|sometimes boredom is good for you
||[Aug. 25th, 2005|03:35 pm]
|||||Blood Brothers - Live At The Apocalypse Cabaret||]|
I started writing a short story today out of boredom. Don't ask me what it's about. I just wrote it:
We saw him on the street and ran the other
way. Three blocks and we never looked
back. Too much weed that day. Oh well.
Twenty-five steps away I thought I heard
him crying. Something clicked inside and it
was all I could do not to let my legs go.
Then came the urge.
I wanted to go back and punch him in the
balls as hard and as often as my mind would
In my head I did go back.
I saw him there laying in a slump—tears
coming down his face like a lot of rain, with
that same stupid, pitiful look on his face.
There may have been twitching. Quivering.
I had to laugh.
Bastard. He was too much like me—too
fragile and hopeless to live.
My impulse then was to hug him and never
let go—to fall into him and his world. He
seemed like a giant then.
It was too much. I punched him in the
That was the day I fell in love with him. It
was all so fucking tragic. None of it was
real, but it wanted to be—that's what made
It was too hot that day. I could feel my feet
in my shoes—and they were heavy. Too
It hurt to breathe after a while and we had to
stop. There was a bookstore a few feet away
and I wanted to read.
The door was calling out to me. Books were
my way out—and I needed out, wherever
that would take me. I had to go.
My friends were restless, and so was I. We
had to move or things were going to get less
than pretty. Fast.
The first thing I noticed was the air. It kissed
my neck and I felt cleaner somehow. There
were chill bumps on my arms and it seemed
Books rushed at me from every direction on
wooden shelves. Everything was spinning. I
had to sit before I fell.
It was too much to absorb at once. My hands
went out—and all I caught was trouble. The
only word I could think of had four letters.
I had a handful of titties in my hands—and I
was too dazed to let go.
....and then I stopped writing, because I'm lazy.