The time is 2:19 a.m. and I sit sullenly at my sad excuse for a desk, typing, backspacing, typing, backspacing. My vocabulary escapes me at this hour. All I want is to fall into purple-hazed dreams and maybe not feel what it feels like to want and want so desperately that it stings. I think back to old friends, acquaintances, lovers, enemies (if there is such a thing anymore) and I try to imagine what they think of me now.
I recently installed the Waze app on my phone, a GPS that spoke up to tell me when a red light camera was reported up ahead, when a police officer was reported up ahead, even when a goddamn pot hole was reported up ahead.
I tried to scream in the dream and kept trying to scream when my eyes popped open, but no sound escaped. I couldn’t even force my lips to part. The most I could do was bob a toe, twitch a pinkie.
Cross off as many items as you can from the list. If you skip an item, you lose. If you tell anyone why you’re doing what you’re doing, you lose. If you’re unable to complete the entire list in under 24 hours, you lose.
There were 13 episodes, and each of them revolved around a different crime. Robbing. Stalking. Mugging. Murder. Rape.
I ended up sharing a house with my cousin down in New Orleans. I didn’t want to leave the country, to spend too many hours cramped on a plane, so that’s where I picked. And that’s where he died.
About a month ago, the texts started pouring in, telling me that I had a twin walking around Long Island. A girl that looked just like me, down to the floral tattoos across my arms.
Tinder has been a desert of late. Decks of average blokes devoid of adequate grooming or humour. Sigh. I have a whole weekend and a drawer full of Keflex.
When I looked in his eyes, I saw nothingness. Black dots. Like his soul had abandoned his body.
The baby monitor stood on my night stand, as Matt and I could both see it clearly from May’s room. The laughter got louder and louder as it began playing on all three monitors. I picked up May while scared and crying at the same time
