Subtext

Hey.  I was just calling because I need some words of inspiration before class [Please tell me that you love me still].

Well due to my night last night, I have a ton of that holy-shit-I’m-doing-homework-in-between-classes type of work [I don’t want to be in college].

No, nothing like that I just ended up procrastinating all night [I couldn’t find any Ritalin to steal].

 

Over the phone, through the towers and satellites, she says:

Well I saw the first purple crocuses of Spring.  And the sun is shining so  isn’t that nice?

Promise me you’ll do something—if you’re still feeling sick tomorrow go to health services and see a doctor.

Take care of yourself baby. 

I love you.

 

No.  I don’t have time to see a doctor [I like being sick because I desperately seek more closeness with things that are dead.]. 

But I love you too [I don’t know if I can feel that still] and I have to go to class. 

 

I put out my cigarette.  My eyes feel swollen.

Nail-Biting Bed-Wetter

I’ve started to bite my nails like I did when I was little.  I can’t remember when I stopped, but I did a long time ago.  I began to let them grow.  Then, I began to paint them.  And now, full circle at age 18, I bite again.  I chew and I eat and I maim the ends of my fingers.  I drag my teeth across the undersides and swallow all the dirt.  And I don’t know how else to explain it save the fact that I am growing young gain.  I’ve wished so long and hard to be five again, to forget the feel of dead nose under my fingers and the stones I carried in my dress pocket to mark his grave.  I’ve wished so long that, finally, it’s happening.  And I’m being laughed at: 

“We’ll show you.  You want five?  Oh, we’ll give you five.  It comes complete with a broken elbow, push-pops, Happy Meals, pissy sheets, Swamp Thing, and bloody fingertips.  Are you happy now?” 

 

I am.

I am!

Liz Does Some Guessing

“Fuck.  My lungs are beat.”

“Quit smoking.”

“Weed is worse for you than cigarettes.”

“Which makes cigarettes better by the transitive property of you’re a douche bag?”

“Shut up.  When you stop getting high every day, I’ll stop smoking my Lights.”

“Guess it’ll be a while then."

“I don’t want to live forever anyway.  Pass it.”

“Here.  How old do you want to be when you die?”

“I don’t want to be old.”

“You know what I mean.  How many birthdays do you want to have?”

“But, what does that mean?  I can’t decide off of that.  After I do everything I want to do.  That’s when I want to die.”

“Wow.  I want to do so many things.”

“Not me.  I’d say there are ten left.  Then, goodbye.”

“How can you know that now?  How can you possibly make a count?”

“Easily.  I know what I want.”

“Tell me."

“You sure you want to know?”

“I am.  I mean, yeah.”

“Okay.”

“And you said ten.”

“No, nine.”

“You just said ten.”

“I changed my mind.  Okay.  One is that I want to spend a day at every beach on the east coast.  Two, I want someone to love me who I don’t love back.  I want to, like, break someone's heart.  Three, I want to learn Tom’s guitar part for Mic Check.  I want to live outside for a month, is four.  I want to go in a hot air balloon.  I mean, I want to touch a cloud and I feel like that would be a good way to do it.  So that’s five.  I want to save someone’s life, is six.  Seven is I want to write down every lie I can remember telling and give the list to my brother.  Getting an abortion, is eight.  And nine is to tell all of my secrets to one person.  Nine’s got to be the last one.  And then I’m done.”

“You could do all of that in less than a year if you timed it right.” 

“Yes, I know.  But it’s not about timing.”

“Oh.”

“I mean, it’s about doing them when they feel like they should happen.  You can’t time it or its suicide.”

“I mean, that’s what’s at the end though.  That’s what’s after nine.”

“No.  After nine, if you do it right, is just, well, kind of ten, I guess.  And ten is to know that you’ve done what you wanted.  Kind of like quitting while you’re ahead.  You see less death that way, I guess.”

“What is wrong with seeing death?  I don’t get it.”

“Don’t worry about it.  I’m so high.  I can’t really explain it.”

‘Then it doesn’t mean anything.  If you can’t even explain it to at least one other person what is it worth?  Don’t say that shit then, Liz, it freaks me out.  I don’t want to hear you talk like that.  You want to get an abortion?  You’ve got to remember all the lies you’ve told?  Do you lie to me?  What the fuck Liz?”

“That’s everyone’s reaction when you tell them you lie.  ‘Have you ever lied to me?’  And the answer is always no.  Which either means, 'Not yet, but I've lied to everyone you love,' or, 'Yes.'  And having a kid isn’t on the list.  Being pregnant is.  Thus, an abortion.”

“It’s fucked to have a list, Liz.  It’s fucked up to check things off and, and, and it’s fucked to get pregnant so you can get an abortion.  You sound crazy, man.  You’re fucked.”

“I know.  Just hit this.”    

Ralph and Stu

“I feel pretty bad about this one, Ralph.”

“Why?  Are you gonna pussy out?

“No, no.  Chill.  I just, I just feel like it’s wrong or something.  Don’t you?”

“What, you don’t ever do shit that’s wrong?  Don’t give me that shit, Stu.  Where was your conscience when you were fucking Stacy?”

“She was 14, man.  Drop it.”

“What’s the legal age of consent according to the law?  And Mrs.  Johnson?”

“If you’d been there… Man, she consented.  She might have been short a couple birthdays, but she consented alright.”

“You’re a fucking pig.  Hand me that?”

“Yeah.  But, you know, Stacy wasn’t just a fuck or whatever.”

“On, no, totally.  I’m sure you loved her.  My mom’s coming home soon, so, can we finish this?”

“Yeah.  But, you know, I did love her.  I mean, I did.”

“You can’t love a 14 year old, Stu.”

“I could.  I did.  And if she hadn’t moved to Georgia, she would have taken me to Freshman Formal.”

“No, no, no.  Stop right there.  You’re about to make me sick.  How’s this look though?  Can you tell?”

“No, it’s good.  Your mom’s gonna freak.  You better know how to change them back.”

“Fucking chill.  She’s down for a prank every now and then.  She won’t be too mad.”

“Yeah.  Ralph?”

“What?”

“You think things get easier after eighth grade?”

“No.  What do you think when your acne clears up you’ll turn into fucking Zack Efron?  Doesn’t work that way.  I don’t know how you got a freshman to fuck you, but the rest of our lives we’ll be chasing girls like that.  Chasing, chasing, chasing and they’ll always get away.”

“That’s not fair.  No, I don’t believe that.  You’re just bitter.  You’re—“

“What?  Why shouldn’t I be bitter?  We have what to look forward to?  High school?  College?  No.  ‘Junior high sucks,’ you think, ‘shit must get better,’ and you’re wrong.  You’re fucking dumb.  And the world’s going to eat you alive.”

“ What the fuck, Ralph?  What about adolescent optimism?  Why are you such a dick?”

“Because, Stewart, I know.  I see it.  Charlie graduated three years ago.  Do you think he uses Pre-Algebra to live in the fucking basement?  We’re changing locks on my mom.  That’s our big hoorah.  We’re an eye-blink away from our futures.”

“You sound like your dad.  I’m over this.”

“I don’t know man.  We should probably just off ourselves.  Together.  Best buds.”

“I’d rather just continue fucking with your mom, if that’s alright with you.”

“Yeah.  I wouldn’t.  Maybe I’ll go find Stacy for you.  Tell her you love her.  Tell her you want to go to the formal with her.  All the way in Georgia.”

“Man, that would be great.  What time’s your mom get home?”

“Soon, I said.  Put the screws away.  And go by the window.  By the fucking window, Stu!”

“Damn, you need to get laid.  Chill out.  Stop cursing at me all the time.”

“I don’t like girls.  And I’m not a homo.  I just don’t like anyone.  I barely tolerate you. “

“You love me, you asshole, admit it.”

“I love you man.”

“Right back at you.”