(no subject)
As per usual, my eyelids lift open and I think as always, "What did I do last night?"
“EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!” Sounds the alarm audio clip I downloaded a few years before.
“Shit.” It startles me, every single time. Some part of me knows its time to get up, and another part of me enjoys doing so about twenty seconds before my alarm goes off. I think it sets the tone for the week - not in a good way.
I roll out of bed, arms out in position, land face down. My hands keep me from forcibly kissing the vast wasteland of unvacuumed carpet. They don’t, however, keep the faint stale smell of spilt beer and spoiled milk from reaching my nostrils, permeating my brain and reminding me once again, that I live alone.
After the audio clip,
Johnny Cash - Sunday Morning Coming Down plays while I stare down at what looks cleanest to wear from my floor.
By the time the line, “…Stumbled downstairs to meet the day”, makes me roll my eyes, I'm dressed, and out the door by "And it took me back to somethin', That I'd lost somehow, somewhere along the way.”, meeting the aforementioned day.
It’s just twenty or so steps down to my car. I do however, always pass and chuckle at the quarter I glued to the ground. I do love tormenting every delivery man.
My hand pulls the car door open quickly, and I slide in and have the belt buckled before it slams shut. My leg’s stretch out as I viciously grope and tug to get the keys I wish I’d had in hand that now have a near death hold on the frays of loose strings at the bottom of the pocket.
Success!
I turn the key and throw it into drive. I haven't yet been able to pinpoint exactly what it is about being home. But I'm never inspired and rarely dressed here. As I've told my friends and shrinks in the past, "For me, there is no place heavier than home."
I often feel compelled to say that sentence out loud. The idea seems poignant and interesting, like a title to some movie. I envision an orchestra chorus swelling and dying down around two main characters, one of them Greg Kinnear, in front of a house that’s crumbling beneath its own weight. The disheveled and emotional drained character unknowingly times his deep breath with the lowering music and says the titular line, "There's no place heavier than home."
And scene… credits.
I pull out onto the main street leading out, I am almost bouncing inmy seat, emotionally buoyant. I adore going anywhere but work. My destination could be a gas station or oral surgery. The excitement would be exactly the same. I just like going somewhere, anywhere.
While enjoying no discernible thought, I nearly missed the turn. My breaks slam and tires squeal while I ease around the turn, whistling as the tire sound was on purpose and someone is actually watching.
The "Entitled Rich Kid's Basic Training" as I call it. It's a gated community loosely tied to a nearby private college. Troy lives here. Actually Troy lives with me, as his expired driver's license says. But when he goes from romantic wanderer to trust fund baby, he lives here. His parents pay his rent as well as half of mine.
He doesn't have a car but more money than he cares to know. His lone mode of transportation is a rarely used immaculately kept jet black Kawasaki sport bike, bought and maligned by his parent's desperate attempt to connect with his son's wild and rebellious nature. It remains a poor statement of how little they know their son.
I pull into Troy's usual vacant space, since his bike is in a nearby storage facility. With uncanny swiftness I am out and charging up the narrow path towards the stairs, my traveling joy lost with every two steps I take up to the second floor.
The door is open. It fits in nicely with the rest of Troy's general apathetic demeanor toward things and life in general. Not to mention he knows everyone who lives in the area, and would have little to no problem tracking down whom, if anyone, broke in. Peeking into the window that lies about a foot and a half away from the door, I make sure the coast is clear, before hip-checking the unlocked and slightly ajar door.
There's sex in the air.
Perhaps it’s just a Pavlovian response I've developed whenever Troy is the first person I see to start my day. What lies before me confirms it all. A line of clothing starts about two feet in front of me, beginning with kicked off shoes and high heels. Then it's a belt, a couple of socks, some buttons but no shirt, and so on. I imagine the rest of the bread crumbs lead back to his bed room.
Despite the "thrown clothing" road, his place is immaculately kept. Constantly dusted black metal furniture bookcase and home entertainment center are to my left, with the newest high definition television resting safely. On the right is a matching black metal table and chairs. The chairs are pushed in neatly, and there's a rose in a dark, almost opaque, vase. Just beyond that is, what I assume, the newest computer one can own. Finally, near the dining area is, of course, black matching refrigerator, microwave, stove and clearly seen through the clear glass cupboard doors, black glass dinette set. If any of the expensive dinnerware has ever been used its never been by me or in my presence.
A few steps forward and I'm lazily kicking loose clothing a side, when a "THUD!" draws my attention toward Troy's bedroom door which swings open after some quick murmuring.
Out charges black laced panties and matching bra filled with, what looked to me like, a former professional dancer or cheerleader. This seems apparent when she gets close enough for me to see her well defined legs. Her face is red and as is her demeanor. Mixing anger and spastic movements she collects the female parts of the "thrown clothing" road, which wasn't very much, and drags it all with her foot until she's right in front of the door and sliding her silk top on. It isn't until she is pulling up her tight gray skirt on that she takes notices of me. With one eyebrow raised, she opens her mouth and waits until her zipper is up before speaking.
"He a friend of yours?"
I take a deep breath, close my eyes while raising my eyebrows and raising my shoulder's slightly, "You could say that.", as if my answer to her would mean or change anything.
"Well I hope you know that your friend…", she turns toward Troy's bed room.
"Is an ASSHOLE!". Her nostrils flare.
"Oh, I'm familiar with him.", uttered under my breathe.
She turns and extends her hand, opens the door and marches out. Not a second after her body is out sight, I realize Troy is standing next to me, completely naked.
"WELL WHAT DID YOU EXPECT? I SAID I WAS AN ASSHOLE. YOU BELIEVED WHAT YOU WANTED TO, DEAR."
He tilts his head back slightly to look down his nose at me and smile, while back into his apartment.
"Oh hey…just get here?"
"Yeah."
He motions his head toward the, still open, door.
"Sweet ass on that one. But Dear GOD if she isn't dumb as a post. She completely fell for number four, 'Penitent Bastard'."
I don’t need the rest of the story. Playing wingman and walking in at inopportune times has afforded me the luxury of staring out the window, ignoring all but the details that make this different than any other night, which isn’t very much.
“So in walks green eyes and blonde hair. She just threw off her power suit or whatever.”
“Where she work?” I offer a question to try attempting to connect with this story.
“Umm… Law office, accounting, I don’t know. Doesn’t matter. She should’ve been in advertising. It was too easy. Get this. She did jazz dance and ballet, in high school. Oh I can’t resist the dancer’s legs.”
“Well that, insecurity, and dysfunction.” I add to skip the majority of the backstory.
"HA!"
He laughs loudly and quickly, as if compacting ten seconds of laughter into one guffaw so he can get to his next thought.
“What can I say? Republican parents and absentee fathers - this generation’s Spanish fly.”
His pride hangs in the air as he takes his naked self into the kitchen. While pulling out a carton of eggs, a couple pieces of bread, jam and various ingredients and his back to me, he continues.
“Speaking of absentee father’, this just girl wreaked of it with 'Asshole Ex' wafting behind her.”
I take my usual seat and posture on the barstool at the counter adjacent.
“I love this type. Independent to a fault. Head strong, driven, motivated across the board (he stops to across his crotch because, hell, she had to raise herself. But really she just needs someone to love her. Dad wasn’t very engaging, thus her penchant for assholes.”
He turns back toward me, gesticulating as if he was describing her physical attributes.
“A veritable impenetrable box of self-reliance, entirely too much pride projecting an image that very clearly states, ‘I am just too good for you.’.”
My eyes drop and I grimace.
“Awww, can you put some fucking pants on? I know you love this shit, but do I have to see your little 'joy' rise?”
He ignores me and takes three eggs from the carton. While looking away scowling, I slide three black opaque martini glasses between us to obscure my view while he continues.
“...So I head toward the jukebox and hit a few songs. I know is gonna set the tone and give me my in. I was a bit torn between either Gnarls Barkley or The Violent Femmes for ‘Gone Daddy Gone’. I went with Gnarls, doubting she’d know who the Violent Femmes were. Besides, you saw what she was wearing. That girl had keeps up with what's new, and I’ll bet you anything she throws out her entire closet every six months, but keeps a mountain of shoes.”
“I come up and offer her and her friends a round of drinks. I throw out the charm, the best jokes, blah blah blah, you know...", flicking his fork my direction, "but make it very clear I’m interested in her. I keep her friends jjjuuusssttt interested enough to like having me hang around... You know these type of girls. They have to feel like they’re the only ones in the world, without saying. I gotta be honest here, it took me awhile to get her away from her friends. She kept throwing me some cold shoulder, sticking with the pcck. It would’ve been easier had you been there. Unless you lost your instincts…”, he says eyeing me.
“No, just my drive. I can’t help you get laid every night.”, I say as I look around the apartment as if I've never been here before.
“Anyway. I excuse myself to the bathroom, get my game face on and just before I come back, I make one last stop a the jukebox. Cake - I Will Survive.”
“…Seemed to be a night for covers for you.” I add.
“Well, yeah. Like any good cover, using past work and making it your own is paramount. I dropped a few subtle conversation starters about ex’s. I can tell her break up wasn’t too long ago, cause her past asshole just falls out of her mouth. I won’t get into him, but wow, I kind of like him. I learned a few things.”
“Now that’s a scary thought.”
“Oh but the set up was beautiful. I went right into the number four. I’m finishing her sentences, I’m calling things before she says them… almost like its providence."
Troy raises his hands high while saying "providence".
"I start dropping some of the shit I pulled over the years, the ones that were similar to what she had. I leave out the really bad ones, so its I'm a little better. BUT I hint at a deep remorse, and tell her that I feel like I missed out getting to know these girls, because of my inability to allow myself to be vulnerable.”
Troy’s now so into himself and the story his voice is sounding as if he’s talking to her.
“…Which she’s just eating up.”
“Well yes, that is the benefit of being a romantic sociopath, you can fake guilt and depth when it suits you.”
He lets out another Troy-signatured laugh.
“So we get back to my place…”
If this were a movie, somewhere in the back Weezer’s song ‘Tired of Sex’ would just start playing. I don’t why, other than perhaps pure repetition, I completely tune out the carnal portions and let my thoughts drift elsewhere...
Troy’s not a shrink. Troy’s an asshole. Having been raised by a set of two shrink parents it armed him with the kind of insights that would frighten any girl unfortunate enough to read his thoughts, and the fact that his childhood took a back seat to a bitter divorce and careers, gave him little to no moral compass or sense of personal responsibility.
Looking back on these times, it’s painfully obvious why Troy ultimately killed himself. It was only a matter of time before he aimed that high-powered perception back at himself and blew the sum total of his own findings out the back of his head. A person can only spend so much time focusing on the faults and habits of another without one day questioning what they themselves amount to. If you don't find anything, it's not a huge leap to see someone filling that void with a .9 millimeter.
“EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!” Sounds the alarm audio clip I downloaded a few years before.
“Shit.” It startles me, every single time. Some part of me knows its time to get up, and another part of me enjoys doing so about twenty seconds before my alarm goes off. I think it sets the tone for the week - not in a good way.
I roll out of bed, arms out in position, land face down. My hands keep me from forcibly kissing the vast wasteland of unvacuumed carpet. They don’t, however, keep the faint stale smell of spilt beer and spoiled milk from reaching my nostrils, permeating my brain and reminding me once again, that I live alone.
After the audio clip,
Johnny Cash - Sunday Morning Coming Down plays while I stare down at what looks cleanest to wear from my floor.
By the time the line, “…Stumbled downstairs to meet the day”, makes me roll my eyes, I'm dressed, and out the door by "And it took me back to somethin', That I'd lost somehow, somewhere along the way.”, meeting the aforementioned day.
It’s just twenty or so steps down to my car. I do however, always pass and chuckle at the quarter I glued to the ground. I do love tormenting every delivery man.
My hand pulls the car door open quickly, and I slide in and have the belt buckled before it slams shut. My leg’s stretch out as I viciously grope and tug to get the keys I wish I’d had in hand that now have a near death hold on the frays of loose strings at the bottom of the pocket.
Success!
I turn the key and throw it into drive. I haven't yet been able to pinpoint exactly what it is about being home. But I'm never inspired and rarely dressed here. As I've told my friends and shrinks in the past, "For me, there is no place heavier than home."
I often feel compelled to say that sentence out loud. The idea seems poignant and interesting, like a title to some movie. I envision an orchestra chorus swelling and dying down around two main characters, one of them Greg Kinnear, in front of a house that’s crumbling beneath its own weight. The disheveled and emotional drained character unknowingly times his deep breath with the lowering music and says the titular line, "There's no place heavier than home."
And scene… credits.
I pull out onto the main street leading out, I am almost bouncing inmy seat, emotionally buoyant. I adore going anywhere but work. My destination could be a gas station or oral surgery. The excitement would be exactly the same. I just like going somewhere, anywhere.
While enjoying no discernible thought, I nearly missed the turn. My breaks slam and tires squeal while I ease around the turn, whistling as the tire sound was on purpose and someone is actually watching.
The "Entitled Rich Kid's Basic Training" as I call it. It's a gated community loosely tied to a nearby private college. Troy lives here. Actually Troy lives with me, as his expired driver's license says. But when he goes from romantic wanderer to trust fund baby, he lives here. His parents pay his rent as well as half of mine.
He doesn't have a car but more money than he cares to know. His lone mode of transportation is a rarely used immaculately kept jet black Kawasaki sport bike, bought and maligned by his parent's desperate attempt to connect with his son's wild and rebellious nature. It remains a poor statement of how little they know their son.
I pull into Troy's usual vacant space, since his bike is in a nearby storage facility. With uncanny swiftness I am out and charging up the narrow path towards the stairs, my traveling joy lost with every two steps I take up to the second floor.
The door is open. It fits in nicely with the rest of Troy's general apathetic demeanor toward things and life in general. Not to mention he knows everyone who lives in the area, and would have little to no problem tracking down whom, if anyone, broke in. Peeking into the window that lies about a foot and a half away from the door, I make sure the coast is clear, before hip-checking the unlocked and slightly ajar door.
There's sex in the air.
Perhaps it’s just a Pavlovian response I've developed whenever Troy is the first person I see to start my day. What lies before me confirms it all. A line of clothing starts about two feet in front of me, beginning with kicked off shoes and high heels. Then it's a belt, a couple of socks, some buttons but no shirt, and so on. I imagine the rest of the bread crumbs lead back to his bed room.
Despite the "thrown clothing" road, his place is immaculately kept. Constantly dusted black metal furniture bookcase and home entertainment center are to my left, with the newest high definition television resting safely. On the right is a matching black metal table and chairs. The chairs are pushed in neatly, and there's a rose in a dark, almost opaque, vase. Just beyond that is, what I assume, the newest computer one can own. Finally, near the dining area is, of course, black matching refrigerator, microwave, stove and clearly seen through the clear glass cupboard doors, black glass dinette set. If any of the expensive dinnerware has ever been used its never been by me or in my presence.
A few steps forward and I'm lazily kicking loose clothing a side, when a "THUD!" draws my attention toward Troy's bedroom door which swings open after some quick murmuring.
Out charges black laced panties and matching bra filled with, what looked to me like, a former professional dancer or cheerleader. This seems apparent when she gets close enough for me to see her well defined legs. Her face is red and as is her demeanor. Mixing anger and spastic movements she collects the female parts of the "thrown clothing" road, which wasn't very much, and drags it all with her foot until she's right in front of the door and sliding her silk top on. It isn't until she is pulling up her tight gray skirt on that she takes notices of me. With one eyebrow raised, she opens her mouth and waits until her zipper is up before speaking.
"He a friend of yours?"
I take a deep breath, close my eyes while raising my eyebrows and raising my shoulder's slightly, "You could say that.", as if my answer to her would mean or change anything.
"Well I hope you know that your friend…", she turns toward Troy's bed room.
"Is an ASSHOLE!". Her nostrils flare.
"Oh, I'm familiar with him.", uttered under my breathe.
She turns and extends her hand, opens the door and marches out. Not a second after her body is out sight, I realize Troy is standing next to me, completely naked.
"WELL WHAT DID YOU EXPECT? I SAID I WAS AN ASSHOLE. YOU BELIEVED WHAT YOU WANTED TO, DEAR."
He tilts his head back slightly to look down his nose at me and smile, while back into his apartment.
"Oh hey…just get here?"
"Yeah."
He motions his head toward the, still open, door.
"Sweet ass on that one. But Dear GOD if she isn't dumb as a post. She completely fell for number four, 'Penitent Bastard'."
I don’t need the rest of the story. Playing wingman and walking in at inopportune times has afforded me the luxury of staring out the window, ignoring all but the details that make this different than any other night, which isn’t very much.
“So in walks green eyes and blonde hair. She just threw off her power suit or whatever.”
“Where she work?” I offer a question to try attempting to connect with this story.
“Umm… Law office, accounting, I don’t know. Doesn’t matter. She should’ve been in advertising. It was too easy. Get this. She did jazz dance and ballet, in high school. Oh I can’t resist the dancer’s legs.”
“Well that, insecurity, and dysfunction.” I add to skip the majority of the backstory.
"HA!"
He laughs loudly and quickly, as if compacting ten seconds of laughter into one guffaw so he can get to his next thought.
“What can I say? Republican parents and absentee fathers - this generation’s Spanish fly.”
His pride hangs in the air as he takes his naked self into the kitchen. While pulling out a carton of eggs, a couple pieces of bread, jam and various ingredients and his back to me, he continues.
“Speaking of absentee father’, this just girl wreaked of it with 'Asshole Ex' wafting behind her.”
I take my usual seat and posture on the barstool at the counter adjacent.
“I love this type. Independent to a fault. Head strong, driven, motivated across the board (he stops to across his crotch because, hell, she had to raise herself. But really she just needs someone to love her. Dad wasn’t very engaging, thus her penchant for assholes.”
He turns back toward me, gesticulating as if he was describing her physical attributes.
“A veritable impenetrable box of self-reliance, entirely too much pride projecting an image that very clearly states, ‘I am just too good for you.’.”
My eyes drop and I grimace.
“Awww, can you put some fucking pants on? I know you love this shit, but do I have to see your little 'joy' rise?”
He ignores me and takes three eggs from the carton. While looking away scowling, I slide three black opaque martini glasses between us to obscure my view while he continues.
“...So I head toward the jukebox and hit a few songs. I know is gonna set the tone and give me my in. I was a bit torn between either Gnarls Barkley or The Violent Femmes for ‘Gone Daddy Gone’. I went with Gnarls, doubting she’d know who the Violent Femmes were. Besides, you saw what she was wearing. That girl had keeps up with what's new, and I’ll bet you anything she throws out her entire closet every six months, but keeps a mountain of shoes.”
“I come up and offer her and her friends a round of drinks. I throw out the charm, the best jokes, blah blah blah, you know...", flicking his fork my direction, "but make it very clear I’m interested in her. I keep her friends jjjuuusssttt interested enough to like having me hang around... You know these type of girls. They have to feel like they’re the only ones in the world, without saying. I gotta be honest here, it took me awhile to get her away from her friends. She kept throwing me some cold shoulder, sticking with the pcck. It would’ve been easier had you been there. Unless you lost your instincts…”, he says eyeing me.
“No, just my drive. I can’t help you get laid every night.”, I say as I look around the apartment as if I've never been here before.
“Anyway. I excuse myself to the bathroom, get my game face on and just before I come back, I make one last stop a the jukebox. Cake - I Will Survive.”
“…Seemed to be a night for covers for you.” I add.
“Well, yeah. Like any good cover, using past work and making it your own is paramount. I dropped a few subtle conversation starters about ex’s. I can tell her break up wasn’t too long ago, cause her past asshole just falls out of her mouth. I won’t get into him, but wow, I kind of like him. I learned a few things.”
“Now that’s a scary thought.”
“Oh but the set up was beautiful. I went right into the number four. I’m finishing her sentences, I’m calling things before she says them… almost like its providence."
Troy raises his hands high while saying "providence".
"I start dropping some of the shit I pulled over the years, the ones that were similar to what she had. I leave out the really bad ones, so its I'm a little better. BUT I hint at a deep remorse, and tell her that I feel like I missed out getting to know these girls, because of my inability to allow myself to be vulnerable.”
Troy’s now so into himself and the story his voice is sounding as if he’s talking to her.
“…Which she’s just eating up.”
“Well yes, that is the benefit of being a romantic sociopath, you can fake guilt and depth when it suits you.”
He lets out another Troy-signatured laugh.
“So we get back to my place…”
If this were a movie, somewhere in the back Weezer’s song ‘Tired of Sex’ would just start playing. I don’t why, other than perhaps pure repetition, I completely tune out the carnal portions and let my thoughts drift elsewhere...
Troy’s not a shrink. Troy’s an asshole. Having been raised by a set of two shrink parents it armed him with the kind of insights that would frighten any girl unfortunate enough to read his thoughts, and the fact that his childhood took a back seat to a bitter divorce and careers, gave him little to no moral compass or sense of personal responsibility.
Looking back on these times, it’s painfully obvious why Troy ultimately killed himself. It was only a matter of time before he aimed that high-powered perception back at himself and blew the sum total of his own findings out the back of his head. A person can only spend so much time focusing on the faults and habits of another without one day questioning what they themselves amount to. If you don't find anything, it's not a huge leap to see someone filling that void with a .9 millimeter.