I was made for conflict. When there is no conflict ... must I create my own?

But creating my own conflict is difficult because it's hard to forget that I invented it.

If God were to create an entire splintered race of individuals experiencing His existence through separate lenses, perhaps even He could forget himself, for a little bit.

The premise: I love a girl. Not only do I love a girl, but the girl loves me. Last month we separated from the hip to try out living single lives for a while, meeting only once every two weeks in forced celibacy, yet dreaming of no other. We did it because our communication was dwindling, and the sex was overpowering our ability to hold a ( Read more... )

Stumbling around, numb and dumb, too plumb self-wrapped-up to exist and breathe fully, I've lost my voice. Somewhere among all the bullshit that people spit back and forth, I realized that it was all bullshit, so I elected to stop contributing my personal share of it (BS)... I didn't realize that, in my disillusionment, I had completely shut and ( Read more... )

My drivethru window sits two feet below my tall eye level. The whiny boy at the front window never sends the orders to my computer before customers pull up, leaving them to stare at me, first quizzically and then disenchantedly as I tell them I don't yet know how much their order is. Sometimes they're patient and understanding. Sometimes they look ( Read more... )

I find him sweating under a burned out streetlight on the Brooklyn Bridge, one cigarette hanging from his lips and one shaking in his hand. "It's whiskey," he says. "I'm going to sweat out the whiskey. I sweat whiskey, shit beer. Wine gets cried out. Rum gets fucked out. But this is whiskey ( Read more... )

I notice him instantly-not instantly enough. He is already making his move: those nasty, clockwork brakelights lighting (d)red on his trail, his vehicle making a distinctly sentinel swoop around the median of our shared midnight-black highway.

I know what you are, my mind spits ( Read more... )

After years of asserting and believing that I was too good to ever work at a Burger King, I now do. I've worked there for three months now, in fact. Such is working life in Chillicothe when you're not down with the factory workers or the good ol' boys. Running a drivethru is very strange-I sort of recommend it to anyone who eats fast food, so that ( Read more... )

LiveJournal, you could be called neglected, but I just can't be moved by you. You see, I do most of my personal writing in the form of letters. Writing is easier and more fun with an audience in mind, with inside cues to work from, with personal knowledge and jokes that you know will be appreciated. Writing for a live journal is publishing; like ( Read more... )

Sometimes, when I'm still wearing my Burger King uniform, I put on my boxing gloves and pick fights with my heavy bag. The bag starts swinging, stray strands of hair fall out of my ponytail into my face, I start mocking myself for hurting my wrists with bad form and cheap gloves, and I stab the bag with my elbows. I cock my head, scrunch up my face ( Read more... )

I seem to drive people away from wanting to hang around me lately, and I'd really like to figure out why. I know my mind's sorta shutting down around people, but there must be a deeper root than that. I swear my presence carries some sort of silencing aura at times ( Read more... )