This morning, while in the bathroom, I noticed a single ant exhaustedly scurrying around himself, without any particular direction, and without any particular task to accomplish. I was about to thoughtlessly push him down between the granite floor and the tip of my finger, but for some reason--let's blame the chilly weather--I felt repulsed. I thought about how insensitive it must be to just push a live away. Poof. You're gone. You'll never make the news, no grave will be dug for you. No one will come after me. I can get away with immediate murder, discreetly, all while sitting on porcelain. The idea I held regarding the disgracefulness of this entire action began transforming...where did I pick up this habit? Parents? TV? Kindergarten? Bugs are grosss!! Squash 'em! ...it must be American conditioning...in, at least, part of the contribution. I know for certain that in other cultures, people kindly remove insects from their home. The respect for life...LIVES in them. Just because a species is able to dominate another, doesn't mean that it should. Power doesn't come from always exerting force, and beating on your Spartan chest. True power lives in those great enough to demolish anything (physically or emotionally) yet contain the discipline not to... You'll best judge someone's sincerity by how they treat those who have nothing to offer them.
So I observed my new ant friend for more minutes...I was perplexed by his maneuvers, "what are you trying to do, little ant?" I kept trying to leap into his mind...there is no doubt he feels utterly lost, socially crippled--on the floor of this granite desert, with six speedy legs, even.... nowhere to go...nothing to eat. I should bring him a smidgen of a leaf of lettuce. Or...a sunflower seed. That's what they ate in A Bug's Life...right? ...I wonder if he was wondering the same things about what was going on inside MY mind. Ants are pretty smart, and coordinated. Maybe his ant-girlfriend cheated on him, and he was like, "fuck this, bitch; I can't live in the same colony with you. I'm gonna run into the open and wait for a human to slam his anvil hands over me, and remove any strength I'm saving to inhale. You did this! I would've sacrificed my exoskeleton and antlers for you in a heartbeat!"



Then I thought I'm completely ruining his plans by going Buddha on his ass. Sigh, whatever...love kicks the shit out of me sometimes. I've got a Chem midterm to get to. Peace.

I have a knack for peeling oranges

And counting backwards from ninety-nine.

I have a love for piano music that trickles,

Softly from my headphones blocking out the world.

Then there's my ability to become invisible.

In the simple act of throwing on my winter coat,

And walking meekly;

I become just an ordinary boy,

With ordinary black hair,

Who has extraordinary ambitions in an average and ordinary town…

With piano music in my head.

And yet, in my aimless ambling

(Because ambition often gets me nowhere),

I catch myself at the precipice of thinking of you.

I tried to forget,

I tried rubbing you out of my thoughts,

You, my second skin.

You're difficult, hard to get rid of,

Like peeling the skin off an orange.

Like trying to clean orange peels from my fingernails.

But you're extraordinarily orange,

As intoxicating as the smell

That clings to my fingertips,

And layers of skin that won't fall…

Away.

All this "politically correct" shit is ridiculous; everything in this nation is realistically WRONG because we are all scurrying to conform to being politically CORRECT. I despise that. This horridly obese woman comes into my cafe regularly, lately. She's so obese...she's actually frowning, and she speaks so angrily. She is disgusted with herself, and I am disgusted with her eyebrows (that have remained as untouched as Germany's forests). She waddles about with her back parallel to the floor on a four-legged cane, which she is a slave to. Now at the front desk, she demands some fucking Chocolate...Caramel...Vanilla...Frap...type thing. Minimally 700 calories. "Okay...your total is--" Wait there sir: A huge party sized Ruffles, Pretzels, Kit Kats...God knows what else. Just ridiculous things. "...Ok," I think:

"If there's an age restriction on alcohol...why the fuck is there NOT a BMI restriction on junk food? It makes all the sense in the world.

It makes all the sense in the world."

She probably emits as much carbon as an '89 Accord, with all that she eats & digests, and the cabs she takes every night. She can't drive. And the only reason I'm not satiated with sympathy for this "ailment" is because THIS is self-imposed. Nothing on her part is being done about it. There's no shame when ordering that Chocolate Fucking Thing. I looked at her...she would daydream into the distance and suck on that straw for minutes. She didn't even put the drink down; it was one continuous sucking motion. I think she would breathe through her nostrils, in conjunction with the swallowing, in efforts to keep a steady flow rate. When she was done...she left the cup on the counter. The trash can is excruciatingly far (five paces to her left)... Then she initiated The Rocking Motion--a good nine seconds of mantis-like movements. She had to build momentum to get out of the chair. It was terrible to watch. And I couldn't help BUT to watch.

I want to confront her. I don't want to degrade her or encourage her to pick up the closest six-shooter and turn it around, but I need to wake her up. Anyone who knows about this, and what I want to do, is urging me not to. They think it's cruel. Is it cruel? Or is it worse to watch the destruction, shrug my shoulders, plug my ears with those infamous white earbuds and dance away?

I'm almost ashamed to live in a country with people like this. Because THIS is the majority. It seems health and wellness is just as much on the rise as the next polar bear.

This morning, a young couple walks into my cafe. I'm still half drunk from last night, so I'm not even eligible for a hangover yet. This venomous brunette (the type whose looks inflates your cock, at first glance) approaches the counter. She's wearing low-cut denim, bragging the dimples in her lower back, along with a pair of black, closed-toed, come-fuck-me heels. The guy she's with--twenty paces behind her, near the pitchers of Half&Half--in a nutshell, doesn't look like he belongs with her, which means he's smart and/or rich and/or has a big dick. Scratch smart. He blew that by omitting his association with her when they walked in. As she massages the honey packets' contents into her tea, she smirks up at me, "You look just like Jason Scwartzmen. Do you get that?"
"...quite often" I admitted.

She leaned in, almost whispering, "I find him so cute."
At the mental snap of my fingers, I correlated what she'd just said with what she meant to say. So I ask, "That's not your boyfriend behind you?"
And it wasn't so much her answer that invoked my pity for him, but the amount of disenchantment in her voice when she breathed out, "...yes."
She walked away right after. As if some urgency suddenly arose. As if she felt remorseful for feeling how she felt. Whatever it was, I wasn't ready to pursue it. I didn't have the energy...I don't have the energy.

Instead, I pocketed the ten points of confidence I'd earned. I'll save it for a rainy day.

you're the girl i want to navigate with nothing but closed eyes and fingertips

you're the girl i want bound to my waist, constricting me further inside you

you're the girl whose lionous moan sends vulnerable clenches down my spine
whose moist skin snakes over me, collecting the sweat from my pores
lust clogs our senses, my breath fogs over your skin. every stride radiates pleasure
and leaks another tear of pain


i'm dying to ruin this moment.


i'm dying to infect you with my warmth
i love you, he says
i love you, as blood slits across his chest
you can't hurt me--you're the girl

Anyone here wise enough to explain why six mouthfuls of Smirnoff have kept me immaculately sober?
It's been a good ten minutes, and it seems I have an industrial strength liver.
So much for increasing my flammability.
When your heart stops dancing, even a hollow bottle of 80-proof is useless.

Independence has a brim, I'm the dew plummeting down its side.
I'm trying this new thing where I'm acting the way I'm not, and I feel the way I don't.
It's ingenious, in that, I seperate myself from myself and laugh at the pain my twin endures.
I'm lying, and he's dead--but at least I've got words for you to believe.
When your heart stops dancing, you lose all incentive to take on decency.

When your heart stops dancing, you're dead.