You’ll probably never read this, in fact chances are it won’t even reach you and I’m probably just writing this for myself, you know for therapeutic reasons.
Okay uhm… where to start. You’ll probably never read this, in fact chances are it won’t even reach you and I’m probably just writing this for myself, you know for therapeutic reasons. I guess I should just say all this stuff, especially by now but it helps to write things down or else I stutter and generally make a fool out of myself. Its September 3rd today, that means it would have been our 2 years and six months anniversary. You know I always complain that month anniversaries are for 12 year olds but you always kind of liked the idea so happy hypothetical month anniversary.
I know you probably roll your eyes at me bringing that up and I am well aware it has been over a year now since you uh left me. Well 1 year 3 months and 16 days. I think right now I’ve finished the process you know and I’ve finally come to terms that you’re not going to come back, ever. I think I’m out of the phase where I lie on my floor and hope that you’ll turn up at my door step. You know what; I’m doing okay, getting there… baby steps.
I’ve even uhm; I’ve even been sort of seeing a girl. Jess is her name; people keep telling me it’s a positive step in getting over you and stuff and don’t get me wrong she’s a nice girl but… different. It’s funny; your muscles have a certain memory about them. That’s why we can tie our shoes or play piano without looking, but then you spend a long enough time with someone and your bodies memorize each other you know. The warmth of your back…the pace of your heart beat, your tickley eyelashes and the way your fingers would curl in sequence when I used to play with your palm. Another person is like moving to a new country where you don’t know the language. It’s a scary thing, and she voluntarily eats celery. Who does that? You know people are always about ‘you’ll find someone else’ ‘there’s plenty more fish in the sea’ but you know what I feel like a fucking fish in a bucket.
I’ve been reading lots, nonfiction mostly. Did I ever tell you the theory about the multiverse? It says there’s an infinite amount of hypothetical universes parallel to ours that contain every single possible set of circumstances. It kind of got me thinking you know. It means that there might be a world where on the 15th of February we never had that argument and I didn’t say all those things I didn’t mean and you didn’t walk away without another word or maybe there’s another world in which I chased after you. Then we’d still be together and catch the train together and do coupley things and have bubble tea with those god awful slimy globs of jelly down the bun which I hate.
Sometimes on my way I walk past your apartment. Every time I do, I get this weird urge to knock on the door which is stupid because I knew you wouldn’t answer it. Well in any case it’s technically your old apartment now. You’re… now a days you’re quite far away with your new life and all. I wonder if you even remember me sometimes. I … I wish you’d talk to me, give me some vague sign that you do remember cause you know what … I’m not doing well. Life is actually pretty shit and look at me, I’ve gone this whole page without using the L word once so far but looking at it objectively, realistically I’d say that I still love you. I’m kind of really afraid I won’t ever, really stop loving you. I hope they’re treating you well up there because I miss you more than ever.
“I fucking love her.” My brother’s face is twisted, red, vulnerable. “How cold, how could... this fucking happen.” What are you supposed to do when you see your hero at their weakest moment? What happens when there’s nothing you can do but sit and watch as everything falls apart. There’s nothing that you can do. You have to sit there and be the worthless piece of shit that everyone already tells you, you are.
Will’s tears hurt me, the one person, the only fucking person that I care about was hurt. It’s as if the god that everyone seemed to worship and hail as a holy man wanted to torture me, to rip at my flesh by ruining the substantial things in my life. I don’t really believe I can claim that though, I’m not quite important enough for him...it … hermaphroditic creature to torture me in that kind of way. That’s only saved for people with the status of Charles Manson, lucky bastards.
After that event occurred in my life I came up with an idea. If I were to never get attached to a guy in the way Julia had to Will, then there is no way I could hurt them. Plus one point towards me being a genius, minus five for my small use of superb vocabulary words. Thanks 9th-12th grade English, you went straight through my brain like every other class I ever took.
It’s hard not to think about you 24/7, to not be silently praying that maybe you’d call just one more time, to stop hoping that we could be back together. I jerked my head, you know, like when you’re about to fall asleep. Yes, that head jerking. I set my mind to what I needed to be doing, to what I had to be doing, finding a place to stay. I watched as a huge crowd walked out of a concert venue, half of them drunk or high. The elementary joy on their faces was plain to see, it was as if they were all children again walking out of their favorite candy shop. None though, looked like children. Pierced, tattooed, and as for other words fucked up. I’d fit right in.
The muggy weather didn’t help anyone. 80% or more of the people were drenched, yes, in sweat. Must have been an exciting show. My backpack firmly attached to me I ran into the outgoing crowd, it’s like a salmon trying to swim upriver but 10x worse. I felt the sticky sweat of a large palm enclose around my wrist. “Whoa where are you going there pretty lady?” The man’s hot breath slid down my neck, goose bumps scattered where his mouth was near. I turned to see …it. There is nothing more that I can say but disgusting, repulsive, and repugnant. Ah, my vocabulary isn’t too bad I suppose.
“Why don’t you back off you disgusting piece of trash,” this came out more of a snarl than the English words I speak. I quickly slipped away with the thought of that creature following me the whole time. Being the height of a midget helped; well 2 inches away from being a legal midget. Close enough I suppose.
I am heinously ludicrous, in other words, stupid. I never once, or even twice, thought about the security guards at the door. Once you’ve walked out, you’re out for good. I remember coming out of shows with my brother, realizing the second we step outside that it’s ridiculously cold, quickly turning to try and get back in but having the guards shove us back. Beggars coming up, saying how cold they were, Will and I looking to each other, seeing how neither of us had a jacket on but the beggar did.
This struck a chord in my brain. I kept the direction I was going, everyone passing …seeing them as you see cars on the highway. This is when I knew the security guard would stop me, right on “Excuse me miss, you can’t go back in,” queue.
“But sir,” the pleading in my voice would hook anyone, “I, I forgot my purse. That has EVERYTHING I need. My license, my wallet, my-“ I could already see the look in the man’s eye, not focused on what I was saying but rather on my face…breasts…maybe even my ass though it was plainly out of sight from where he was standing. This here boys and girls, is how I manipulate people. It’s only one of my many talents. I’m not the egomaniac artist, the intoxicated musician, nor the merrymaking hipster; I am the incandescent girl who can wrap every little boy around her finger. Though, I only choose to do so when I please and only then.
There were a few stragglers left, either trying to find lost items swallowed by the mosh pit or still trying to purchase merchandise though, none noticed me. The place still reeked of sweat, alcohol, and weed. My eyes wandered through this poorly lit building, cracked and broken is the best way to describe it. A banner was still hung behind the stage. The letters were brighter than anything else; Taking Back Sunday is what it scrolled out. It didn’t matter though, I was just looking for a one night stand with this concert venue, give me a warm place to sleep for a night and everything would be just extravagant.
It wasn’t hard to slip into one of the back rooms behind the stage; the guards don’t notice anything under the sound of a dog. This happened to be the supply closet. I exited knowing the filthy things people would do, fucked out of their minds from some surfeit guy placing Rohypnol in their drink. The band should be gone, living out the lives of a rock star status. This way, it would be easier to find a comfortable place to lay my head without waiting for the conceited bastards to take their time and leave.
By now everyone was almost completely vacant; it wouldn’t be hard to make up a story without a second thought on it if I were to be questioned. I moved onto the next door, like right hand or left hand there weren’t many options and apparently I had opened the wrong one, leading to that nauseating supply closet.
I threw open the next door, you know not expecting anyone to be in there. Guess I was wrong. As if in slow motion the five men’s heads slowly turned back to stare at me. The one that my eye was instantly drawn to though was extensively covered in sweat with some lengthy snot hanging out of his right nostril. That’s attractive.