anymore. i think the quote was "I took care of our problem a couple of months ago..." problem? the only real problem was her, and something had to die because of that.
i don't know how i'm supposed to feel. a weight is gone, yes, but i'd be lying to say i was happier for it or relieved. it's just that after she fucked me over hardcore, that's really the only positive thing that could've come from it. i guess. maybe i'm just too much of a dumbass to really understand the implications of her carrying through. it's just that i knew, it was a girl, i called it from day one, and that's what it was. then, a few weeks or days later, it's gone. just like that.

i really don't know how i'm supposed to feel, but what i'm feeling is definitely not good.

more and more of my pipe dreams

each and every rainbow has unattainable goals. why can't we be the people we once used to be?

so in case you didn’t know.

amanda has fallen back on her word...wow, what a surprise. after all the preaching that i'd be the one to leave her fucked over, and high and dry. as far as i can see i'm still in the same place. now, i'm about to be kicked out, b/c she never  paid for this month's rent like she agreed too. instead she's talking about how hard she has it now. like she's the only person alive. well, if she never left she wouldn't have had that problem would she?
it's just frustrating b/c now i've just been proven right, again. i stuck my neck out for her, while she made me feel bad b/c she left all her friends and her family to come up here. and i tried to make it as good for her as i could, doing everything she wanted. even after she went and cheated on me, while she was pregnant, yeah...think about how fucking gross a person has to be to do that. and aside from every single person i know hating her guts. not to mention, one of the most unconfrontatinal people i know got in her face and screamed at her. i ignored all that shit that set off alarm after alarm in my head. GAH! they she tells me that i need to grow up. but i'm not the one pawning off MY kid on my parents to go out and drink and party. i'm not the one fucking other people when i should be spending time with something that would be more important to me than comic books. and i wouldn't use some half ass excuse like, 'if i don't do want i wanna do now, i would resent him'. fuck that, if i had a kid, i wouldn't regret it, i wouldn't do anything besides everything i could to give that kid a good life.
not to mention, she's gonna kill it. yeah, if you haven't heard now you know. i've told a few people it was a miscarriage...that's a lie. i just didn't want it to go away, but it's not my choice.
the worst part about about being delusional isn't living in a reality unlike everyone else. it sucks b/c when you come around, someone's already picked apart the foundation you built a stability on. and laughs in your face. i didn't ask her to come into my life. she sought me own and pryed her way inside. now i'm paying the price.
i don't know how well i'll be able to bounce back from this situation. not emotionally, just more everything else.

it’s always this hawt in july

it's hectic and long. like a waiting game that never seems to end. i hear all the things going on. i see 'em too. as well as i can see with the busted eye. but it's never forward that i see the things i should, perfectly. it's always the things that have already finished and i look backwards and realize that i've never seen more of anything other than the way i interpretted it.

some people give you advice, or tell you matter of factly. and you just write it off as bullshit, stupid people saying stupid things. or you just don't give it much thought, b/c you're too busy worrying about yourself, or things you should be doing. not the right stuff. then eventually that phrase comes back to haunt you in the most wicked way, letting you know how bad you really fucked it up. how much more ahead everyone else is of you.

so what now? you realize your mistakes again and again. how do you carry on from this point that you've reached? things'll never go back to being that good again, so just shut up and suck it up and move forward. it's all anyone can really do.


as far as i know, it's a girl. and she's having it. now i have to decide whether or not to be a part of her life and deal with her mother and my responsibility to her. or just pay a monthly due and let her mom's parents make a better person of her than i could.

decisions, decisions.
i've got til december to think.

ah,.d.,fmasldkjflaj

fuck trusting people. no matter how much they ask you not to fuck them over, they just go and fuck you in the ass the first chance they get. and want you to take pity on them for being so helpless.

i don’t know how much this varies in opinion

for some unknown reason, but it has hit me. i think flats are sexy. i mean i know it's just a turn in the fashion right now, and it'd prolly be like me saying 'fanny packs are where it's at' in the 80's. but i'm sorry. now granted they aren't gonna work on anyone, especially guys with hobbit feet, or guys really in general. but for the most part, if you've got the look and can pull 'em off. it's like +10, and i think it's just hit me, like in my conscious mind.
plus last night i watched the incredible hulk...incredible? no, but better than ang lee's abomination of a comic movie. don't get me wrong, i own it and enjoy it as a shitty movie, but other than that, it hurts my nazi marvel heart. but this new one, good. nothing against eric banna, but he's not exactly as skinny and white as edward norton, nor as brilliant an actor, and i love liv tyler. plus there's the very subtle tie-in to the next movie, and villian. which i thought was pretty good.
anyway, i'm gonna go fix some pancakes now. i'm hungry, and i want breakfast...that's right, breakfast at 3PM, fuck you.

aw shit, it be on again.

you know, some people never grow up. then on the other hand you have people like me that say something hypocritical like that, and get all cynical and think they're smart.
just sayin'.

they remade day of the dead

is true, is true! and it's out now. don't go watch it, b/c remakes usually twist the original version into something fucking gay.
anyway, that being said. i fucking hate cunt sucking bitchfaces. and just for that, i'm going to kill a kitten and send a fuck you letter to PETA.

long time no shave, suave, sally joe hair products.

i’m still alive. thought you’d like to know, and i’m pretty sure i’m dying. my ribs have been killing me forever, and i think i’m internally bleeding.
and yes, what you heard is true, my sperm is more potent that yours.

i’ve said it once before and i’ll say it again.

i want to sell everything i have and just live on the road...sadness is that i'm way too materialistic to realize such a grand dream...and too pampered.

and so my moldy dreams are debased by the hands that shaped them.

PREFACE: it's an angry fucking rant, that i had to put somewhere, and this benefits me in the way that i don't have to explain it to everyone i'm closest to that reads this.
i'm pretty sure she's full of shit, i've had a talk with someone she considers her good friend, and her friend backs up my original paranoid instincts. maybe i'm honed now, maybe it was a test of will. i still fall for it, not as easily, but i bit the hook, and i'm still holding on, waiting on something to really throw in her face. she's not rich, she's not coming back, there'll be no 360, i'm not fucking moving down there. all this does is put me back where i started, i'm not any happier or worse off. nothing a few days of binge drinking won't fix. i'm not losing anything but the time i already spent, which i do not regret, b/c let's face it, it was fun and the sex was great. i'm just tired of fucking running into liars, everywhere, it's like decent people exist in the very few and in between. i swear to god, soon i'm just gonna snap and start killing every fucking person who can't back up a god damn story with either sense or honesty. "can't lie b/c i feel too guilty" bullshit, i don't lie b/c i fucking hate when people lie to me. it makes me want to literally take my bare fucking hands and pry someone's jaw from their face...then they won't be able to talk anymore, then break every one of their god damned fingers so they can't fucking write lies. it seems like i struck gold in fucking bullshit. like a fucking oil mine of just shit, disease ridden shit. if that's not particulary enough, i get some dickface twat trying to wedge her way back into my life with more shit, saying she's still god damn in love with me, but will deny it to anyone else. i'm just trying to be nice here, but fuck it, give them an inch, they want your whole fucking life. that's it, i'm done. done with fucking around. dealing with idiots and liars and twats and whores. done sticking my neck out for people who can't prove themselves. i've proven myself enough to anyone. and my close friends won't talk shit about me, well...not things that aren't true. my character flaws are obvious, but i don't fucking lie to people. i may build my tall tales, but they're easy to see it's bullshit, and i'll admit when they are. i just keep getting further and further away from depressed and sad, and closer and closer to fucking psychotically angry, unleveledly spiteful. it's already gotten bad enough to the point where i heard bullshit even from people i know i can trust. the first thing i run to is disbelief...what the fuck kind of life is that to live? what the fuck kind of person does that make me? what if i actually meet someone that isn't full of shit? i'm still never gonna give them the benefit of the doubt, then i just turn out to be some cynical asshole, who in forty years will prolly be so warped that he thinks the C.I.A. is constantly in his shit and after him. this will be the root of it all, mark my fucking words. my detachment from reality is beginnig right here. and either it gets worse, or i'm just over reacting with this new situation, and she's being honest and she's not a fucking twat ass lying cunt rag. but it seems my instincts are on, my brain trust confirms my suspicion, and even a foreign correspondant has come from the shadows to further garuntee (with much reluctance, the reluctance being that there's some reprieve to her bullshit, like sometimes it's true b/c it's too unbelievable to believe) the prospective in which i wanted to deny b/c, man, wouldn't it be ideal and great to have such a fucking sweet life. someone lurks you out on myspace, you hit it off insanely well, you dance with the idea of changing your life for them, b/c it's only fair since they are planning to changes theirs for you. they're well off, you're not, but they want to shower you with affection the way your mother did, even though she was never really one to afford it. they want to spend loads of time with you, moving at a fast pace, and you don't fucking mind, hell, why waste time? you'll be dead before you know it anyway. someone who fills your head with sweet intangible ideas, says things that blow your scared little mind. push all the right buttons. massage your ego in ways you didn't know it could be pleased. literally ruins you on life. and all that (well, maybe not all of it completely, b/c i know things like my ass is awesome for a guy's ass, and i'm an amazing fucking linguist, ha ha) is on a shakey foundation that's well into it's crumbling stages. sinking ever so gently into the sea, so gently you can't even notice you're gonna drown. but then again, i could be wrong, this could be a rant from hell, with such a heated fury i'll find it hard to trust myself with any sort of emotion, lose my touch, and basically fall into a deep love and be compeletly immersed and happy while it lasts. maybe i see a reflection of how i used to be and it just pisses me off, b/c i was so inconsiderate of people.
the most fucked up thing of all this ranting and bullshit i'm going through...i hope she's full of shit. it'll be some sort of vindicating affirmation that i'm smart. that i'm on top of my shit. that love is bullshit, happiness is some fickle flighty shit idea, and i'm smarter to just say fuck it, and not trust a god damn soul...or mostly just people with xx chromosome pairs.
alright, i'm done, i've wasted close to twenty minutes venting.

it’s a new story i’m working on, think i’m gonna call it ’Wanderlust’

again, i don't proof read my shit, so get off my case. and i have no idea where it's going. so without further consideration or care, i whore out my latest creative nothing.

            What was I doing with my life? I spent all day wasting away in front of one screen or another, to accomplish nothing at all. I lurked out profiles of people I thought I knew, and others I only pretended to, but what was it all for? To sate some form of boredom? No, if I wanted to do that, I'm sure a back road through the darkness and the rest of my gas tank could've helped out more. I could've burned another mix c.d. and claimed the black road as my own for about an hour, screaming at the top of my lungs, until my voice decided to give on me. The fact was that I was alone, nothing could cure that. Sure, I could've went out and got a sympathy fuck from some girl I charmed into bed, but in the morning I'd feel sick with myself and even more pathetic than I already did.

            It was just that my mind kept floating back to things that didn't matter. I kept thinking about how life was so good two weeks previous. Heavenly, even. Now, it had turned into a shit factory of assumption. I had only myself to blame for taking it as far as it went, and I kept going, jogging down that street after the lights blew. And here I find myself in proverbial darkness to sit and cry, and pretend that I didn't feel anything. I felt it all, though. Not only Majolie's fresh wounds that had just been visit on my heart and ego, but Nico, and Shy, and even as far back as Myles. She had started my descent into failure and rejection, and since then I haven't been able to dig myself back out. I've gotten a few times of high on love, but it wasn't really that as much as infatuation, thinking that this is the one that would break my slump. This would be the one to change my life forever. I'd marry her, and that would be that. Even the third charm didn't do it for me. The third real shot at something real.

            Now, I just sit and count my fingers and toes; a countdown to tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. Either waiting for my life to really begin, or waiting for it to end, it doesn't matter which. Sometimes I wonder how, exactly, I become so dependent after proving to myself that I can be a self sufficient person. My weakness, I guess. That's all it ever is, I feel too much. It's a tough front that's broken down all too easily by just sweet words and a pretty face. I'd done it too many times myself to others. Now my curse is to bake in my own wretched misgivings. It's karma, and sometimes she's a harsh bitch. Kicks aimed for the balls, and a tight grip on the throat. It's not the torture that bothers me as for the lack of pay off. Sure I've had my words handed to me on a silver platter, those limber beautiful words, that don't know how to stop dancing. I could weave them once, in a time that I didn't feel anything. Everyone was just a toy for my amusement, and friends were a dime a dozen. Since I respect people now, care about how they feel, go back to being a genuinely good person; the bile I fed everyone from my old life comes back to me in a new way.

            So what now? Do I throw myself a pity party with one guest on the list? Do I mull everything over in my head, until the weight of the situation finds a way to push all the food from this afternoon up through my mouth? My stomach's sick already, from missing Majolie, do I really need that extra push? It's the first real thing I've eaten in a day and now my own mind betrays me, and wants to deny anything I need. It's convinced itself that what I need is love. Love is just a blindfold at your own death sentence. It's nothing nice and dreamy, its hell. The worst part of hell, I might add, as well. You get high from it, change everything around in your head. Lose sight of what really matters to you. Then it all crashes down. Becomes some sort of addiction. And when you crash from that high, you can't even taste food anymore, you can't enjoy masturbation, you can't even fucking watch a god damn TV show without relating it on your failed attempt at building something great. You don't focus on the real things, you focus on it, it consumes you, molds you into something repulsive. A cynical asshole of a critic, puckered and vomiting. Hopefully, you've got enough left in you to pick yourself up again. Hopefully, you'll have something to give to someone else. Maybe you do, maybe you're stronger than you thought. But each time, it's more and more unlikely. Each time, you have a little less to give, until you all dry. What then? Do you hope you meet someone that replenishes you? Someone that doesn't care about your scars, just wants to soothe you, hold you, and be everything all those other girls just pretended to be? 

           It's bullshit anyway, no one's ever that nice, no one will ever stick their neck out that far. You have to prove yourself. You have to pay in first, write out a guarantee and sign it in your blood. Also, you can't forget an expiration date of never, just as a vote of confidence. Still, though, sometimes that's not enough, no matter how hard you try, someone's beat you to the punch of fucking things up completely. Now whatever reputation you've build for yourself, it doesn't matter. The people that vouch for you, they're your friends. The people that have a good opinion of you, known you for a while, and stick up for you, well, they don't count because they're already on your side. So you want to prove yourself, but hell, no one's got the time to let you do that. What's the fucking point? They'll lose what little interest they have by then, and it's all fucked anyway.

            So what was I to do? Complain? Be an asshole about? Or just forget it ever happened? Count my losses and move forward with what pathetic life I had. It was all contrary anyway. What I considered a good time, were the times that would come around every now and again, where I'd get enough booze in me to say, "Fuck the world, I don't need it. I'm happy being myself. Happy doing things my way."

            It was a lie. A lie I told myself over and over again. Hoping that eventually I'd either really believe it, balls to bones, or that it'd be true. The only flaw in lying to yourself is that you already know the truth. You already know you're full of shit, and you can't believe it. You wake up in the morning, look in the mirror, and tell yourself today is gonna be a good day. You know you're full of shit, but you figure, what the hell. Guess what? That day was shittier than the day before, and quite possibly the day before that. So you let yourself fall into monotony, get a routine, and grind hard on the press of life. The escapist in you wants to take control, you can feel him fingering the wheel, so you sate his primal need of getting the fuck away from this shit hole you try to convince yourself is home, and push other stories into his mouth. Movie after movie you pile in front of him. Lucky the bastard is as curious as he is. Otherwise, this notion of materialism you've set up for yourself would be overtaken by the great wanderlust that's constantly sitting on your shoulder, like a songbird with an endless song.           

            It was almost an escape, wasn't it? No time for thought, you almost jumped in, heeded no warnings, went where you heard the hush on the wind. You knew the voice, it was a sweet voice with convincing words. Now that god damn escapist is awake again, and so determined. A movie wouldn't satisfy the grand urge that's gotten into his groin this time. What the hell? I thought. Why not just give him what he wants? He'll never let me go on with a regular life, unless I actually indulge him. We'll call it a vacation, he'll think he's escaped, and after he's had his fill and fallen asleep fat and swollen. We'll sneak ourselves back to the real world of responsibility, taxes, and certain death.

            I still sat there though, with a blank expression stretched across my face. I was still waiting on something, what exactly, I couldn't put my finger on, but it was there. Close enough for me to breathe it deep. The taste was sweet, the smell was intoxicating. My eyes watered, and my eyes rolled back in ecstasy. But I still didn't know what I was waiting for.

i was just sippin’ on something sweet.

listen, as much as i bitch about how unfortunate things are, they're really not. i mean, so far, this year is a big improvement over the last. i mean, this time last year, most things had fallen apart for me in the most considerable ways. and so far this year, it's been pretty fantastic. my friends are happy, i'm happy and things are getting resolved in a much better manner, and finite.
i don't have many worries, and the ones i do are my own. so as much as i complain and scream and kick, it's really not that bad. i could make a list of dates and reasons and compare the two, but i'm really not gonna be that anal, especially in a blog...c'mon. seriously.
just saying, so far so good. let's keep it going.

cursive had it right

I'll scream, "Babe, this is it! We'll leave the house in ruins if we escape right now, we just might make it out"
This city, this city's killin' us.

refrain.

for all i have, i have nothing.
for all i am, i am nothing.

my stomach hurts, sort’ve.

well, it's all been a rush job, and more fast paced than usual. or maybe that's just me, and fast paced isn't the word i'm looking for exactly, absorbed could be a better one.
either something big is going to change, or not much at all. that's the either or. not a whole lot of in between on it, no kind've no mild. and i feel like i've been asleep so long, there's all the energy, now all that's left is to go back to dreaming. i don't wanna dream anymore, they're lackluster and pure fantasy, nothing of fullfillment, nothing i can touch.
i'll know for definite soon. still it's the waiting i hate, as patient as i have to be on a daily basis, and as cool as i stay, you'd think i had it together. mostly. it's all just a rouse (sp?) and, well, i'm getting less and less clever with it.
i don't want an around while she's around. i want something real. tangible. but i lived before and i'll live through anything i guess. i just feel more pessimistic than even i usually am. reality can be a bitch when you have time to think and question and doubt. it's a pretty wicked virus most of the time.

let’s call out a lot.

doubt and dread. two of the worst things in the world, followed closely by disappointment. how can someone struggle with these constantly and come out on top? continue fighting the good fight.
let me tell you, uphill battles are what i'm all about, or so it seems. and finally, all that spent energy is catching up to me. i can't keep my eyes open for the life of me, and now it seems it's the worst time to be falling asleep.
i've proved i can stay awake, and i guess there's still a lot more i have to prove before things are done being said. i can do it.

with the company of close friends, we drove on in the night

so, delays on creative things. it hasn't been stagnant, just a lot fucking busier than i anticipated. but i'll be back on game in a few. not that it matters. i doubt anyone was really reading it, so i guess i'm moving forward more for my own self gratification.
and who knew? i certainly didn't, but the pleasant surprises come abruptly, sometimes, like a unicorn horn impalement.
oh, and i got balls fucked up last night. jesus h. odinson. let's do it again sometime. less acid for friends.

oh, and greg, fuck you before you come to me saying, "you're so fucking queer." i know it, and i've proven it to your mother, i've proven it to your dog, and i'll fucking prove it to you over and over...remember the bathroom times. and your balls.

This Is Where It Begins; Chapter 2

(once again, not proof read. so if i sound like an idiot either say something or shut it.)

Chapter 2

I burst through the back door to my apartment, throwing everything in my hands in the floor next to me. My spine burned like it was bathed in gasoline. The pain caused my head to swirl in a drunken rage, so scattered and screaming that I operated only on instinct. I ripped off my shirt and slumped against the cold door, trying to sate whatever monster clawed at the inside. The burning was slightly soothed, but a terrible itch took its place. I rubbed my back side to side over the sculpt of the door, but it did nothing. I reached into the silverware drawer in the counter next to me, scrambling to find something long enough to reach between my shoulder blades. Knives and forks jumped into the floor before I could find a spatula. I pressed it hard on my spine, scraping at the itch. Instead of beating it with each layer of defeated skin, the itching got worse, like my back was teething.

            I felt sores open on my back, and a hard pressure began to build between my shoulder blades, as the itching journeyed down along my spine. I gave up on the spatula and flung it into the sink. I climbed to my feet, and backed up to the edge of the counter. Up and down, I dragged my tired skin over the hard edge. The burning subsided more, and it felt almost like heaven. I moved up and down faster and faster, the quicker I went, the more everything seemed satisfied. I pushed harder, and leaned back more, sliding up and down, up and down. It was euphoric.

            On the way down once more, I lost my footing and slipped straight onto my ass. My head bounced against the corner of the counter, and my vision blurred. I tried to get up, but kept slipping in something wet. I panicked and slipped, banging my head against the counter again, it seemed futile to get up now. The room was spinning, and I brought my hands to my face; they were wet, too. When I opened my eyes, I saw they were covered in blood. I spun around and looked at the edge of the counter, it was my blood. A more severe panic grabbed my brain and I crawled into the downstairs bathroom. I faced the wall, and pulled myself up against the sink, my back facing the mirror. I saw now that the burning itch was only calmed by the blood oozing out of two parallel lines running on both sides of my spine. Then a more defined push showed itself in my upper back.

            I saw both lines swell up and slowly push in the mirror, stretching my skin more and more with each attempt. My flesh was screaming in pain, like it was being ripped off by a wooden spoon. It looked like something was tearing its way out from inside me. I couldn't move, I could only watch in horror. Further and further the elasticity of my skin was tried, until it was finally breeched. One bone broke free from behind my right shoulder. Blood sprayed onto the mirror and sink, a split followed all the way down to my waist. Underneath, the muscles were exposed and burning against the air. Then the left side joined the revolt, and pushed through the last line of defense. I couldn't watch anymore, I turned my head back to the wall, and I saw it. The shadow of something that wasn't human. Two giant wings stretched out, unsure of themselves. Strangely my back felt like I had arms stretching out for the first time. Everything swam in my head, and the colors of the room joined into an orgy in my eyes. The last thing I remember was falling forward, my head rolling against the wall.

            I woke up curled in a ball, uncomfortable as fuck. Dried blood speckled on the walls and soaked into the thin carpet underneath me. I pushed myself up, sore from the hard concrete under the sliver of carpet. It gave nothing to me over the hours I was unconscious, and my arms and shoulders whined about it. As I lifted myself off the floor, I felt heavier and off balance. My back brushed something on the other side of the room. My head almost buckled trying to comprehend the new feeling. I was facing a wall, right up on it, actually, and somehow, my back touched the washer, which was two and a half feet directly behind me.

            The night before flashed in my mind's eye, and replayed on fast forward. I remembered everything, every single detail played clearly through my hazed mind. Cautiously, I turned my eyes over my shoulder, and saw a giant blood-matted, feathered arm curled out of my back. Slowly, I reached my hand back to it, shaking, unsure of what would happen. When I made contact, it felt like I was touching another part of my body. Not a foreign creature that ripped its way to freedom through my skin the nightmare before. Touching this thing felt like I was touching my leg, or my arm or hand. I could feel it on the end of my fingertip, pushing its afterbirth further into its feathers, and I could feel my fingertip on the tip of its feathers. I pulled my hand away slowly, still waiting for some of the attitude it displayed last night, but there was none.

            My arms felt stiff, and my back and neck hurt like hell. My calves and thighs felt short and unused, so I stood and stretched everything out. Arms to the ceiling, wrists bent and twisting, legs straight and my feet pushing off the ground, connecting only on its toes. And the two newcomers spread as well, brushing the ceiling and door frame, stretching outside the bathroom, while the other stretched almost the entire length of it. Curious, I tried to flex my back, and to my surprise, one of them responded. It stretched out, and curled back in, like an arm bringing a cup to my face.

            I stood in the bathroom for hours, testing the new appendages out, only to find most of my limits were due to the room I was in. After my amazement died down, I noticed the blood all over the bathroom, and still on the floor and counter in the kitchen. It needed to be cleaned up before Greg, my roommate, walked through the door, or someone knocked. SHIT! I thought, What if someone comes here? I raced through the possible outcomes, nothing was a situation I wanted to find myself in, especially now. How am I gonna go to work looking like this? Fuck, I can't even go outside. Suddenly, the strange visitors on my back were less amazing, and quickly becoming a heavier burden as the risks piled up in my head.

            I took a deep breath, Greg, at least, I knew I could handle. He might freak out at first, but it'd quickly sink in and he'd accept it, probably even think it was fucking awesome. I just had to get the blood off everything so it didn't look like I'd just murdered two or three people. Maneuvering around the apartment only caused more of a mess. The wings kept stretching out at inconvenient times, knocking movies off the shelf or papers off the kitchen table. I tried as hard as I could to focus and keep them scrunched up against my bare back, but after a while that seemed to consume too much effort. It was like having a foreign language forced on me, and I had no choice but to learn. My head tried to wrap around it, but the pain eventually felt like a nail driven into my grey matter. Not to mention, the wings were cramping and I didn't have much space to spread them out to their full extent.

            The calamity of cleaning dulled after a few hours, blood only staining the carpet in the laundry room. I was exhausted and stressed, and only wanted to sit down and relax. Gravity pulled my ass hard down to the cushion, and a pain jolted straight into my spine. I tried to put my hands behind me and push back up. My fingers, with their honorable actions, pulled at the blood matted feathers, yanking a few out in my effort to return standing. I fell completely back, like a warped board, and the pain surged into my spine. I flailed involuntarily, and shoved my body to the right, lying across the couch. It stopped the quick, intense pain, but still wasn't comfortable. I rolled off into the floor, and stood up again. Thinking that, maybe, this time I wouldn't be so ignorant to forget my two new guests, or be so impolite as to forget they were there. I put my back to the couch, and stretched the wings out as far as I could to expose my ass for cushion contact. Cautiously, I squatted and leaned back. I relaxed and the wings started to curl back to me, getting hung on the couch cushions before they could completely do so. It wasn't the same; I couldn't relax as much as I could before I had these awesome abominations. While the wings didn't hurt, with my weight all on my back, it felt like I was lying on my arms, or sitting on my legs. It wasn't comfortable, and after a couple of minutes, the wings started to fall asleep, which was way more confusing a feeling than my crouch falling asleep when a girl sat in my lap too long.

            Fuck it, I decided, I'm not gonna sit on the couch. So, I walked upstairs to my room, intent on laying face down in my bed. Then, I could relax. I wouldn't have to worry about the wings being constricted so much, and I usually slept on my stomach. As I walked up the steps, the wings dragged against the walls, leaving more blood smears. Not so chunky and crimson as when they broke free the night before, but more like a dark, dried red oil paint. I immediately turned sideways and finished scaling the steps like a crab, and used the same method to go back up and down the steps to clean the walls. Slowly, I realized that if I didn't want to keep cleaning every god damned thing, I'd have to cut it off at the head. I reached back to the wing behind my left shoulder and rubbed the feathers, feeling another odd sensation, and pulled my right hand back to examine the afterbirth: dried, sticky chunks of blood. How'm I gonna take a get these bastards clean?

            I stood, squeezed into the bathroom, painting more things with the wings, before I had a crude plan worked out in my head. I pushed the shower curtains to the side opposite the shower head and drain, and turned on the water. Once it was lukewarm, I sat on the edge of the tub, with the wings hanging right in the water stream. It was like a gentle massage. The water ran down through the feathers, getting most of the blood off the feathers, like rinsing the paint from a brush. I cocked my head around the edge of the left wing, and stared at the drain, waiting for the water to run clear. It wasn't as simple as I thought it would be, I'd have to wait until the water was clear and resituate myself so as to hold another blood stained part of one of the wings under the shower head until all the blood was rinsed off, but it wasn't unpleasant. The worst part of it was after an hour, my ass started to ached, sitting on the hard plastic brim of the tub. After that was over, I set out again to clean the blood marks all over the bathroom, and downstairs on the couch.

            At last, I was clean enough to ignore the brush strokes the wings made against everything. There wasn't any paint in the bristles, and no messes to follow and scrub out. I shoved the door to my room open, and jumped into my bed. The left wing, crashed into the window, and it felt like I stubbed my toe. On instinct, I reached over and grabbed the part that ached, and felt my warm touch on it. Almost instantly, the pain was soothed. My head felt like it couldn't take anymore of these new sensations. The alien feelings were about to over load all my senses, not just touch. So I buried my face into my Hello Kitty! pillow, and finally everything relaxed. The wings spread out and covered me like a blanket, warm and soft like it was just out of the dryer. Instead of falling unconscious, sleep washed over me calmly and pleasantly.

            Invincible, that's how I felt, air gusting underneath me. A sound of feathers shoving air, and I was gliding like a leaf over apartment buildings and fast food joints. The cars on the streets were models like the kind I would play with as a child. Their headlights dim as dying flashlights, navigating the dark parts of the streets that street lights forgot to protect. I heard footsteps, like someone's running up the steps next to my room. I look around, but I'm still coasting on the wind. The creaks of the floor boards give and take, as weight bends them down, then gives. I wasn't too far from my apartment, so I went to check out the familiar noises. I reached the window and slow the glide to a hover, and peek through the window next to my bed. I'm still in there asleep. No one's outside my room, I'm still alone. Then, a sting pricks me in the back of my neck. All nerves shut down, and I fall down onto the porch, and slump immediately. Groggily, I turn my head to see what hit me, a giant shadow reaches out toward me.

            My body jolted and jerked me out of slumber land. I pushed up, arching my back to get my face of the puddle of drool soak into my pillow, flip it over, and let my face fall back into the cotton stuffed fabric. I stretch, flexing my calves and twisting my arms out on either side of me. The wings push out directly behind me, their edges nearly brushing the ceiling. Then I release, my legs and arms go limp, and the wings fall back to my sides, falling softly like a blanket. I hear the footsteps again, thudding all the way down to the living room, Greg's home. A balls of nerves made its way to my stomach, and I had no real want to do anything besides go back to sleep. Procrastination is my profession, but sooner or later it's bound to happen. I'll leave my room, and shit hits the fan. The best thing I could do is wait until he was back in his room, and talk to him through the door. Build up the suspense, so it wasn't just shock and out of left field. I'd put out a buffer, and hopefully it would be enough.

            Once again, thuds ascended the stairs and creaks pressed on passed my door. It was shit or get off the pot, so I pushed myself up to my knees, and wormed my way off the bed. Carefully, I walked to my door, trying not to knock everything off my computer desk and dresser and I tip-toed passed them. "Hey. Greg," I shouted through the door, my eyes staring at my feet.

            "What?" the door muffled back.

            "Uhm," I can't say I planned too well on how to break in to the whole 'I have wings' conversation, so I just said the first thing that came to me, "did you see any blood downstairs?"

            "No. Why? Are you on your period?"

            "No, dick, there's just something kind've weird that happened last night."

           He paused, I bet he thought I was fucking around with him, "What happened?" the curiosity outweighed his patience.

            I blanked, I didn't know if I could just come out and say it or what. How many times do you ever have to tell anyone that your body has sprouted new appendages? "It's prolly better if I just show you, so don't freak out."

            "What the hell are you talking about?" it wasn't a panic in his voice, just an excitement to figure out what was going on.

            I heard the floor creak again as he walked to my door. He turned the knob and began to open it when I put my hand on the back of it to hold it shut. "Give me a second, I'm standing right behind the door."

            He stopped pushing, "Okay."

            I carefully maneuvered myself back to the middle of my room, where there was enough space so I could stand and expand the wings a little without knocking things over and making a mess. "Alright, but promise me you aren't gonna freak out."

            The door cracked open, "I don't know what the fuck you're talking abou….." he stood and stared, squinting his eyes a little to make sure he was focusing in right.

            "I have wings," I pointed my thumb over my shoulder, and half smiled in that manner of 'I can't believe it either.'

            "What the fuck, Karr? Are those real?"

            "Yeah."

            "How do you just grow wings?"

            "I don't fucking know, it just happened last night. There was blood every where, and…Christ I don't know. I'm just as confused about it as you are now, and I've had 'em for a few hours."

            "You know, for a second, I thought you murdered someone. Talking about blood downstairs, and being all creepy," Greg chuckled.

            "Yeah, well, you try tellin' someone you've just had shit pop out of your back. It  ain't easy."

            "So…what happened exactly?"

            I recounted what I remembered of the night before, and explained all about the pain and the blood. I told him that I originally thought it was a demon busting out of me, and I flipped out and passed out from an intense anxiety attack. The whole time, I was flexing the wings back and forth, testing out movements and showing him everything I knew so far. Then he cut in, "Two things."

            "What's that?" I asked.

            "One: Have you tried to fly with these things yet?"

            "No, I just woke up with 'em today, I'm not about to go outside when everyone can see me, and risk becoming a science project."

            He paused , nodding his head, "Fair enough. Two: There's still two open gashes on your back where they tore out. It's pretty gross, I can see your muscles and everything."

            "What?" then the image from the mirror hit me, I saw it too, and never thought more on it. I guess it was a better idea to tell Greg when I did or I could've gotten an infection close enough to my lungs that it may have been serious. Followed by a trip to the hospital, being in public, etc. "Well shit, what am I supposed to do now? It's not like I can go to the hospital and get it all sewn up."

            "I've got an idea, I can go to my Mom's and grab a needle and thread."

            "I'm not a piece of fucking cloth, and when'd you learn how to sew?"

            "You have any better ideas?"

            I shook my head, all the precautions I had to take now were overwhelming me, and he was right, needle and thread was just about the only thing I could use to close the gashes on my back. "Hey, do you think you could grab some stuff to clean 'em, too? Because all we have here're band-aids."

            He nodded, "Sure, I don't know what my mom has, but I'll look for some stuff."

            "Thanks."

            I half smiled again, and went to lay back on my bed, stomach first. Greg creaked out of the room, and down the stairs.

            After I heard the door slam, I reached back to the ripped skin on my back, fingering the loose flaps that had started to curl without blood flow. An instinct in me wanted to pull, like ridding myself of dead sun burnt skin when it's been out in the UV rays too long. Thankfully, my logic dictated my actions more, but not enough, my fingers wandered passed the edge of the skin, and singed the sensitive nerve ends of bare muscle. My back tensed up, and the wings threw a tantrum (the left one crashing into the blinds on my window, almost knocking them off). The burning quickly faded after my salty fingertip jumped away.

            I shoved my face deeper into the pillow, I was drowning. Everything was too much to handle all at once, and I could barely deal with any of it. All I felt I could do was scream, so I did. My face buried into the pillow, I let it all out as best as I could. It was muffled, but relieving. The ball of nerves in my chest started to unknot, and a tranquil wave eased over me, good enough for now. I still had no idea what I was going to do, I didn't have to work today, but that was today and it wasn't going to last forever. I also couldn't forget that I was forced into being a hermit until nightfall. What then? I couldn't pay rent flying around at night, I couldn't eat on air. The knot started to build up again, so I breathed deep and focused on moving the wings. It'd occupy my brain for a little bit, until Greg got back, and I could talk to someone.

            I relaxed the best I could, and arched my back slightly, trying to push the wings out. Unsure of themselves, the twitched, but widened nonetheless. As soon as the edge of one brushed against something, I relaxed my back, and they curled back in. I pushed my right shoulder blade out to see if I could get one side moving apart form the other, and eased it more confident that the first try. It worked. The right wing smoothly reached out off the bed, then I relaxed and it pulled back in. I continued exercising each side within the space that was around me, until their movements were as fluid as I could get them. If my concentration broke slightly, they would spasm like a newborn reaching out for its mother.

            After I got them both moving out and in, even found some positions to keep them in so I could sit up. I thought it the next move would be the figure out how to flap. Pushing one, or both, behind me and bringing it forward was more of a challenge. The harder I push for them to go back, the further they'd stretch outward. I tried harder, trying to push them backward, but they'd just jut out and hits the walls, or smack a shelf sending everything into the floor. Frustration began to build up inside me, the anger tried my patience and I started to force them harder. It only ended up in the wings crashing into more things, and getting sore, which felt like stubbing my toe. I was about to lose it completely, I breathed deep and they shoved themselves back, and thudded into the wall behind me. I freaked, and pushed all the air out of my lungs, and pulled forward, the wings curled up on each side of me, sending a gush of air across the room. It claimed more figures and comics posing on racks opposite of me. The wind hit the wall and bounced back to me, and for a split second I felt like I was riding in a car with the window down. I smiled. That was just about my favorite feeling in the world.

            The door slammed again, in the midst of successfully controlling my wings. I lost concentration, and the few things left standing nearby went tumbling to the floor. I shoved myself off the bed, and folded the wings behind me. Easily, I shuffled through my room, trying to avoid stepping bare foot on everything I'd knocked into the floor.  For the first time in hours, I left my room, and carefully thumped down the steps. Greg looked up at me and tossed a plastic bag on the table in front the couch. "What'd you get?" I asked.

            "A needle and some thread, peroxide and some gauze and medical tape."

            "Awesome. I owe you a big one," I sighed.

            "Yeah, I guess I'm gonna hafta been the one to do the stitching, since you can't exactly look at your back," Greg pointed out.

            "You know how to sew? Since when? You can't even put the right dish detergent in the dishwasher," I laughed.

            "Suck my ass, that only happened once. And I don't see anyone else here to clean your fucking wounds. So shut your cocksucker."

            I laughed. "Fine, fine…this is gonna suck isn't it?"

            "Probably, since you're a giant bleeding vagina."

            "Awesome. Well, how're we gonna do this?" I asked.

            "Uhm, just sit on the table and keep those things outta the way, and don't be a baby."

            "You sure you can handle this? Ya know, needles and skin, and all that gross shit."

            He just nodded. I turned my back to him, and sat down on the table top. I crossed my arms and grabbed the edge of my wings, and pulled them both close to me, leaning forward. I felt the air hitting the exposed muscles in my back. It felt fresh, but burned slightly. Greg got up and walked into the laundry room, and came back with a towel. "Here, put this underneath you."

            I lifted up and scooted the towel where I was sitting. "You ready?" Greg asked.

           I took a deep breath and nodded. The peroxide hit my wounds, and bubbled and fizzed, like Rice Krispies in a bowl. It was by far the worst burn I'd felt since I gashed my back open when I was kid. Ironic how it'd sort've happened again. Greg grabbed one of the gauze and started patting the excess peroxide from the torn skin. I winced, and bit my lip. "Alright, I'm gonna start stitching now," he let me know.

            I closed my eyes, and tried to put my mind somewhere else. It didn't work, all I could think of was acupuncture, and a few movies I had seen where it was used as torture. Needles had never really bothered me, but those celluloid fantasies had made my eyes water, and my lungs gasp. All that seemed to be playing in my mind were those reels of pain and suffering, then the first puncture was in and working its way through my skin. My teeth pushed hard into my bottom lip, and the needle was through, leading the way for a rough thread sanding a hole into my skin. "You good?" Greg asked.

            "Mhmm," my teeth were still imprinting on my lips.

            Each time a new hole was made, it felt just like the last, not more painful, and definitely not any less. The most unpleasant of it all was when Greg had to draw the skin closed as best he could. The thread tugged unforgivingly on the weak flaps of skin that had already been abused by my two new friends. When Greg finished the first one, he tied the thread tight, and moved quickly to the next one. I could tell he was getting the hang of it fast, which was good for me, although occasionally his patience led a needle slightly beyond the skin. I just bit down harder and hoped it wouldn't be a regular thing, which it wasn't. When the gash underneath the left wing was done, Greg put a gauze over both stitched up wounds, and taped them down. After he was done, I grabbed the tape and rolled it around my stomach to make sure it wouldn't start peeling off before it was time to clean them again.

            I stood up and turned around, "Thanks."

            "Yeah, don't worry about it."

            "No, seriously, it means a lot. I feel like I'm going crazy. All this shit's falling down on me, and I can't do anything put accept it. And now I can't even go outside or anywhere because of these things. So, thanks for not freaking out on me, and helping me."

            "No problem. I mean, considering, you're doing pretty well. Besides, it's pretty awesome that you have wings. C'mon."

            I nodded, "Yeah, it is. And you're taking all this really well. Shouldn't you be freaking out just as much as I am? I mean, usually, you'd be right there with me."

            "Fair enough, but I mean, I'll just freak out when you're not around so it doesn't get you all stressed out," he laughed. "So can you do anything with 'em yet?"

This Is Where It Begins; Chapter 1

(for the record, none of this has been proof read, so if there're any errors grammatical or whatever, they'll be ironed out sooner or later, but hopefully this'll turn out well in the whole)

Chapter 1

This is where it began, in a dream: intense, excruciating pain, pulsing through every nerve in my spine. Blood spilled and splattered everywhere. And a shadow burned upon the wall, and painfully carved into my memory. Sometimes I'd even wake up from the burning on either side of my spine. The two sharp, burning aches screamed louder than any alarm clock. Eventually the bastard sensation made a leap from my subconscious to the reality of the waking world. The only option it left then was teary eyes and teeth marks on my cracked lips. When it attacked me while I was awake, it was relentless, malicious, unforgiving; it felt like something inside of me wanted out. And it'd be damned to stay confined underneath my skin. I had no say in the battle taking place in my body. I may have had some control in my mind, but when the shit hit the fan, I was only a helpless bystander.

            The only way I can tell it is from the beginning, skipping all the boring, mundane parts and details. There were boring days with only after thoughts in the wake of the dream. Others were dramatically painful and fresh, like a broken heart, where I found myself reduced to a pathetic snot-nosed husk of a human being, at the mercy of this horrible, painful new sensation. There's only one solid place that I can start to tell the story:

            Fucking kids, pushing and weaving themselves through the maze of zombies and monotonous automatons, myself included. They mostly sported poop stains smeared on their foreheads, trying to resemble a lightning bolt, but there were deviants that had shit smears on their cheeks, so rebellious. The children scurried like insects through the looming droids, tailed by less graceful parents or oversized fat friends that made ripples in the tranquil sea of standing in one spot, peacefully. This is where I found myself, stalking the graphic novels as if they were a surgically perfected blonde in my sickest fantasy. I was trying to avoid being a human pinball, forced to follow the waves of the crowd, for a herd of impatient A.D.D. victims that found standing still next to impossible.

            Here I was alone, surprise, and in a bookstore so packed that it made a sorority girl's asshole seem like Hiroshima after the bomb dropped. What the fuck was I doing here? Waiting on some god damned book, and bitterly doing so. I was here, in this corporate coffee shop hell, because I thought I had said book reserved. As it turns out, I get the cream of the crop of the summer help, and found I was shit out of luck, and myself at the end of the line. There weren't any real lines right now, just a series of color-coded, stickered wristbands that no one but high school graduates could completely comprehend, and the way it seemed, no one in the bookstore made it out of high school. To add insult to injury, they were all colorblind as well.

            I could feel it gripping me, like icy fingers lingering right above the threshold of touch, and I was stranded, stuck in an ocean of strangers. At the mercy of my flaring social anxiety, and now I have to deal with this. I should've been with Allistor and Bigsby, then I could've ran off, passed off some cash for them to spare me the public humiliation. Instead, a swarm of children and yip-yapping dip-shits were my only comrades. Their ignorant words forced themselves into my ears, and I was reluctant to hear their academic debates on the forecast of the book, treating fiction like it was life or death. I wish I could sleep while standing, I thought to myself.

            Then it happens, round after round I unload into the backs, shoulders, legs and faces of anyone and everyone in my sight, panic and hysteria – perfect. Looks like there're more people being trampled than hit by my bullets, but that's okay. They're all running like confused animals, some circling, some stampeding through stands and displays, and over other animals. No heroes. Maybe I was wrong; some glorified steroid jockey's sneaking around the sci-fi section, looking to get his face on the front page. The poor idiot doesn't know I'm omnipresent here, in the now, so I kindly educate him. Bullets push through paper and wood, and find a home in his chest. The blood splatter hits a fugly teeny-bop hipster stopping her dead in her fleeing tracks. Over the top of the bookshelf, I can see her eyes widen as she realizes what just became her makeup, and she may have gotten AIDS, too, for all either of us knows. Explosions from my hands set of a ripe panic on her face, the true look of knowledge, and Ms. Two-Tone-Hair meets the carpet missing a knee cap. In the morning, she'll appreciate her life a lot more, especially with this new awakening I put in her brain. My mind screams at her, Don't thank God, thank me. An older woman next to her screams when someone's hot coffee hits her face like a Jackson Pollock painting. I plug the noisy wench straight in the eye. I was aiming for the forehead, but even in my wet dreams of gore and ultra-violence, I'm not a great marksman, I just get the job done.

            When I'm at the peak of my unquenchable bloodlust, a microphone disrupts my train, and it's time to be herded toward the registers. Painfully slow, the crowd files down to the irresponsible people, like me, who decided last minute to show up and wait a couple hours for a book. Then, finally, it was my turn to get in the back of an actual line, with the best of them. It's when I start to move that I feel it, a dull prickling between my shoulder blades. I can feel the storm festering, and the wind's blowing toward me. I try to concentrate, and block out the pain as I move up the line, convincing myself that I'm just tired and imagining it. There's no real pain, it's just tense muscles from standing around with my arms crossed all night. God, I wish it was the honest truth.

            I zombie my way vacantly up to the register. A one-handed cashier smiles and asks, "One?"

            I appreciate the irony of the question, and nod. He bags and takes my cash. Not just using one hand, but he's got some skill with the nub, too. Real talent. I try not to be rude, but I'm too tired to be reserved, and my brain isn't exactly functioning on full capacity. I stare, hypnotized by his handless wrist, and find a small treasure box of humor inked around his nubbin. A dotted line with scissors; I like his moxi. He hands me the change and my book, and I smile big and groggy, the pain swelling back up into my brain.

            1AM dew hits my face and my shoulders are on fire, and in my strict attention. The vacation is over, now's where the fun parts begin. The real world quickly torn from thought. It starts off like IcyHot was poured onto my spine, and vigorously rubbed in. I recognize the feeling well enough. When I was younger, a friend of mine suggested IcyHot as an awesome lubricant to wax a dolphin with. I don't know if he was joking or not, but I gave it a go, and punched him in the face later. My balls and boner were on fire, like I was designated the devirginizer for a cheerleading squad. As I crumbled into the driver's seat of my car, my spine was just in the icy stage.

            I sunk my foot onto the pedal, holding it as steady as I could, speeding toward what little comfort I would find facing this in my own home. The headlights on the other side of the interstate blended together like dancing melting marshmallows. My mind consumed utterly by the pain, I could barely focus, and struggled greatly to do so. The sore iciness built steadily from an 'I must've slept on it wrong' to an uncomfortable 'I guess I pulled something,' soon I'm sure it'd make its gentle segue into 'FUCKING CHRIST!' I had to get to my apartment before that happened. I've shut down under the physical stress before, but doing so on the interstate at 90mph wouldn't be good to explore. I doubt it's something I could walk away from.

sumbitch

so, i'm gonna try and do something different for a change, and hopefully it'll get my ass working more on my creative stuff.
so, i'm gonna start writing a story, and post at least a chapter, or small part of the story at least once a week. and get feedback as i go along, and see what happens. but i'm gonna make it a friends only post, so if you're interesting in reading my shitty shit, then yo. if not, you're prolly the smarter of the bunch.
anyway, wish me luck.