just another work in progress.....waiting to be finished.
I don’t know how I came to get in such a situation. Looking back it all seems so far-fetched to be real. A sort of pseudo plot hatched my some high paid studio writer in Hollywood. The same crap they keep spewing out over and over again, but with just cause. I mean, with real estate prices how they are today, who can blame a writer for not wanting to try something new? If I had a $4,000 monthly rent, I certainly would not want my name on some new idea that bombed. Taking chances is a stupid game. Rent is high. So plot is crap. Regurgitated, listless monologues about love and life. The same shit we’ve all heard for years, getting hammered into ourselves until be becomes a part of us. A part of our souls. This disgorged attempt at true realitly. We’ve all become thespians in the largest drama produced
I’m sprawled on a bathroom floor. It doesn’t matter whose, its just an anonymous bathroom. White toilet, covered in lint and pubic hair on the bottom of the lip of the toilet I know because my head is lying next to it. The tiles are cold on my cheek. I’m feeling this sudden urge to clean the bottom of this toilet. I’m looking around for some toilet paper, but all I can find are blood soaked masses. This is really putting a damper on my cleaning idea. Where the hell do they keep the damn backup rolls? Or better yet, who the hell paints a bathroom yellow, then lays green tiles? Where the hell am I? Oh well, it doesn’t matter. Just another anonymous bathroom. Hideous color selections, but functionality is victorious. I’m sprawled in a sort of fetal position near the foot of this toilet, and I look like I’ve just had one of the hardest days in the history of time. I’m laying in a pool of something warm. I’d rather not think hard enough to find out what. I’m fairly sure ignorance is a better option here. My hands are covered in what appears to be a mixture of blood, tears, vomit, and mucus. The bathroom is a mess. I need to find a damn backup roll of toilet paper. But all I can think to do is sleep. I would be passed out already, except the heartburn is too painful to even fall asleep. I haven’t had a good nights rest in ages. But this is a less glamorous highlight show of being bulimic, dyslexic, depressed, and sober. There is a pile of mixed pills sitting on the counter. All prescription. I don’t take illegal drugs. The heartburn is killing me, but I finally pass out. Shortly after, my heart stops beating, and I lapse into a limbo with death.
But shit, look at me. I’m getting way ahead of myself here. Let me start with my name; Kellen Edward Tyler. I’m 23 years old, living in a shitty studio apartment in Placentia, California. That’s such a horrible name for a city. The apartment resides in a seedy neighborhood, however, I’m rarely home as it is. Its mostly for show. A place for parents when they visit, so they can look back on their call and say to themselves “That seems about right.” A place to take ladies. A place to reflect. A place to tear myself apart, without making a scene of course. I never fancied living alone. The idea of seclusion and isolation always terrified me. But not for the reasons you’re thinking. Just trust me on that one. That’s also something you’re going to need to learn here. Trust me on everything. I’m going to be feeding you notes on my life. My experiences. Do with them what you will, but be sure you trust me in the process.
My story begins like most stories. Setting, characters, rising action, everything leading to the great climax then conclusion. The striking similarity between plot lines and sex is overwhelming. Anyway, dirty innuendos aside, California has some harsh summers. And people to match.
I think I’m in love. I have never felt emotions like this before. She has me addicted to her. Looking back now, its still unclear if I was addicted to her, or if I was simply addicted to the way she made me feel. My addiction to emotions. Nothing can get between us. My life is going great. I got a good job. A nice place. A girl to emote with. And new furniture. I have this fascination with new furniture. I loved moving out on my own because it meant that I got to furnish. I think its more the idea of starting from a clean slate over the idea of putting my couch in the center of the wall. So I have this natural fascination. Maybe I should have become an interior decorator. So many different paths I could have taken. But I chose this. I chose love.
I’m sprawled on a bathroom floor. It doesn’t matter whose, its just an anonymous bathroom. White toilet, covered in lint and pubic hair on the bottom of the lip of the toilet I know because my head is lying next to it. The tiles are cold on my cheek. I’m feeling this sudden urge to clean the bottom of this toilet. I’m looking around for some toilet paper, but all I can find are blood soaked masses. This is really putting a damper on my cleaning idea. Where the hell do they keep the damn backup rolls? Or better yet, who the hell paints a bathroom yellow, then lays green tiles? Where the hell am I? Oh well, it doesn’t matter. Just another anonymous bathroom. Hideous color selections, but functionality is victorious. I’m sprawled in a sort of fetal position near the foot of this toilet, and I look like I’ve just had one of the hardest days in the history of time. I’m laying in a pool of something warm. I’d rather not think hard enough to find out what. I’m fairly sure ignorance is a better option here. My hands are covered in what appears to be a mixture of blood, tears, vomit, and mucus. The bathroom is a mess. I need to find a damn backup roll of toilet paper. But all I can think to do is sleep. I would be passed out already, except the heartburn is too painful to even fall asleep. I haven’t had a good nights rest in ages. But this is a less glamorous highlight show of being bulimic, dyslexic, depressed, and sober. There is a pile of mixed pills sitting on the counter. All prescription. I don’t take illegal drugs. The heartburn is killing me, but I finally pass out. Shortly after, my heart stops beating, and I lapse into a limbo with death.
But shit, look at me. I’m getting way ahead of myself here. Let me start with my name; Kellen Edward Tyler. I’m 23 years old, living in a shitty studio apartment in Placentia, California. That’s such a horrible name for a city. The apartment resides in a seedy neighborhood, however, I’m rarely home as it is. Its mostly for show. A place for parents when they visit, so they can look back on their call and say to themselves “That seems about right.” A place to take ladies. A place to reflect. A place to tear myself apart, without making a scene of course. I never fancied living alone. The idea of seclusion and isolation always terrified me. But not for the reasons you’re thinking. Just trust me on that one. That’s also something you’re going to need to learn here. Trust me on everything. I’m going to be feeding you notes on my life. My experiences. Do with them what you will, but be sure you trust me in the process.
My story begins like most stories. Setting, characters, rising action, everything leading to the great climax then conclusion. The striking similarity between plot lines and sex is overwhelming. Anyway, dirty innuendos aside, California has some harsh summers. And people to match.
I think I’m in love. I have never felt emotions like this before. She has me addicted to her. Looking back now, its still unclear if I was addicted to her, or if I was simply addicted to the way she made me feel. My addiction to emotions. Nothing can get between us. My life is going great. I got a good job. A nice place. A girl to emote with. And new furniture. I have this fascination with new furniture. I loved moving out on my own because it meant that I got to furnish. I think its more the idea of starting from a clean slate over the idea of putting my couch in the center of the wall. So I have this natural fascination. Maybe I should have become an interior decorator. So many different paths I could have taken. But I chose this. I chose love.