The yellow cinderblock was nauseating. I left and never, ever went back.
"Doc Martin's are made in China." That was the first thing you had ever said to me. As far as introductory lines go, yours was nauseatingly cliche. It's an ironic decree stated with the motive to get you sucked off in the Subway bathroom because, hot damn, you're just so inquisitive and you look hot in dirty khakis.
Then, the second thing you ever said to me was this: "I feel like I know you." Every story uttered from then on was lost in my memory, a blended repetoired spice with a bit of folklore, a dash of narcissism, and topped with the decadent bullshit. Our only similarity was that we came from the same hometown. You had been expelled from high school and accepted into Oxford. Travelled across the country and shared syringes with lo-fi indie starlets. The blonde girl who broke your heart. The half-asian bride who had left you the month before.
January 5, 2011
The parental terror alert has reached a code orange. Shit, they're mad. Really mad. They're mad because I peed besides the grocery store and got caught. It doesn't help that five minutes before, I had murdered a Russian orphan using only a mechanical pencil and an empty pack of bubblegum. I didn't really do those things. Hell, it's only Wednesday.
I woke up at an appropriate time and went along with Saadia to yoga, the book store, and Starbucks. Sometime between stealing an anthology of Sylvia Plath and bumming cigarettes from immigrant baristas, I decided to dye my hair. Samson style. Bringing out the Big Red, extra spicy with a side of "who gives a fuck?". We returned to her house. She christened me rogue in the bathroom sink. It looks sick. She snipped off the split ends that had grown rough and dry. Short and sweet. I felt liberated and different.
"Doc Martin's are made in China." That was the first thing you had ever said to me. As far as introductory lines go, yours was nauseatingly cliche. It's an ironic decree stated with the motive to get you sucked off in the Subway bathroom because, hot damn, you're just so inquisitive and you look hot in dirty khakis.
Then, the second thing you ever said to me was this: "I feel like I know you." Every story uttered from then on was lost in my memory, a blended repetoired spice with a bit of folklore, a dash of narcissism, and topped with the decadent bullshit. Our only similarity was that we came from the same hometown. You had been expelled from high school and accepted into Oxford. Travelled across the country and shared syringes with lo-fi indie starlets. The blonde girl who broke your heart. The half-asian bride who had left you the month before.
January 5, 2011
The parental terror alert has reached a code orange. Shit, they're mad. Really mad. They're mad because I peed besides the grocery store and got caught. It doesn't help that five minutes before, I had murdered a Russian orphan using only a mechanical pencil and an empty pack of bubblegum. I didn't really do those things. Hell, it's only Wednesday.
I woke up at an appropriate time and went along with Saadia to yoga, the book store, and Starbucks. Sometime between stealing an anthology of Sylvia Plath and bumming cigarettes from immigrant baristas, I decided to dye my hair. Samson style. Bringing out the Big Red, extra spicy with a side of "who gives a fuck?". We returned to her house. She christened me rogue in the bathroom sink. It looks sick. She snipped off the split ends that had grown rough and dry. Short and sweet. I felt liberated and different.
