Squirt
Bluelight Crew
- Joined
- Apr 13, 2000
- Messages
- 2,899
Leaning against the brick wall, I lit my cigarette, watching the smoke twirl and twist in and around itself against the black sky. The chilled night air cut through my coat, playing havoc with my skin. The end of my cigarette burned so small, buried under ashened waste soon to be flicked to the ground, disappearing, lost. There was a weeping willow tree hovering over a mahogany bench. A couple sat there, talking, kissing, laughing... making me want to vomit. Sickened by the irony, I walked down the street to the gas station, picking up some Twix bars and more cigarettes. As I was walking back, a new cigarette in hand, I passed someone -- someone whose face I'll never forget. She was tattered and dirty; not poor, just unkempt. Despite the haggardly appearance, she smiled a sweet smile, nodded her head, and passed by with a gentle "hello."
I thought to myself, 'How does she do that? How does she not take care of herself and still remain so happy?' Then I looked at my own life, cigarette in my hand, beer in my refridgerator, weed in my drawer... I hadn't done laundry in weeks, or made my bed in months. The only thing that separated me from the woman was the fact that I had access to a shower on a daily basis. I, too, did my best to be happy all the time, despite the way things really are. Well, used to, rather. Probably one more thing that separated her and I. I had turned from an always-on-the-bright-side, happy-no-matter-the-situation, giddy little girl to a cynical, pessimistic bitch from the ninth circle of Hell. "Fuck the world" became my motto, and nothing shook me from that.
What happened to me? Why wasn't I like the sweet girl I passed on the road outside the gas station anymore? Why couldn't I be happy for the couple on the bench instead of just wanting to puke on them?
I buried my finished cigarette stub in the sand of the ashtray that sat outside my buildling, disappearing, lost. On my way up the stairs to my room, I had to stop and look out the window.
The moon was showing her blinding face through the windowpanes, smiling that same smile of the sweet girl by the gas station. a few wispy clouds held the moon's hair back in a wind-stricken pony-tail, as reflective as the moon herself. she was playing connect-the-dots -- no, hopscotch -- with the stars, avoiding the shooting stars as if it were dodgeball. 'God, even the moon can have fun,' I thought to myself.
Then it hit me. All i needed was fun. All I needed was to get out of the shithole I thought I was trapped in. All I needed was something new, and something better. I deserved better. I ran up the stairs and tore into my room, grabbing my bags out of my closet and stuffing them with whatever I could find -- shirts, socks, underwear, books, hair products, everything in sight. When all was said and done, my room was a mess, but it didn't matter because I was leaving.
I was leaving so I could be happy.
I walked out the door and locked it behind me, never to think twice about the shithole again.
Time to start over....
===========
last part is definitely NOT autobiographical, as much as i wish it was.
-- squirt
[This message has been edited by Squirt (edited 16 January 2001).]
I thought to myself, 'How does she do that? How does she not take care of herself and still remain so happy?' Then I looked at my own life, cigarette in my hand, beer in my refridgerator, weed in my drawer... I hadn't done laundry in weeks, or made my bed in months. The only thing that separated me from the woman was the fact that I had access to a shower on a daily basis. I, too, did my best to be happy all the time, despite the way things really are. Well, used to, rather. Probably one more thing that separated her and I. I had turned from an always-on-the-bright-side, happy-no-matter-the-situation, giddy little girl to a cynical, pessimistic bitch from the ninth circle of Hell. "Fuck the world" became my motto, and nothing shook me from that.
What happened to me? Why wasn't I like the sweet girl I passed on the road outside the gas station anymore? Why couldn't I be happy for the couple on the bench instead of just wanting to puke on them?
I buried my finished cigarette stub in the sand of the ashtray that sat outside my buildling, disappearing, lost. On my way up the stairs to my room, I had to stop and look out the window.
The moon was showing her blinding face through the windowpanes, smiling that same smile of the sweet girl by the gas station. a few wispy clouds held the moon's hair back in a wind-stricken pony-tail, as reflective as the moon herself. she was playing connect-the-dots -- no, hopscotch -- with the stars, avoiding the shooting stars as if it were dodgeball. 'God, even the moon can have fun,' I thought to myself.
Then it hit me. All i needed was fun. All I needed was to get out of the shithole I thought I was trapped in. All I needed was something new, and something better. I deserved better. I ran up the stairs and tore into my room, grabbing my bags out of my closet and stuffing them with whatever I could find -- shirts, socks, underwear, books, hair products, everything in sight. When all was said and done, my room was a mess, but it didn't matter because I was leaving.
I was leaving so I could be happy.
I walked out the door and locked it behind me, never to think twice about the shithole again.
Time to start over....
===========
last part is definitely NOT autobiographical, as much as i wish it was.
-- squirt
[This message has been edited by Squirt (edited 16 January 2001).]
