Untitled Prose of Srangeness

How could I write when I’m in the darkest room I’ve seen? I can’t feel the ground beneath me here, and I can’t see my way through. Yet, I want to drown in this– what would you call this? Loneliness? No, it’s deeper than that: a sense of such solitary, an non-blended pixel of humanity.

The phone rings, and maybe that’s work to call me from this wallowing. I can find a single comfort in the words: “Hello! How may I help you? Would you like fries with that?” I can wear that mask I wear through the random blots of the week, usually from 3-11 P.M. I can smile, and kiss up, and scrub garbage from trash cans until my shift is over. Yes, that’s what I’d love to do at this moment. I can’t write like this. These are the days where I’d love to stand on an unpadded floor for eight hours, and rub my sore back.

Telemarketers. Figures.

 

Grasping

Tedious days– I think that would be the words to describe my life at this moment. One day goes by: one day of schooling, working, sleeping, eating. That day is just as insignificant as the last. Nothing happens. So and so gets a hair-cut that makes her look butch, brother says something stupid, a friend surprises me; but that’s all. No worlds are saved in my world, and no demons are slayed. I can’t count how many times I’ve actually said that my life is on pause. I go to school, and for what? I don’t even know. I get my diploma and then what? I can’t even be proud of it because its long overdue. One hour of writing passes, and I feel some sense of pride. Yet, I look outside myself and find no change. What would happen if I told people that I’m afraid that I’ll never be the Lilly I imagined at fourteen years old? I– can’t write about this anymore.

 

Just Keep Writing

Just make it to 26k today, Lilly. 26k and I’ll let you be lazy. Don’t think of Adrian for the next 1k words. You can do it.

 

Uneventful Blogging Brought on by Non-blogging Guilt and Exhaustion

I woke up at 2 P.M.-ish, ignoring my plans to do laundry earlier today. The kitchen is neglected and so is everything else. I got ready for work and ate brunchiner (brunch+diner). I wrote nada and left for work at 2:50 P.M.; worked until 11:15 P.M.; wrote until 1 A.M.; laid in bed for about 3 hours; turned the lights back on to re-read some old e-mails from Adrian. 7 days is all I’ll admit: we haven’t spoken for seven days and I shouldn’t be thinking about the number of days because I should be writing. I should be writing right now… I will. No, I’ll go to bed–

maybe one more e-mail.

 

Sleepy

No time to really update. My word count is 24k about– equal to around 113 pages. I’m about 2k past my goal for the day. Everythings going great. I’m currently fiddling with my mom’s new laptop. Webcam– woot! And it makes me look less like I just worked a long, ketchup infested shift! ‘Miss Adrian, but too busy to miss him too much. So much writing. I’m stuck in manuscript mode: double spaces after every period and collen, and two dashes when pausing. Only about 26k from my 50,000 word novel. Half way there. Poor friends and family are so being neglected.

By the way, I’m getting a laptop. Its decided. I want the same one that way I can put my make up on with this webcam and think I don’t look so terrible. It really does flatter you muahaha. Geeze, do I sound like I need sleep? Yes, sleep.

 

Take Two, Call NaNo in the Morning

So, I made yesterday’s word count goal at 1 A.M.: 10, 001. I’m telling myself that it was a 12,000 word goal and that I missed it, so that I can up my word count. 10,000/50,000 words. 40,000 more words to go. Not bad. I’ve had a headache all day and just now decided to take some Aspirin. Maybe it’ll help with the creative writing. Maybe it won’t. Back to writing.

 

8,210

I’ve reached 8,210 words in four days. After so much writing in so little time, though I am insecure half the time, I can’t see myself doing much else. Its second nature now: sitting down on this hard chair, checking the time every thirty minutes, making sure I’m close to the goal. I punish myself saying that I’m not good enough, I could never intrigue this person or that person, it will never get published. I realize that it is just practice sometimes and I know that I won’t be inspired everyday, but everyday I have to push through. I can’t see myself sitting in an office, playing at a club, or teaching. I can’t see myself as doing anything other than what I am doing now, which is writing. Maybe I’m going mad?

 

Adrian

I sometimes refer to him as my boyfriend, but he’s not. It’s “complicated”, but its really not complicated at all. We want to focus on ourselves. We’re still young, and who needs to be tied down, or exclusive at 19 years old? Besides, he’s not real. O.K., he’s very real, but not really here. He lives in Canada- that cold mass of land that apparently is not a third-world country. I’m here in California- it’s opposite in many ways. However, we aren’t completely opposite. He knows how to be determined and focused, but that has to be just because he has at least passed puberty. I talk a lot and he doesn’t talk much. We have totally opposite beliefs in things sometimes. Sometimes even our tastes in books and music collide, but it feels like we’re– the same. I don’t believe in soul mates, but occasionally I did, and sometimes I still do.

I’m supposed to be writing, but instead I find myself thinking of him. I have my legs kicked up on the desk, and a hoody and blanket over me. As it encompasses my frozen fingers, I wonder what it would be like to just lay in his sweater and in his arms, in his frozen land. Would it be like magic- like Romeo meeting Juliet, or the ocean hitting sand, or the sun kissing the clouds at sunset? I must be just another crazy girl. Logic would slap me into place, if I hadn’t been grinning for the past day.

 

No Distractions

I will not distract myself from NaNoWriMo. I will not stall. I will not procrastinate. I will hit 5,000 words tonight. Case closed. No going back. No refunds.

Ever since Nov. 1, this novel is all that has been on my mind. No more procrastinating.

 

You Blow: Fight Numero Uno

I come home after work at 11 P.M. I ask my mom if I can use her car to go get a drink from the gas station.

“You’re going to f***ing wreck my car” she yells.

“No, mom, I haven’t wrecked it. You always blame me for the sh*t I don’t do,” I reply

“No, you just mess up your own car.”

“Yeah, the car I’ve been paying $3,000 worth of repairs on even though its not even in my name yet- its in yours,” I retort, looking at her in disbelief. She always pulls this, but I always think one day she’ll realize how irrational she is.

“Walk to the vending machine.”

“I don’t want a soda…”

“[Insert something stupid and pointless that I don't remember]” She hands me the keys.

“Want anything?” I ask.

“No. Where are you going?”

“Gas station.”

I get back home.

“Uh- wheres my Big Hunk? Don’t tell me you f***ing forgot my sh**!”

“What? I asked you–”

“You know what, Lilly? Don’t f***ing ask to use my car anymore.” Her voice echoes through the walls, but the affect isn’t as powerful when you’ve heard it before. She flashes that look- arched eyebrow, even lined lips, eyes that I can no better describe than to call them Satan eyes– that look that says: “you’re disposable. You don’t know you’re place. My name is God, and you are dirt.” I shrug it off and look away.

“I asked you if you wanted anything you said-” I tried to yell over her.

“Shut up. You’re so selfish! Selfish! Selfish!” she exclaims. In between all the “selfish”’s I’m trying to argue my point.

I give up, walk away, and sit at the computer to write my NaNoWriMo novel. I vent under my breath, since being cut off, I couldn’t argue to her face; something along the lines: “…start this sh** at 12 A.M.” A second later she walks in, raises her hand, and yells:

“Who the hell do you think you’re talking to?”

“What the f*** are you talking about? I wasn’t even–” I yell back.

“Shut up!” I watch her hand, knowing I couldn’t hit here ever and also knowing I can’t stand the humiliation of letting her get away with that.

“Don’t touch me.” I manage to look even more pathetic than taking a hit would make me look.

“Then don’t disrespect me.” That condescending voice shrieks, with more power than I’ve ever managed in my lifetime. No wonder- she takes power from everyone to keep that tone.

I just stayed quiet. I wanted to have the willpower to at least write. I didn’t want to feel worthless- bastardized and thinking “that’s the place I belong, this lower dimension beneath, even, the most-bottom scum on her shoe”. I needed to be untouched so that, although barren of any pride, I could at least try to feel indifferent.

Yet, the same thoughts run around my “indifferent” mind. I hate you. I wish you were dead. Hate you. Hate you. I guess… I should just find something to do.