Wednesday, November 26, 2008

[Chapter 3] Muse.

Regret, albeit an undesirable manifestation of one’s darkest hour, is an inherent state of despondency that we perpetually tempt through misguided judgment. By no fault but of our own do we continually seek to fulfill the immediate self-gratifications resulting from our repeatedly mistaken decisions, only to leave but a bitter taste of penitence in our mouths.


There she stood, her beauty emanating from every pore on the surface of her delicate body.

Sarah, who in spirit of the Halloween gaieties, had opened the door upon my arrival with an air of embellishment. She was garmented from top to bottom in the night’s darkest clothing, leaving little to be imagined.

Her lustrous black stilettos reflected the light from the full Hallow’s moon as her voluptuous legs made way to a tattered frock that nestled the curvature of her body ever so perfectly. Her exquisite complexion was tainted only in the slightest by three perfectly beaded droplets of blood, which were resting serenely atop the apex of her chin.

As I stood upon the stoop of her home with an awestruck gaze, it suddenly dawned upon me that the doorway by which we were separated was effectively serving as a metaphor for our storybook affair.

“Hi Trey,” she said with an elegant smile, just as my agape jaw began to twinge.

The amiable tone of her voice shocked me, as I had expected her diction to match that of her assumed persona; a Vampiress she had become indeed.

As my internal monologue proceeded to bate the resilient feelings, she spoke only to end what I assume to have become an exceedingly uncomfortable silence.

“Are you ready to go?” she asked.

“Yeah, let me put the rest of my beer in your fridge and we’ll take off,” I said, shaking out of my latent state of mind.

Having become aware of my invitation to the forthcoming party only this afternoon, I had been given very little time to creatively prepare a costume; as my original plans for this evening merely consisted of drinking myself into a coma. Alone.

As I drove to the costume shop, feebly hoping that inventory still remained on the shelves, I was blessed with a rare moment of inspiration.

Clicking through the presets on my stereo, I momentarily settled upon a local indie station that was currently playing “You’re So Last Summer” by Taking Back Sunday.

Having had the misfortune of discovering the band at a concert several years prior, I have ever since abhorred their name and the culture to which they contribute; the emo culture.

And so at that moment, I begrudgingly decided to transform myself into that of which has become the bane of my existence. All that I needed to successfully fashion the character was a long black wig, an assortment of makeup, and some gauze to cover the blatant scars riddled across both of my arms.

As Sarah and I began walking down the street toward the house of our destination, I started to realize to what degree my contempt for the college community had risen. With each intoxicated outcry emanating from the passing houses, my enthusiasm for the night’s events faded ever so slightly.

Stepping into what I suddenly realized to be a house of the fraternal community, I was immediately consumed by regret.

As I moved through the doorway and into the foyer I was approached by what appeared to be a gentleman dressed solely in a pink woman’s thong. I make mention to the fact that he appeared to be a man because, while my avidity to glance down was clearly nonexistent, I couldn’t help but to notice the banana in the hammock was in its very early stages of ripening.

“Hey bro, you can’t be here if you ain’t with nobody,” the mook intelligently snarled.

“It’s okay Lance, he’s with me,” Sarah gestured as we walked past him, making an extra effort not to make contact with his impressively well-developed love handles.

“I see you’ve made some… Good friends,” I said audaciously, just as she turned to burn a hole through my skull with her austere stare.

“I see you’ve learned to not judge everyone you meet,” she snapped. Her tone was dry and I could sense she was starting to second guess her decision to invite me. I decided to back off a bit and try to enjoy myself to the best of my ability.

“Here’s to a great night,” I said, looking at her with a half-assed grin on my face and a beer raised to eye-level.

Before she was able to decide if my previous statement was genuine, the beat to “Lollipop” by Lil’ Wayne kicked in and everyone in the closet-sized room began moving simultaneously.

Almost immediately, what appeared to be an oversized hairdryer walked up behind Sarah and put his hands on her hips to start dancing with her. Before I could take a step forward, she looked at me with a glare that said: “I’m fine, go dance.”

As I stood in the corner, true to my emo nature, and watched her dance with what I later found out to be a giant keg, I began to realize that the inebriation had started its onset.

Cue impaired judgment.

Cracking open another beer, I watched Mr. Kegman’s hands slowly make their way down Sarah’s slender waist, well past the ridge of her hips for the second time in the past 10 minutes.

This time however, she grabbed his hands, threw them askew and began to walk away. Just as he reached for her shoulder to pull her back, I found myself sprinting at him without the slightest amount of consideration.

I don’t think I’ve ever been in a fight, at least not a notable one. At best, I remember punching my classmate in the stomach in the sixth grade for slamming my locker shut.

The adrenaline that pumps through your veins just before making contact with your aggressor is, well, orgasmic at the least. The room was at a standstill as I took a third person’s point of view, watching the events play out from above. It felt as if my enduring dream to live my life through a camera was happening right in front of my eyes.

Watching my fist make its way across the keg’s upper left jaw, the room spun back into motion as I dropped quickly back down into my body.

Mr. Kegman was lying on the floor in front of me while onlookers from all angles stood perplexedly.

Before I could interpret what had happened, I felt a firm pull on the back of my hoodie and realized that I was being dragged quickly out of the house; I assumed that payback was about to ensue.

As I turned around, half-expecting to see Lance in his barren state with his fist cocked back and ready to swing, my eyes were graciously surprised.

Sarah, having a surprisingly stronger upper body than I remembered, had pulled me out of the house just before I was able to learn the true meaning of getting one’s own ass handed to him.

Before I could apologize, in hope that Sarah wouldn’t give me a lesson in ass-handling herself, I felt her soft luscious lips embrace my own.

What happened next was far be it from what I had envisioned to be in tonight’s docket.


Lying naked on my back in Sarah’s uncomfortably small twin bed, her resting head nestled between my shoulder and chin, I couldn’t help but to stare at the ceiling and ponder how lonely I truly was.

Sex had begun to fall short of its gratifying reputation. Pleasureful value aside, the worth of one night encounters regardless of past feelings had all but vanished.

Unable to move my eyes from the slow spinning ceiling fan, my mind began to long for the one soul in this world that it knew it could find solace in. The one entity, the one human being, the one female that without a question I knew I could love and be loved without the inherent complications of sexual arousal.

She is my muse, and I will forever be in longing.

Trey -AKA- The Mad Wordsmith

Friday, November 14, 2008

[Chapter 2] Wakeup.

Father Time is a precarious entity. He possesses an innate penchant to surrender no regard for his constituents who live and die by his every passing breath. With the clout to speed up or slow down each moment of our lives, his sense of humor is truly satiric.


I awoke to the familiar and yet astonishingly brash sound of my half beaten in alarm clock resonating throughout the small space that I pay to call my bedroom.

I could tell by the warmth at the foot of my bed that the time was well past noon, as the sun had already begun to shine in through my westward facing window.

As I attempted to open my eyes, which were currently glued shut by way of my contacts, the events of the preceding night slowly began to reconvene in my mind as if by the onset of a slow creeping fog. Fortunately, the consequences of my actions left me with a migraine fit for that of the noble class, forcing me to dwell with the lesser of the two evils. I’d be a happy bearer to physical pain over psychological turmoil any day.

While the machine at which we prompt to do our bidding each morning oscillated each high-pitched screech with a sense of pride as if it were a child at his first kindergarten Christmas pageant, each permeating tone made my head feel as if screws were being tightened down upon it by some cruel form of medieval torture device.

As I stumbled out of bed to silence the intrepid alarm, my Blackberry (which was currently perched inconveniently upon the nightstand opposite my bed) decided to join in on the unsolicited fun, alerting me of an inbound text message.

After maneuvering acrobatically around the disarray of shit littering the floor on which I attempt to make a living, I was finally able to silence each of the devices that claim to make my life easier.

Sinking back into my desk chair, as the echoing tone in my eardrums faded to silence, I warily engaged my mobile phone only hoping to find that my apparently now full inbox would not contain any urgent messages requiring me to make my already half-wasted day a productive one.
“New message from: Twitter
@facemakerkaj: Overheard: I'll pray for you. Person 2: please don’t. God hates me and it will only further complicate it.”
“Where the hell does my roommate find these people?” I muttered to myself.
“New message from: Twitter
@ijustine: My flesh is burning off my body right now it's so hot out.”
“That’s actually, really hot; in a weird, sadistic type of way.”
“New message from: Sarah F
heyy, what ru doin tonite? we’re havin some people over for a halloween party.. you should come ;-)”
“And that, my friends, will make for a very interesting night.”

You see, Sarah is the type of girl who tends to have a limited base of reasoning for contacting me. While her stated intentions may appear to be rather insipid, most of the time they are ambiguous as well.

Sarah, being an ex-flame who is yet to be fully extinguished, the history between the two of us could honestly be summed up, written on a flashcard, and then proceed to be tossed in the trash.

Let me contemplate how to put this, bluntly.

We met.
We fucked.
I met another girl.
She cried.
We made up.
We dated.
She left me for her ex.
I cried.
We wiped the slate clean, and we agreed to disagree.

If only it were half as entertaining as I tend to make it sound.

It’s become a vicious loop that swings full-circle year after year. At times, I feel as if I’ve been sucked into some C-list teen drama on the CW with nothing short of self-indulgent high school characters played by 22 and 23 old actors.

There are times when Sarah will begin a conversation with a simple ‘hi’, and by the end of that same conversation I will find myself driving asininely to the liquor store to buy her and her underage counterparts a bottle of Bicardi Razz.

It’s that same rather annoying self-will leading me to believe that if by doing any favors for a seductress, such as herself, that the likelihood of sexual compensation will increase exponentially. Unfortunately, the truth of the matter is that 0 raised to any power remains aught, and regardless of my non-existent batting average in such situations I’m continuously swayed by my most primeval of instincts.

Yet, for some incomprehensible reason, again will I try. My persistence may be admirable to some, yet to others a sense of impetuousness reigns forth; and as my world begins to spin wildly out of control, I react the only way I know how.
“Compose SMS Text: Sarah F
Hey. I’ll see you tonight.”
I’ll be the one dressed as the dog, my tail concealed between my legs.

“I need help.”

Trey -AKA- The Mad Wordsmith