typoh
It's easy, on a slow day when I can't chase down my thoughts, to think that everything couldn't possibly be as fine as it is.
I used to see her walking on the way to the cinema. Every Sunday I would go, alone, and see whatever was playing at the time. It centred me for the week to come, I thought.
The porch was blindingly well lit, and as we sat Laura said that we just absolute must have vodka tonics, and it was all I could do to not throw a lemon at her head.
Two years ago, had you asked me, I could never have fathomed that we would have come so far, and gone so awry, that we could have become enemies when once one.
As I sit in my room, surrounded by symbols of my wandering college debauchery -- caffeine, alcohol, weed, decay -- I wait for the crows to pick upon the remains of the life I once had.
He was a barrel chested man, a man whose scarred and ever-stubbled chin and thick, burnt forearms spoke volumes and whose resonant, rolling laughter drew stares and nervous glances in crowded places.
It's a tricky thing to say you're single, looking for a relationship, or the like. To say so means more than being uncommitted to anyone in particular, being open to a new lover. To say so means to be available, and this worried carries with it far more than denotation of sexual or social freedom. Emotionally available is one thing I am not.
She presented herself as what she always wished she could be, while a massive nagging thought lived and thrived beneath her perfectly sculpted hair: I'm not pretty, and I never will be.
As I sat in the library, delving into the riches of Karl Marx and Facebook, soaking in the cathartic silence, broken only by pencil squeaks, key clicks, and flipped pages, a syncopated, irregular and seemingly crescendoing drumming filled the space where silence had been and turned my jiving to writhing. I looked up. Some guy was drumming on the table with headphones on. Everyone has their methods.
There comes to be a point in every man's life when he can no longer pretend to be satisfied, happy. Some inner space of self respect and pride grows as we age, and refuses to be ignored. We broadcast our sadness, daring anyone to ask, why?
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