Today, I woke up covered in ashes and I don't know why.
Well, I do know why. I burned down an apartment building last night. What I don't know, however, is why I didn't shower when I got home. Now I have to clean out my sheets and blankets, as they're filled with soot and ashes and huge black smears.
That's almost the start of a short story I wrote, once. I changed it because I'm a writer, and that's what writers do. We change things. But I've already rambled on about this at length. I'm actually running out of things to ramble on about, which is a problem, as I'm only at 21812 words. I'm sure I can dredge up some more poisonous thoughts before the month of November is over. Otherwise, I'll have to work up a semi-interesting plot.
I feel like this novel is actually my manifesto, my ultimate modus operandi. My methods? Love, lies, lust, rage, and heartache. Hauling ass and taking names? No. Breaking hearts and passing blame.
There's a really stunning passage in American Gods, by Neil Gaiman. This girl lists off all of the things she believes in. It covers two pages and is one of the most epic two pages in all of the books I have ever read.
I'm too lazy to copy it, though, so I'll have to dump everything that I believe in elsewhere at a later time. Sorry, dear reader. You'll have to read on to figure out exactly what I believe in.
I think I'll dwell on my happy moments in crush three. The warm feeling I get when I listen to Iron and Wine, watch Paranormal Activity, or Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, or Synecdoche, New York, or A Tale of Two Sisters. Or when I think about MASH. Or when I think about Alterra, snowy Saturdays, and snowy evenings. Or the warm feeling of staring out the window on a cold winter's day, seeing the bright snow reflect. Or when I'm driving near Holy Hill. Or when I'm at The Park. Or the other park.
It started out so…suddenly. I offered to give him a ride home one night when he didn't have one. We talked about stuff, I guess. Sometimes we'd drive around before I'd drop him off. Other times we'd stop at McDonald's. We'd talk. Slowly, I got to know him better. He got to know me better. I gathered the nerve to tell him I was gay in person. The first person I ever told in person. His reaction was so…expected, but a relief nonetheless. He was okay with it, touched that I felt comfortable enough with him to tell him. It made me feel good. When I was dropping him off, I told him I liked him. Again, he was touched.
A few days later, I formally asked him out. He asked what I meant, and I had to admit that I didn't know. I didn't want to go on dates, like to restaurants, or to the movies, or do other coupley things. I just wanted to be with him. I said that. He understood.
We spent more time together. He'd invite me over to watch a plethora of movies and after we were out of movies to watch, we'd sleep in the same bed and cuddle. It feels so weird to say that, but it's the truth. Half-truth, really. This is fiction, after all.
He'd always play the same Iron and Wine CD while we slept. Helped him relax, he said. The songs on Our Endless Numbered Days are now engrained in my head forever as his songs. When I listen to them, it's an instant portal back to a time when I felt fulfilled, happy.
Anyway, I remember going to The Park in November or December. It was so beautiful, so still. There was snow on the ground. It was cold, but I gave him my gloves and earmuffs because he didn't have a hat or gloves. We walked around the empty park, listening to the waves of the sea and taking in all that nature. Snow gently fell. The horizon, over the sea, was fogged. It seemed as though it stretched on forever. I wish those moments would have stretched on forever. We spent a good hour walking around the park, just absorbing. It was the first time I'd really been there. I mean, I'd been there before, but I hadn't explored it to quite that extent.
After that, we went to Alterra. He got a spicy chai and I got hot chocolate. We talked for awhile and then headed out. In retrospect, we didn't really do much. We just spent time together and talked and watched movies and talked some more. It wasn't really earth-shattering, but I like it. It felt good, to feel like somebody's something.
I got my first kiss on Christmas Eve day. We'd woken up and watched…I think it was Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, and Synecdoche, New York the night before. That morning, we watched Being John Malkovich. That was a decent movie. I packed up my things to get ready to go home after the movie. I turned around and he was making the kiss-pucker face at me. You know the one.
It was a really, really awkward kiss, but it was fun. There was no tongue involved, but it was still a great kiss. I think I had my backpack on, so I lost my balance and fell over on him while we kissed. It was a really, really quick kiss, but my memory of it seems to drag on forever…
But then it started to come apart at the seams. January, February. It seemed like we were drifting apart. We'd talk less and less, then slowly, I'd stop staying over at his house. Then, on Valentine's day, the day after Tori tried to kill herself, I found out that he was probably going to Chile for his junior or senior year in high school and, as such, was detaching himself from relationships with everyone. I told him that I didn't mind if it hurt when he left, that I wanted to enjoy it until it had to die at the very last moment. That it would hurt anyway, so why not prolong the hurt until the very latest.
He said he didn't want to be more than a friend to anyone anymore. That hurt. I cried for the first time in probably a decade. And that's the half-truth.
I don't know where I'm going with this anymore. Getting dumped like that hurt like hell. That's the moral of the story. The end.
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