I make a lot of mistakes
I'm very aware
Every time you chime in with whatever bullshit you want to add
You just remind me that you were one of those mistakes
These are all mistakes
I don't care what you say
I am a good person
Everyone is
It is when you start to do things on purpose for personal gain that you develop into something bad
If I were honestly a bad person
It wouldn't mean shit to me
I wouldn't be at the point I am now
If I really were a bad person
I wouldn't stand up for people when they are spoken or acted against
I wouldn't try to right the wrongs I make
I wouldn't give a fuck about what I do to myself
Honestly
How can someone say, "You deserve to die" in regards to something like this?
Really
When you are interested in someone, things are put past you
So if she likes me, maybe that is being put past her
You are doing it just the same
It isn't like someone you find to be of interest hasn't made mistakes
It isn't like I saw that a mistake he made was getting on the ALEX high as a kite and smelled like he bathed in bong water
It was a mistake
I have realized that
Just like all people do
We can't all be perfect like you in your family
There is an obvious right and wrong
Of course
Picking the wrong is what is known as a mistake
Not a permanent reminder of your fuck up
It happens for a reason
Just like how we eventually came to peace with our mistake
Seriously
We don't like each other
Fine
Let's stop trying to show her who is better suited to her life and leave it between us
Friday, April 17, 2009
Friday, April 3, 2009
Flight
Had to do this paper for English.
C H A P T E R T W E L V E
A S T A N D I N G O V A T I O N
I finished filing the reports that Mr. Bloomingdale heedlessly bestowed upon me on my way out the door and rushed to the car.
Damn him…always having me stay as he takes every new receptionist out for dinner.
The key almost snapped off in the lock as I twisted it, imagining the stock of it was the only part of Mr. Bloomingdale he thinks with. My eyes drifted to his parking spot while I buckled my seat belt. I still don’t understand the point of an executive parking space. They already get a higher income, an office with a view (as opposed to my empty 3x4 of particle board they call a cubicle), and the managerial privilege of leasing a new car with the company every four years for the employee price. If someone in a lower position gets to work before someone like Mr. Bloomingdale, they should have the right to take that damned space.
It would be like going into the Drive-Thru at McDonald’s, and them allowing you to cut ahead of all the other customers because you agreed to “Super Size” your meal.
The drive home was nothing short of a sad song. I remember driving past a group of young kids playing in the overcast. Like the postal service I guess; persistent enough to deal with whatever is given to them.
The only difference is the kids are probably more dependable than the mail-men.
Parking in the driveway just reminded me of how alone I was. I got out of the car and took a good look around me to find nothing but trees. Stepping into the kitchen through the long hallway, I sat down my briefcase. I called out only to hear an echo of my own voice.
Alone.
Again.
I walked into the dusky parlor, on the verge of tears. The wood paneling on the floor creaked as my heels clicked on them. All around me there were pictures of a family, all in classic black and white.
All happy.
What do I have?
The burning and suffocating feeling came when my tears started. I tossed myself onto the blue velvet fainting couch and sobbed.
There are bookshelves full of photos and diaries and memories right there. Bookshelves full of the feelings and memories they loved.
Where are my memories?
I was overcome by the weight of my eye lids closing the dam that were my flooding eyes. They gently folded as I drifted off to sleep.
Suddenly, the room collapsed in a burst of light. I felt myself rise to find the floorboards warped into a rounded edge, making a stage. The ground was covered in a small layer of snow, and large, towering icebergs littered the stage. A backdrop of coarse deep blue velvet hung heavy; as beautifully painted lanterns were let down to give the indication of stars. I looked out to see what was there, but I saw nothing but a wall of the same material the backdrop consisted of. About to leave, I started to make my way to the wings when a grand noise erupted from the outside of the wall. I attempted to walk towards the noise when the wall split apart, a burning light blinded me. A wave of violins gave their beginning thrust of music as applause erupted from the light. I covered my eyes to see, but the light persisted with its siege. Finally the light dimmed, and I caught a glimpse of my audience. Every person who had their picture in the parlor was attending tonight’s performance. Still in black and white. I saw what appeared to be a young girl sitting in the very front row, clutching an antique porcelain doll, staring in awe at the set. A thrust of stringed instruments broke me from my stare.
They are expecting a performance.
I glanced down at my body to discover it decorated in a ballerina costume, along with an elegant headdress. The music began to play, and I involuntarily began to dance. My body spun and twirled and leaped all over the stage, my muscles not doing a thing. As if I were the doll for an invisible girl, I pranced and plied over the icebergs and left tiny footprints in the snow. The music was soothing and calm, an orchestral accompaniment to my show.
I felt needed.
Like someone actually cared. My heart seemed to swell at the thought of my audience enjoying watching me.
At that moment, the music stopped. My body froze mid leap over the tallest iceberg. There was a large pause, before all the grey figures arose in cheer and clapped and applauded me. Grey roses were thrown onto the stage. Top hats were rocketed into the air in celebration.
Thank you.
C H A P T E R T W E L V E
A S T A N D I N G O V A T I O N
I finished filing the reports that Mr. Bloomingdale heedlessly bestowed upon me on my way out the door and rushed to the car.
Damn him…always having me stay as he takes every new receptionist out for dinner.
The key almost snapped off in the lock as I twisted it, imagining the stock of it was the only part of Mr. Bloomingdale he thinks with. My eyes drifted to his parking spot while I buckled my seat belt. I still don’t understand the point of an executive parking space. They already get a higher income, an office with a view (as opposed to my empty 3x4 of particle board they call a cubicle), and the managerial privilege of leasing a new car with the company every four years for the employee price. If someone in a lower position gets to work before someone like Mr. Bloomingdale, they should have the right to take that damned space.
It would be like going into the Drive-Thru at McDonald’s, and them allowing you to cut ahead of all the other customers because you agreed to “Super Size” your meal.
The drive home was nothing short of a sad song. I remember driving past a group of young kids playing in the overcast. Like the postal service I guess; persistent enough to deal with whatever is given to them.
The only difference is the kids are probably more dependable than the mail-men.
Parking in the driveway just reminded me of how alone I was. I got out of the car and took a good look around me to find nothing but trees. Stepping into the kitchen through the long hallway, I sat down my briefcase. I called out only to hear an echo of my own voice.
Alone.
Again.
I walked into the dusky parlor, on the verge of tears. The wood paneling on the floor creaked as my heels clicked on them. All around me there were pictures of a family, all in classic black and white.
All happy.
What do I have?
The burning and suffocating feeling came when my tears started. I tossed myself onto the blue velvet fainting couch and sobbed.
There are bookshelves full of photos and diaries and memories right there. Bookshelves full of the feelings and memories they loved.
Where are my memories?
I was overcome by the weight of my eye lids closing the dam that were my flooding eyes. They gently folded as I drifted off to sleep.
Suddenly, the room collapsed in a burst of light. I felt myself rise to find the floorboards warped into a rounded edge, making a stage. The ground was covered in a small layer of snow, and large, towering icebergs littered the stage. A backdrop of coarse deep blue velvet hung heavy; as beautifully painted lanterns were let down to give the indication of stars. I looked out to see what was there, but I saw nothing but a wall of the same material the backdrop consisted of. About to leave, I started to make my way to the wings when a grand noise erupted from the outside of the wall. I attempted to walk towards the noise when the wall split apart, a burning light blinded me. A wave of violins gave their beginning thrust of music as applause erupted from the light. I covered my eyes to see, but the light persisted with its siege. Finally the light dimmed, and I caught a glimpse of my audience. Every person who had their picture in the parlor was attending tonight’s performance. Still in black and white. I saw what appeared to be a young girl sitting in the very front row, clutching an antique porcelain doll, staring in awe at the set. A thrust of stringed instruments broke me from my stare.
They are expecting a performance.
I glanced down at my body to discover it decorated in a ballerina costume, along with an elegant headdress. The music began to play, and I involuntarily began to dance. My body spun and twirled and leaped all over the stage, my muscles not doing a thing. As if I were the doll for an invisible girl, I pranced and plied over the icebergs and left tiny footprints in the snow. The music was soothing and calm, an orchestral accompaniment to my show.
I felt needed.
Like someone actually cared. My heart seemed to swell at the thought of my audience enjoying watching me.
At that moment, the music stopped. My body froze mid leap over the tallest iceberg. There was a large pause, before all the grey figures arose in cheer and clapped and applauded me. Grey roses were thrown onto the stage. Top hats were rocketed into the air in celebration.
Thank you.
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