went out in the rain suddenly everything changed
In the morning I dress myself in a Olivia's four letter word for cerulian clothes. All of these colors with different names. So many crayon box colors in the world that we forget that it only takes four to color your face in the yearbook. These are the four primary printing colors. These are all the colors you need to color any face. We're all just different variations of cyan, magenta, yellow and black.
And over Olivia I drape my graduation robe. A robe so unflattering and cylindrical that it rapes you of all the individuality you spent four years in high school obtaining. Nobody stands out in graduation robes- that's the point. You are a five letter component of something larger. Two robes, blue and pink. And no matter how hard you try to mean something there will be times in life when it will come down to the basic colors. Life will strip you down the the four primary printing colors.
You are your yearbook picture. You are the ink that rubs off on your fingers and fades with the sunset. You are just a variation of the same four colors that everyone is made from. Babies are bloody and purple when born. Every baby comes out bloody and purple. Shriveled, small and screaming.
Dressed in Olivia, dressed in my cap and gown, I walk out to that same place on Bustleton Avenue. I am walking to kill myself. I will die in my primary colors. I will bleed magenta. Yellow fluids will leak out of my crushed skull. The blood will harden black. This is graduation day, and I'm graduating from life.
Lying in the road I'd be lying if I said I feel nothing. Because I can feel. I'm still alive. I'm still in a five letter word for extreme pain. I can feel the cold gritty asphault beneath me. I can feel the cars fly by me, but none in the other direction. I wait for one car to come, not looking, and ride over my body and drag it for miles scraping off my colors until I'm just a ragged piece of roadkill. I hear honking. I see headlights in the distance, and this is ten letter anticipation.
Honking.
Headlights.
My body is going to paint the asphault any letter word for red.
I can see the blue car swerving. But there's nowhere to go. The concrete partition or me, there are only two choices. I see the blue of the hood and the grill; I hear a horn and screech of breaking tires. I see blue. More blue. More honking. I see Olivia in the driver's seat with her graduation cap on the dashboard. A blue cap, of course, even though she's a girl.
Adrianne 2.0. Like hell I'm going to be run over by a corpse.
Olivia's car slides into the concrete partition in the middle of the road and her car wrinkles like human skin and air bags puff out and fill the front seat. Something is still pressing the horn, the headlights flicker. I stand up and open the passenger side door and watch the air bags deflate.
And oh is it ever Olivia. Her petrified frozen blue eyes. Eyes like ice. Teeth like icicles. She tries to smile. She is wearing all of my clothes. And in that moment she looks just like the pregnant Adrianne.
'Cunt,' is a four letter word for Olivia. The cars slide by and honk and crash around us. Bits and pieces of technicolor car metal and headlights fly by and it looks like fireworks. I want to strangle her and kiss her at the same time. She runs. Olivia always runs. And I always chase.
I run in the front doors of the high school panting, and I've lost her again.
I run to the one place where I can feel safe again for the last time.
Sitting on the cold tile floor, will I please report to the stadium to recieve my diploma? I toss aside the modern literature book. It's time to write a different story. It's time to right a different story.
"You gonna go get your diploma?" the person in the stall asks. Cigarette ash drifts down on the floor. What kind of person would rather smoke in the bathroom instead of graduate.
"Adrianne." I slam open the stall door to see her sitting cross-legged on the seat. Her cigarette letting off a thin trail of smoke. And sitting there dressed in my clothing is Adrianne. We stare at each other, dressed in eachother's clothes under our robes. Two cross dressing dolls. Barbie and Ken reunited. "Or Olivia," I say.
This is my last call. Last chance to graduate.
"Guess there's nowhere for me to run now." Adrianne Olivia says. Faker Olivia. Question mark Olivia.
"Why'd you do it?" I ask. The key to dealing with death is to not know someone who dies. Or to die first.
Dear God.
"I wanted to kill myself but in the end I just couldn't bring myself to finish the job."
"Why not?"
"Well," Adrianne Olivia says standing up and extinguishing her cigarette in the toilet, "I just wanted to see how everyone would react. I can't stand the thought of dying and being dead. I want to fad-"
"I know, fade out like a movie." Adrianne Olivia brushes past me and washes her hands. "Bitch." The word echoes against the bathroom walls and hangs in the air. The faucet is dripping and, well, color me any letter word for blue.
"So you wanna go graduate?" She says, turning to me.
And well, dear God. Paint me a smile, glue it to my face. In the dripping cold bathroom, staring into Adrianne Olivia's dripping cold eyes.
"Sure, why not?"
And holding my hand she pulls me across the field. We're screaming and waving with our free hands. And we race through the rows of blue and pink. Barbies and Kens. Both of us blue like boys, wearing each other's clothes run to the graduation altar. We run towards the sunset in the horizon. I grab my rolled up high school eduaction and keep going. We shake the hands of the administrators. We keep running. And even with my diploma in hand we don't stop running. Our hats fly up through the football goal and the student body cheers. Someone is calling us back to the stadium but we can't hear them anymore.
The key to running away is to just keep running.
And the key to living is to not forget to live. Living is a six letter word for living.
We take the train out to Chishire Lake and, for the first time, sit in the same seat. The smiling vinegar lipped woman watches us fall asleep on eachother. And like a passing poppyseed bliss and cigarettes and the faces in the yearbook and prom night, we fade out like movies.
And over Olivia I drape my graduation robe. A robe so unflattering and cylindrical that it rapes you of all the individuality you spent four years in high school obtaining. Nobody stands out in graduation robes- that's the point. You are a five letter component of something larger. Two robes, blue and pink. And no matter how hard you try to mean something there will be times in life when it will come down to the basic colors. Life will strip you down the the four primary printing colors.
You are your yearbook picture. You are the ink that rubs off on your fingers and fades with the sunset. You are just a variation of the same four colors that everyone is made from. Babies are bloody and purple when born. Every baby comes out bloody and purple. Shriveled, small and screaming.
Dressed in Olivia, dressed in my cap and gown, I walk out to that same place on Bustleton Avenue. I am walking to kill myself. I will die in my primary colors. I will bleed magenta. Yellow fluids will leak out of my crushed skull. The blood will harden black. This is graduation day, and I'm graduating from life.
Lying in the road I'd be lying if I said I feel nothing. Because I can feel. I'm still alive. I'm still in a five letter word for extreme pain. I can feel the cold gritty asphault beneath me. I can feel the cars fly by me, but none in the other direction. I wait for one car to come, not looking, and ride over my body and drag it for miles scraping off my colors until I'm just a ragged piece of roadkill. I hear honking. I see headlights in the distance, and this is ten letter anticipation.
Honking.
Headlights.
My body is going to paint the asphault any letter word for red.
I can see the blue car swerving. But there's nowhere to go. The concrete partition or me, there are only two choices. I see the blue of the hood and the grill; I hear a horn and screech of breaking tires. I see blue. More blue. More honking. I see Olivia in the driver's seat with her graduation cap on the dashboard. A blue cap, of course, even though she's a girl.
Adrianne 2.0. Like hell I'm going to be run over by a corpse.
Olivia's car slides into the concrete partition in the middle of the road and her car wrinkles like human skin and air bags puff out and fill the front seat. Something is still pressing the horn, the headlights flicker. I stand up and open the passenger side door and watch the air bags deflate.
And oh is it ever Olivia. Her petrified frozen blue eyes. Eyes like ice. Teeth like icicles. She tries to smile. She is wearing all of my clothes. And in that moment she looks just like the pregnant Adrianne.
'Cunt,' is a four letter word for Olivia. The cars slide by and honk and crash around us. Bits and pieces of technicolor car metal and headlights fly by and it looks like fireworks. I want to strangle her and kiss her at the same time. She runs. Olivia always runs. And I always chase.
I run in the front doors of the high school panting, and I've lost her again.
I run to the one place where I can feel safe again for the last time.
Sitting on the cold tile floor, will I please report to the stadium to recieve my diploma? I toss aside the modern literature book. It's time to write a different story. It's time to right a different story.
"You gonna go get your diploma?" the person in the stall asks. Cigarette ash drifts down on the floor. What kind of person would rather smoke in the bathroom instead of graduate.
"Adrianne." I slam open the stall door to see her sitting cross-legged on the seat. Her cigarette letting off a thin trail of smoke. And sitting there dressed in my clothing is Adrianne. We stare at each other, dressed in eachother's clothes under our robes. Two cross dressing dolls. Barbie and Ken reunited. "Or Olivia," I say.
This is my last call. Last chance to graduate.
"Guess there's nowhere for me to run now." Adrianne Olivia says. Faker Olivia. Question mark Olivia.
"Why'd you do it?" I ask. The key to dealing with death is to not know someone who dies. Or to die first.
Dear God.
"I wanted to kill myself but in the end I just couldn't bring myself to finish the job."
"Why not?"
"Well," Adrianne Olivia says standing up and extinguishing her cigarette in the toilet, "I just wanted to see how everyone would react. I can't stand the thought of dying and being dead. I want to fad-"
"I know, fade out like a movie." Adrianne Olivia brushes past me and washes her hands. "Bitch." The word echoes against the bathroom walls and hangs in the air. The faucet is dripping and, well, color me any letter word for blue.
"So you wanna go graduate?" She says, turning to me.
And well, dear God. Paint me a smile, glue it to my face. In the dripping cold bathroom, staring into Adrianne Olivia's dripping cold eyes.
"Sure, why not?"
And holding my hand she pulls me across the field. We're screaming and waving with our free hands. And we race through the rows of blue and pink. Barbies and Kens. Both of us blue like boys, wearing each other's clothes run to the graduation altar. We run towards the sunset in the horizon. I grab my rolled up high school eduaction and keep going. We shake the hands of the administrators. We keep running. And even with my diploma in hand we don't stop running. Our hats fly up through the football goal and the student body cheers. Someone is calling us back to the stadium but we can't hear them anymore.
The key to running away is to just keep running.
And the key to living is to not forget to live. Living is a six letter word for living.
We take the train out to Chishire Lake and, for the first time, sit in the same seat. The smiling vinegar lipped woman watches us fall asleep on eachother. And like a passing poppyseed bliss and cigarettes and the faces in the yearbook and prom night, we fade out like movies.