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[Mikes!]

Here's something I'm pretty proud of that I finally got around to finishing.

"This Stuff's Not Worth The Remorse"

Each day I probably spend at least three miles or more on my bicycle. Because of that, my chance of death while riding is really high. What makes it particularly high is the general inexperience of motorists around cyclists on the roads near my school. Because of that, I take the jerk-faced route when there's a good amount of traffic—sidewalk riding. My choice comes both out of safety concerns, and to take advantage of the oft-neglected and yet totally pristine sidewalk on Twin Hickory Road.

Today totally monkeywrenched my sense of security.

I set out from school a little later because I had to finish a trig quiz. That's cool; keeps me from failing. Anyway, it was getting a little late, and predictably, traffic was starting to build up. Competing with that point for "eating cigars" was the bitch of a wind resistance that I'd have to fight the entire time going down the street. Naturally, I opted against taking to the road. Some days it's really not worth exercising your full lane rights.
So I took the sidewalk route. Things went usual, I raced down the beige pavement like I always did, making careful watch of cars getting in and out of the perpendicular streets. Even with stop signs at most of those intersection, those yuppies don't really give a fuck about their outside environment.

Heh. Okay, so I made it to about twenty feet away from that road connecting with the Food Lion shopping center. There's a maroon-colored Honda or some other Japanese brand sitting at a stop sign. I was already going too fast to stop, and I had the right-of-way regardless. The driver looked both ways. I guess the traffic's clear for her to move. Oh wait, nevermind! I was coming. She lurched forward a bit, and then stopped, BECAUSE I WAS COMING. I crossed the side street. Just as I rode right in front of her car, the two foot distance became mere inches within a second. Wait, what? This person isn't stopping for me. My mind didn't fully register what I had just seen in slow-motion as my bike barely made it across the Honda's bumper. Holy ____! I almost got hit by that jerk!

As soon I made it clear of the offending vehicle, I squeezed the breaks into a half-turning stop, and my head shot to the car's direction as it began turning that corner. Words came out of my mouth faster than coalminers escaping a collapse, "Hey! What the ____ was that for!?" A hasty reply was more important than eloquence at the moment. The driver managed no response, and off she went. I rode about two feet more before recognizing an ex-girlfriend down the hill to my left. She was about to enter the CVS.

"Hey! I almost died just now!"

And then when I saw her turn around, the memories starting flooding back. Ever heard this story? It’s something that you’ll all hate me for if you haven't heard the story by now:

Let’s see, I guess the mess started in my freshman high school year, circa autumn 2003. By then my" pissed-off punk at Deep Run attitude was in full bloom, and if you had no idea what "cretin hop meant, then I had no time for you. Coinciding with this was the emerging popularity of the band Yellowcard and my subsequent disgust. Remember this point for the next few minutes. Don’t worry; the Yellowcard connection will be discussed later.

Mike was and still is (for the most part) the smug-faced jerk everyone should have for a best friend in their freshman year. I stand by that with the fullest conviction a slightly less pissed-off punk could have. If it wasn't for him, I don’t know how I would have met anyone at Deep Run. (Well, anyone worth hanging around for the next three years of their life, anyway.) He plays a pivotal role in this story, and his involvement alone was what made everything so remarkable. Hah, just kidding. Mike merely laid the highway to decadence. You see, through him I was introduced to many of my future friends, including her. But this was still in autumn, so I didn’t think too much of the girl for the first few months that I knew her. We were friends briefly, but despite one bout of flirting at a Halloween party I just wasn’t interested in her.

Hit the fast forward button to December, and cue Yellowcard's Way Away. I absolutely loathed anything touched by those hacks, and much to my chagrin several of my friends had met them at some corporate radio festival earlier that year. They even shamelessly bought their record! Radio emopunx was the best new craze, what else can I say?

Things ended up where I was criticizing ad nauseum anyone who enjoyed the stuff. As a self-educated music jerk, emotional hardcore was largely dead in my eyes, and the imitators must be destroyed, and the masses must be educated about "the truth". Wait, wait. Don’t stop reading here. I know it doesn't seem like this would have anything to do with decadence, but you need patience. You see, it was upon this conflict against mainstream music where an atypical romance began.
Eschewing pages on pages of long, complicated details to paint the background, here’s the skinny of the events that occurred from December to April:

1. She began dating this guy who so intensely vexed me that I won’t name him for fear of libel accusations.
2. The two of them listened to terrible music.
3. The two of them posted the terrible lyrics from their terrible music in AOL Instant Messenger profiles as dedications to the other.
4. I was disgusted.
5. I made it clear to her.
6. I made her a mixtape of "authentic" bands, and she dug the stuff, so we became good friends through our interest in the music.
7. I fell for her, and confessed my feelings in one of our many late-night phone conversations.

I'm not sure when I shot that elephant, but I know it happened soon after. No, scratch that from the record. I can give you the exact time when the trigger was squeezed. How could I have such an awful brain lapse? There was only one event that set it all into motion. It was on my living room sofa on that unusually brisk and damp April night.

Mike, Alex, she, and I walked to my house after school that day despite the intermittent drizzle. It was the Friday overlooking spring vacation, and what’s a better way to celebrate than to watch B-grade movies at my house? Of course I had invited others, but various engagements and commitments made it so that only the three of them sifted through and decided to humor me. My parents were with my sister, away from the house until late that evening for a reason that's now insignificant and unremarkable, so basically we had the house to ourselves for a long time.
We did nothing out of line—a true testament to our random sense of conscience. There would have been easy and untraceable access to alcohol and other misdeeds, but instead we stuck by our planned agenda.
The obligatory popcorn was prepared and presented in a large yellow bowl that always seems to come to mind after I think of the smell and taste of popcorn. We sat down on my couch, and began to watch the films.

To be honest, I can’t be certain whether or not the subsequent coupling that night was preconceived or instinctual or whatever. But what happened was that the people present subtly changed from "Alex, Mike, the girl, and I" to "Alex and Mike, the girl and I". Alex and Mike were just funny sexual tension and nothing more that night, but by the second movie, she and I were already cuddling together on the couch. Now, I have a red couch, and so whenever I think back to this moment, I have a red memory. And it’s appropriate. Red is a warm color, one of passion. Unknown to our friends across the phosphor-lit room, where the flicker of the television set and Mike's (intentionally) clumsy advances provided a decent distraction; she and I shared a kiss.

It just happened. The kiss was so spontaneous, so real and powerful. It certainly wasn't my first, but now I regard it as the first meaningful one.

Even today, the memory of the event seems so unreal. Why did we kiss? The reason was that my feelings for her weren’t unrequited. I made a half-honest joke about being inexperienced with girls some time before, and she replied back with some trite, fourteen year old flirtatious retort like "I guess I’ll have to teach you then." You know, something like you’d expect out of a Hollywood blockbuster. The exchange just meant that we were planning on this event, waiting for our opportunity to consummate our feelings. And we did. We did it discretely. And it was on that precedent we pursued a relationship. And I didn’t forget any details about her. When we kissed, she still was with her terrible boyfriend. For the next few months, I was an active participant in adultery.

The kiss was against my better judgment, like Orwell’s worthless shot at the elephant. Even as I kissed her, that letdown named reality hit me in the gut. I knew what I was doing was wrong, hurtful to her boyfriend, and I knew that I’d indirectly hurt her from the tension that our subversive relationship would inevitably cause on her legitimate one. But self-control doesn’t matter to me in the case of love, or at least whatever I feel like love is at the moment. And at least at that moment everything was relaxed, because turbulence wasn’t too far off from us.


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[Sexy_Sakura]

That's some great prose, Mikes!!!! I looooves it.

I wrote this in one of my blogs....it's a short story, of sorts....I was uber angsty when I wrote it.



Picture this

A girl, laying on her bed. Music is blaring from her speakers, as she melts into the mattress, trying to drown out the mediocrity of her life. A funky beat floats around, followed by raspy, wavering, sexy vocals. She closes her eyes, licks her lips, and sighs. In her mind, she can see where she wants to be. She doesn't know how to get there though. She contemplates this thought.

Giggles come from under her door. She grimaces. This interuption is not welcome.

There is shuffling outside, followed by more giggles. She slowly opens her eyes, brought out of her numbness. She bubbles over with irritation. The music changes, to something harder, filled with angst. Ironically, it matches her mood. She frowns, and glares at the white door.

The giggles continue. An exchanging of words. Noises she doesn't want to hear. Shivers run down her spine, as she pictures what's going on behind the two closed doors. Maybe jealousy, but mostly not. Annoyance, more than anything else.

She throws her pillow at the door. An act that only she will notice. An act that accomplishes nothing. She stands. Screams at the door, screams at the people beyond it. Only not really. She merely mocks screaming. She feels the emotion, feels the words. They tumble over her tongue, out her lips, only they come out empty. Nothing. She pounds her tiny fists on the door. This makes noise. This is real.

The giggling stops. She stands still, nervous. She didn't intend to cause this disturbance. Everything becomes stiff, as she awaits a rebuke. Silence.

The giggling resumes. She makes a face. Relief, and yet the return of the annoyance. She flops down on the bed, and covers her head with a pillow.
This time, a real scream, which is stiffled under the weight of the pillow. Coming up for air, she grins. The song changes. She likes this one, especially.

She slides down to the edge of her bed. Grabs the brush that lies on her desk, and sings to it like into a microphone. As loud as her lungs allow her.

The giggling stops. She sings louder still. Shakes her head, her hair swinging softly back and forth.

A knock comes to her door. She ignores it, singing out her anger, her angst. She feels empowered. She feels good. Finally, she feels in control.
Another knock. She won't stop singing, not until she's ready. The song isn't over. They can wait. She doesn't care. She hates them, and she hates what they represent.

Their actions make her feel ill. She's never seen a couple like this. Their every action makes her skin crawl. They fawn over each other constantly. Their hands never leave each other's bodies. They are like one. Melting into each other. Acting childish. Giggling and flirting like school children. They kiss in the kitchen, as she tries to make dinner. They joke, and touch, and preen, and giggle. She boils over inside.

She wants to scream at them. Tell them to stop acting like morons. She wants to set them straight. She wants to yell at the boy; tell him about how the girl kissed another, one night at the bar. She wants to see the look on his face, as his heart slowly breaks. She wants to see the girl fall to pieces.

Anything would be better than living through their disgusting displays of affection.

Instead, she screams the lyrics of a song into her hairbrush. She ignores the knocks at her door, and just sings. She sings as loud as she can.
The song ends. It changes to something slow. Something mellow. She sits on the edge of her bed, and smiles.
Another knock.

"Go fuck yourself," she says under her breath.
"What?" she says loud enough for them to hear.
"Have you heard from your dude yet?" the girl asks her.
"No."

Anger, anger, anger. How dare she ask that. She raises her hand, and folds back all her fingers except the one in the middle. She aims it at the door. Shakes it vigorously and mouths 'fuck you'. She flops back on her bed. Her eyes close, and she wills herself to melt back into the mattress.
"He'll call," the girl says, behind the door. She can hear her walking away. The giggling resumes.

The insensitivity of this transaction burns her. She lies, and she burns. She covers her ears, rolls onto her side.

If she falls asleep, this day will bleed into the next, and then the next. Salvation has to be somewhere inbetween.
_________________
Yep.

[Sharp]

...


Eek. I don't like that person.