Fire Chicken, Walk With Me

Everything. Is. Slower. Today.

Hello. Again. Reader.

I. Want. To. Tell. You. About. My. Day.

It. Was. Really. Slow.

At. One. Point. My. Brain. Fell. Out. Of. My. Arm.

I. Felt. Exhausted.

Anyway.

I. Am. Going. To. Wait. Before. I. Write. More. Things.

I. Haven't. Had. Much. To. Say. Lately.

Sweet. Dreams.

Dear Kinesiology Partner

This is outdated, I have been talking to my partner and getting to know her! How glorious! This is just an observation I had at the beginning of this month.

I don't think you'll ever read this, and that makes me smile.

I adore you. I really do. You have a distinct voice and non-incredibly dark or morbid sense of humor (like myself).

You also dress well. I don't. I just wear whatever I want.

I like how you did all the work, and although that's stupid to admit, I'm proud of you.

I absolutely love how we have nothing in common. It makes things so much easier.

Since I've walked along side you, I've always wanted to say "See you tomorrow!" but I never get the chance.

I love how I pass by you in school and you just look straight ahead and walk fast. I admire that determination.

Also, good luck with your rehab in soccer, I hope it's not too stressful, sports are pretty hard, and destroying your knee didn't help.

I remember that night, it was the first late night of the school newspaper, and someone mentioned how an ambulance arrived.

I loved how you told the story in great detail, and how you talked about the crepitus and the horrible pain you went through. I thought it was nice how much fun you had, disgusting the boderline indifferent class.

Thank you for offering to let me copy your notes today, that's really nice of you, thank you for noticing.

Just recently I noticed you stopped taking the elevator, I'm glad you can use stairs again.

One day I noticed that you have contact lenses, I do too! What fun.

You have really nice hair, it's long and pretty.

I remember how in the first quarter, you would always try to make eye contact with me when talking to my kinesiology partner then. That made me feel important.

I also enjoyed that story about when you had an FRQ (whatever that means) in your AP Euro class, and how you referenced a Metallica song, and the teacher gave you full credit. I don't really like Metallica anymore, or at all to begin with, but, I did like metal.

I like your organization skills, they're similar to mine. It's usually 'cram everything into a binder.'

I noticed you have AP Psych(o), and I'm pretty insane, so, please, let's hang out at the park and you can evaluate the horrible, horrible mental disorders I'm probably suffering from.

I like how our teacher says "Put all your work away and pay attention to the movie (Peaceful Warrior)" and often times you just do your AP homework or read from the required book you were assigned. You're quite the rebel.

I like how you don't have a facebook profile. I would love to 'creep' on you, but I this is pretty creepy too.

I find it sweet that you get confused by Hemingway's simplicity. I've never really read Hemingway, so I wouldn't know, but I like how you summarize The Sun Also Rises, about two homosexual men and some sort of war.

At the ridiculously boring Kinesiology tournament we went to, I waved at you for some reason, and you looked really happy when you waved back, but then I felt like a total dumbass because I was walking the wrong way. I enjoyed sitting next to you while watching the guy talk about how he helped that Laker to achieve his goals.

If you ever read this, I hope you understand how much I appreciate the incredibly small amount of how much I know you.

I hardly know you, though, and if I never knew you, that would be fine, we're all just going to die anyway, and you were one of those few people in school that I didn't hate.

Hail Satan,
Meidinger

Discontent/An Observation on Semantics

Fuck time, fuck progressing, fuck leaving and fuck living.

Fuck winning, fuck acceptance, fuck disorderly conduct and fuck illegality.

Fuck earning, fuck inheritance, fuck buying and fuck money.

Fuck religion, fuck belief, fuck the afterlife and fuck the before life.

Fuck the world, fuck yourself, fuck everything and fuck anything.

Fuck government, fuck the police, fuck the laws and fuck the legislature.

Fuck the poor, fuck the rich, fuck neighbors and fuck taxes.

Fuck wills, fuck eulogies, fuck caskets and fuck death.

Fuck the hospital, fuck surgery, fuck broken bones and fractured skulls.

Fuck euphoria, fuck happiness, fuck highs and fuck the high lows.

Fuck control, fuck love, fuck sex and fuck break ups and downs.

Fuck events, fuck regulations, fuck protesting and fuck caring.

Fuck support, fuck medications, fuck psychiatry and fuck therapy.

Fuck waking up, fuck moving, fuck divinity and fuck reality.

Fuck goals, fuck standards, fuck self help and fuck yourself.

I'll fuck the world today, I'll fuck the world today
I will break everything and throw it all away 

Broken

Lately I've reflected on what I say and do, and the more I feel that way I isolate myself.

It's exhausting to have to read and gauge the response of and study body language for people you'll forget months or years from now. It's a waste of time, but you can't help it.

For a while, everything around me started to decline, and I could watch myself drop and not worry about it because I trust myself.

The days I spend like this ruin the few days I have with people important to me.

The past three times I've gone to see my mother, Angela, in the course of a half year, I'm speechless. There's nothing to tell her anymore, and it leaves me feeling empty. I have to pretend to not be fucked up in front of her, as if it's all temporary and eventually going to get better. Next month it'll have been four years without her, and that everything between that day and now felt excruciating.

I'm not friends with anyone who knew her, and I have to shelter or hide whenever I'm around any relative of my family. I feel alienated.

I can't remember the last time anyone was happy for me when I saw my mother, I get scolded by my grandmother for not bringing her different food, food which I can't prepare and have no money to buy, and my solution is to not visit her on the days my grandmother will arrive.

Every time I go, I am driven a half hour away from the house I stay at, and watch the freeways go by, and fake a conversation with whoever is driving.

The billboards on the side of the freeway are about gambling. Losing money isn't a gamble, it's a donation.

I wait for the family member who drove me to leave the car before I go in with them, because I cherish the moments between the time I see my mom.

I walk into this retirement home, seeing people who are closer to death than they have been their whole lives. Often times you'll hear nurses speaking languages you don't understand while patients scream in pain.

I walk in the room my mom is at. Her room mates are never there.

For the hundredth time, I see an aging woman staring at a television, because the remote is the only thing she can do with her left arm, the one that isn't paralyzed.

And it truly hurts to see how horrible she looks. My mother had the nicest teeth and the nicest hair I had ever seen. Her gums are swelling and her hair looks no better than an old broom, with black and gray bristles.

She can't speak anymore, and she loved to talk so much. She only grunts out of curiosity, and points when she needs you to sit down.

When you sit down, it's the happiest I've seen my mom in recent years, and she's so excited to hear what you have to say. If only she had the stamina to pay attention for more than a half hour.

And I sit there and play with my hands and stumble on my words. She looks at me, anticipating what I could say next, because she's been waiting to see her son and have him speak to hear for the first time in four, five, six months.

The hardest part is saying good bye, because it repeats the day I found out. 

I was at my dad's fiance's house, a month away from finishing seventh grade, and I was arguing with my sister about a Wheel of Fortune Family Board Game, and my dad calls my sister and I over to the couch.

He's never looked so conflicted and he's never looked so pained.

My mother hated being called mom, so she had us call her Honey, because during I Love Lucy, Ricky always yells "Honey, I'm home!" and my sister and I adopted that habit.

My dad tells us that Honey has an aneurysm, and while riding her bicycle with friends she had a stroke, and her last words were "Something is wrong." right before she fell into the brush of the California desert.

That wasn't supposed to happen. What was supposed to happen was me going to go up over the weekend to see her in San Jose, and meet all her friends. She had so many friends because her job required her to travel, sometimes for months.

I remember I made her a promise to finish all my work and study so I could see her again.

When my dad finished the sentence with 'aneurysm' in it, I immediately began to cry. The year before I learned from the book Tangerine taught me what they were.

He told us she had a stroke. I can't imagine how my father felt at that moment, having to give his children the worse news of their lives.

From that day, every dream I had was never the same, and every major decision in my life I couldn't think about without my mother on my mind. I couldn't think the same way.

For two years I couldn't tell anyone about it. I just couldn't handle it.

I moved out of Tujunga and into her apartment in Montrose. I never spoke as much, day to day, from then on. I can remember the first summer after that experience, where I would come to an empty apartment, and yell and scream and talk to myself to keep me amused, so I wouldn't feel lonely.

Day 6,336 of Being Alive

I went to educational learning facility. I learned about the difference between jam and jelly.

I spent a considerable amount of time lying on grass and dirt today.

I showered twice today.

That is all.

Dude

I love you and all,

but this is just a bit too much.