megatron.

Okay, so maybe in your eyes, I'm not perfect. Maybe I'm your idealistic image of 'girlfriend material.' Maybe not. And maybe, just maybe, I have feelings. I wish I had kisses to miss. I wish that there was more to me than what you see. I wish I could gaze at myself through my full length mirror across from my chair; curled up in a ball in my burgundy velvet tights and blue socks and olive green shirt, hair down: blonde and thick and curly, the last traces of today's makeup lingering on my eyes, my thin limbs poised at the keyboard; and see something more than a temperamental teenaged girl. I give up. Sure, I'm cute, but I just don't belong here, now. Sadly, I couldn't tell you where I belong. Maybe back in the bloodbath of a school field with my great friends. Maybe..

don't leave so fast.
don't leave so fast.

getting fresh.

I put the kettle on to boil, took the Lipton Green Tea box from the cupboard and plopped a bag into a mug. Going over next paycheque's shopping list in my head, I thought fresh. Getting fresh = mouthwash, ferbreeze, honeycomb and nutella. I passed the front door in a mad dash to my welcoming computer chair and paused. The front door stood ajar. I backtracked and walked towards my it in a daze. Sitting, waiting and wishing on the chilly masterpiece I call my front steps I stargazed and attempted to control the raging butterflies in my stomach.

It's moments like these that I live for.

Snap, Crackle, Pop.

She took another swig from the glass neck, concealed by a rough brown paper bag. The splishy-splashy swish momentarily warmed her heart and the tips of her fingers. Her clothes were filthy and tattered, her dead rusty hair in thousands of twisted knots. From the ground up, she stood over the pavement casting a staggering shadow of menace. Unaware of her surroundings or the image she was portraying, the figure stepped out from behind the dumpster. Feeling her pocket, a wave of panic swept over her body. No. Not panic, that was the familiar wave of the alcohol seeping in. Taking a breath, she felt her pocket again. Still there. Knowing that everything must go exactly as planned, she took her time. Every second that she had left to take she took. Painstakingly inching along the brick wall and stumbling over broken glass and discarded items of clothing and used needles and used feelings and heavy regrets and mistakes and dirt and filth and shit, she made it to the corner. One hand out to steady her. One hand clutching the liquid. Both feet wobbling in the debris. Ouch. Eyes: meet the enemy, a blinding sheet of neon. City lights: you know the drill. Unprepared and temporarily sightless, she continued on towards the sleaze of open waters. By reflex, her hand sluggishly made it's way to her coat pocket. Still there. Giving her eyes a moment to adjust, she leaned up against a rigid doorway. Bringing the lip of the smooth glass to her own burnt lips, another swig was taken back. Burning her throat like hell and distinguishing the fire in her head all in one go, it headed down, down, down. Let gravity do it's thing damnit. Let it be.
Hey sugar.
Tilting her head towards the sound of the scruffy voice, she felt another wave hit her from behind. It felt damn good. Standing next to her was a puny little man, holding a large duffel bag and a smaller brown bag similiar to her own. From the way he was cautiously perching it upon his bare arm, she doubted it was liquor. Looking towards the face of the newcomer, she stopped dead upon spotting his poorly concealed neck. An ink black gash was gaping up at her, oozing with some sort of tar-like mush. Her first instinct was to run. Run fast, run far, start running now. However, her body screamed otherwise. She wasn't going anywhere and she especially wasn't doing it fast. Paralyzed, her eyes scanned the rest of his head. Seemingly intact, the only other damage seemed to be the sunrise of his left eye and some caked blood on his chin. Oh, and half of his upper lip was torn off. He looked a lot safer than most streetgoers.
Are you just going to stand there eyeing me or are you going to speak? Hey Dollface? Cat got your tounge?
She couldn't speak. Her tounge felt dry and lifeless in her mouth, her throat was a volcano of acid and cheap alcohol, her body was heavy. She glared at him with her fading green eyes and spit in his direction. Another swig, another wave, another check. Still there.

video, radio, stereo.

thau·ma·tur·gy
n.

1. The working of miracles or magic feats.

Sneezes are powerful things. If the world was fueled by allergic-electric power, we would never need to use gas again. Sure, it's unreliable, but think of the possibilities!

I've been neglecting many things lately. Myself, for one. Today as I was playing this game, the only thing that I could think of was homosexuality. It's beyond me why, but I just couldn't shake it. Just the simple act of opening my linen closet door seems immensly relevant.

Sweet dreams Seattle, stay classy.