Chapter One: Without a Spark

I believe in many things. In things like truth and faith and justice. I believe in God. And in his son. And that everything good in this life begins and ends with him.
I also believe in the devil. In selfishness and greed. In devious planning and malicious deeds. In getting whatever you want...by any means necessary.
I believe in many things...but I do not believe in love. Love is a lie. An illusion. A crutch for the weak and readers of poorly written romance novels. and the sooner the world realized this, the better.

***

Victor closed his eyes. 
Shut out the world and maybe something will come to you, he told himself. 
Breathe in. breathe out. Inhale. Exhale. Shake out your fingers, shake out the jitters and try again.
After cracking his knuckles, Victor opened his eyes. Nothing had changed. The three same paragraphs stared up at him from his spiral bound note book. Caroline could never understand why he never used his laptop when he wrote. She was endlessly pointing out to him how wasn't it double the work, that? Writing it by hand then transferring it to the laptop that she had bought for him exclusively for his writing. And it would have made at least some kind of sense if he at least sent off the hand written pages to be typed up by some pale faced, limp haired transcriber but no, Vic, as he was known as by his friends, insisted on typing them up himself. It helped him to edit, he claimed.
“But isn't that your editors job?” Caroline had asked him once.
“Sure it is.” had been Victor's answer, “but what's wrong with trying to make Tracey's job a little easier?”
Caroline had scoffed at that. She never did like Tracey. She was pretty, intelligent, successful and had a whole lot more in common with Victor than Caroline did. Spelled out, she was a little jealous. And despite Victor's constant reassurances, Caroline kept constant tabs on him whenever she knew he was with Tracey “working”.
Three damn paragraphs. That was all Victor had been able to write. And he wasn't even sure if they were even good paragraphs. Two years since his last book and he only had three paragraphs.
Victor let out a sigh. And the worst part was, as any writer knows, you cant force these things. When the spark isn't there, the spark just isn't there.
Then you better find that spark, Victor told himself.
Victor scoffed.
You say that like you don't think Ive been looking.
But two years Vic? Like seriously?
Get off it, he told himself. I'll find it, just give me a little time.
A little time man? Ive given you two friggin' years. And what have you done with it? Written three lousy paragraphs.
Victor let out another sigh. Ran a hand over his recently shaved head. The thin carpet of hair on his head a constant reminder of what he had lost. It had taken him the two years since his last book to grow out his hair. He had made a deal with himself that he would cut it off until he had completed his next one. But then Caroline had pointed out something.
“What if,” she had started as she had played with his hair, “It's your hair thats the problem? Stopping the words from coming. Don't get me wrong, I love your hair baby. I'm just saying, what if?” it sounded ludicrous, of course but at that point, Victor had been desperate. And so off had come the locks. That had been a month ago. And now...still nothing.
Victor was at the end of his tether and at the end of his tether he had done the one thing all writer's know not to do; he had tried to force it. The result? Three lousy paragraphs.
In a sudden fit of emotion Victor grabbed his pen and using it like a knife slashed at his spiral bound note book. Once the page was nothing more than a few shreds of paper he sent the note book spiraling across the room, where it hit the wall and landed in a heap on the floor.
“Honey?”
There is the rustling of sheets, a creak as Caroline sits up in bed.
“Is everything ok?”
“Fine.” Victor says rubbing his head, “Everything is fine.”
More creaks.
“What time is it?”
There is a sudden wash of light as Caroline leans over and turns on the lamp on her side of the bed.
“Late. Turn off the light and go back to sleep.”
After a moment.
“Are you sure you're ok?”
Victor lets out an exasperated sigh.
“Just go back to sleep ok?”
One moment. Two moments. Three moments, four. A sigh.
“Okay. Come back to bed soon. I miss you.”
Caroline stared at the back of Victor's head for a moment then laid back down.
Click. She turned off her lamp, enveloping her side of the room in darkness, leaving only the small radius around Victor's desk illuminated.
Victor waited about five minutes before getting up. Caroline was a fast sleeper. He knew that's all it would take. Making as little noise as possible he went over to where he had thrown the note book and bent over to pick it up. Note book in hand, Victor walked back to his desk. Sat down. Laid the book down in front of him, turning to a fresh page.
Picking up his pen, he breathed in, breathed out and started again.

Dormitan's Nightmare: Prologue

He dreamed of flashing lights. Of story book days and legendary nights. He dreamed of fame, oh of glorious fame. And of power...and of respect.
He dreamed of dinner parties at the finest restaurants, of million dollar deals and toasts with 100 year old wine.
He dreamed of the prestige; of awestruck glances, of hands offered in reverence.
“Welcome, Mr. Dormitan” they would say.
“It's an honor, Mr. Dormitan.” they would say.
“The pleasure is all mine, Mr. Dormitan.” they would say.
With hands behind his head, insomnia stricken he would dream. Warming his bed, filling his head, he would dream. Never letting up, never letting go long enough to wake up, or for that matter, to fall asleep...

How To Survive a Mud Slide: The Weekend Round Up

And so ends another weekend...not the most exciting Ive had but it had its well...not quite perks, but it had its moments. Drenched hoodie and squishy shoes (I'm sooo dreading having to clean those sons of bitches...I need to get myself a washing machine!), red bull and boxed vodka (or was it whiskey? Not quite sure, not that it matters, it still got the job done in record time), various cameos from Kigowa's Finest (whatever happened to us guys? We used to have that “solidah”, now we're so splintered its like we never were. I guess that's what happens when people grow up, move on and move out), food court chillin after midnight at Oasis while all the other night time lemmings milled about on the ground floor looking like a bunch of brainless ninnies (and yes I did say ninnies, you'll have to forgive me if I sound a little, well, superiotic. Not a real word mind you, juss made it up; root word superior. Thats juss how I am. superiotic that is.) hitting the dance floor at efendy's to “drop it like its hot” (I still haven't gotten the hand of doing the cryp walk yet), people still asking me why I cut off the dreads( get off it already, they're gone, they'll grow back, lets leave it at that), and the lemon mering cream on the pie; fifteen annoying minutes at Iguana with still Banging Body Barbara and I'm Too Cute For You Latta...I mean like seriously? What do you even call that? I had never walked out on a girl before but that was friggin ridiculous. And if you want the full story you'll juss have to inbox me or something because theres no friggin way I'm gonna waste space by telling you about it here.
All in all though, I give it a 7/10. It was a great distraction. I had fun.
But tomorrow's Monday and you all know what that means...back to work. * sigh * three...two...one...and here we go.

Stick a Fork in Me, Because I'm Done (I Really Have No Idea What to Call This)

It always comes back. 


It's always her. 


No matter what happens. No matter what I do. 


Two  weeks, two months, two years; 


it doesn't make a difference...she's there. 


Always beneath the surface,


 waiting...waiting...

One taste is all it takes, toxic is toxic. 


Vials in boxes, boxes in closets. 


Pad lock it, mock it but


 it doesn't make a difference...she's here. Where? 


Here. Always beneath the surface, 


Waiting...waiting...

12:34 am

Its simple really. There's really nothing to it. All you have to do is pick up the phone and call. No, not now you twit. Tomorrow, when its appropriate. Midnight phone calls simply for the sake of saying hi only work with girlfriends and girls who you're trying to fuck and the fact is, right now, you just don't know her like that bruh...
Uh-huh, well, thank you for the input...bruh. And thank you for reminding me. Not that I needed reminding. I'm fully aware of the situation as it stands at the moment thank you very much. I'm just trying to figure just how to go about handling it, thats all. Because although ignoring it has worked for quite some time now, I have the feeling that that luxury is about to come to an end...

Kiss me. 

I don't care if there's no music playing, 

slow dance with me.

I don't care if there are people watching,

let me put my arms around your waist,

let me hold you closer...

P.S.

Ive missed you
, 

Ive missed everything about you,

please don't deny me this chance...

1:52 am

I intend to one page this. Meaning that I only have a few lines to spill this. Not that I have much to spill. Or maybe I have too much too spill. So much so that I find trying to cram it into this limited space one notch below futile thus not worth the effort. In plain English please. In plain English? I ain't gonna say shit so you might as well stop reading now. I'm on that facebook shit, replying wall posts, inboxes, status and note comments and all that other good stuff. I will leave you with one thing though. Even if it is only a reiteration. I miss her. Always have. Staying distracted has been a good way of not having to face that. Not anymore though. And you know what that means, right? Drama-tox is almost over folks. Its been fun but God knows I'll be so much more happy with a lil drama tossed in...so get ready, because here I come!

Hit the Person Sitting Next to You Over the Head With Your Bible Day

Pen to pad, finger tip to key, one eye on the horizon, one to the past and here we go...

But first, it will only take a moment I promise, let us pray (all eyes closed and all heads bowed):

“Lord give me grace and dancing feet

And the power to impress

Lord give me grace and dancing feet

Let me outshine the moon.

Tonight make me unstoppable

And I will charm, I will slice

I will dazzle them with my wit

Tonight make me unstoppable

And I will charm, I will slice

I will dazzle, I will outshine them all.”

Amen. Now, with that out of the way...

Has anyone seen my tattoo? I seemed to have misplaced it. Maybe you've come across it. It's black, about yay high, kind of exotic looking, claims to be “Eternity” in the ink. It was last seen on the right side of my neck. After some girl (name politely withheld) tried to suck it off with her Hoover tunnel mouth. Or at least thats what it seemed like. She just wouldn't let up. I don't know which nigga lied to her but for future reference, ladies, sucking on the neck does not turn us on. We men. We like head. Whether it's in the back of a special hire or in the corner stall of the ladies room at Barbecue Lounge on a Tuesday afternoon after three long island ice teas (those things work wonders by the way). Both the ice teas and the head. Give a nigga good head and he'll be likely to keep you around. Give a nigga great head and his black ass will be likely to ask you to be his Official Girl. These are trade secrets ladies so I hope youre taking notes...
but enough about The Head. Let's talk about something a tad more...what's the word I'm looking for? Oh yes: palatable. I know I had a few people squirming in their seats for a few sentences there. But fear not prudes, shrews and church fairing women over the age of 35, it was but a minor digression. But even though that may be the case, please do keep in mind that these are home truths I speak of. Whether you like it or not.
Now, has anyone seen my tattoo? I seemed to have misplaced it. Maybe you've come across it. It's black, about yay high, kind of exotic looking...wait, Ive already said that haven't I...? Crap. Lemme think, lemme see...right. Here we go. Wait, not yet, I gotta pee. BRB...

*7 minutes later* i.e Not spent in Heaven

Phew. I thought I would never get out of there. And you know what the messed up part is? I don't even feel any better. I still feel like someone is holding my bladder in a vicious choke hold and now on top of that, I feel hungry. Weird combination right? And not just hungry but like “OMG! I feel like I havnt eaten in the past two days” kind of hungry. And if theres one thing you should know about me, it's that I dont, nay I can not, function properly when my stomach ( my best friend third only to God and my...um, *quiet clearing of the throat* Toshiba lap top) has not been taken care of. Probably the reason I dont seem to be making any sense right now. Not even to myself. Not a common occurrence I assure you. Solution? Simple. Remove pen from pad, finger tip from key, eye from horizon, eye from past and get something in my friggin belly. And in the meantime...


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qex0OjXolzc

The Truth of the Matter Is...This May Have to Come With A Disclaimer

The truth of the matter is I'm starting to wig out. Lose my nerve. Ronnie was right, I really am back at square one. And even though everyone keeps tellin' me that I'm rockin' the shit out of the new look, for some reason I'm still not convinced.
So Saturday was supposed to be a good day. And don't get me wrong, it was. It really was. A great dinner, lots of booze and fly women coming out of the wood work. What more could a brother ask for? Dreadlocked Lloyd would have been all over that muthafucka like an African fly on a piece of unattended meat. But not this one. Nope not “I just shaved my head, my skin is breaking out for some reason I cant really figure out, I really don't know what to say to these hoes; Lloyd”. No not him. He just sits in his chair and watches all the booty shaking from afar. From a safe distance. He wants to participate, show these niggas that he aint nobody to play around with, but at the same time he's like “fuck it. What do I get from pimpin these hoes anyway? Its not like I'm gonna bust a nut on any of them.”
and while trying to convince myself of this, the taste of beer now more than a little stale on my tongue, (it was like bottle 4 or 5 or 6 or whatever) I see someone who looks just like her. Looks like her, dresses like her, dances like her...it was pretty fucked up. mainly because I had managed to get to the point where I barely thought of her. And now this specter of her turns up, in some skRmpy blue thing (or was it green? I cant really remember...not that it really matters) and with the flick of a hip, like flipping a switch, initiates a program that has decided to call itself “Project: Miss Her”.
And before you say anything, no you don't have to worry, it aint full blown yet. Its like that AIDS shit, it takes some time to mature. All its managed to do so far is get me thinking about contacting her. But that wont be for another few days yet. And thats assuming I even decide to.
Raise your glasses boys because I'm about to make a toast.
“To all those girls who fuck with niggas heads (Alex, come on, raise that glass you know you're right up here with me...in fact it should be you giving this little speech)...FUCK YOU! We aint taking your shit no more. This is a new year and no matter how smackable that booty is, no matter how good your head is (and sweetie don't kid yourself; it aint that good) no matter how good people say we look together, no matter how much those niggas hate, bitches, enough is enough! We got too much on our damn minds already. All that other bullshit you bring along is unnecessary. Now say it with me boys: fuck dem bitches! (I see you Sam, stop fucking laughing cuz this aint no fucking joke and repeat after me) FUCK...DEM...BITCHES!!!!!
* sigh * Ok, now that Ive gotten that out of my system, maybe I can dish out a tirade on something else. 
Juss hold on and gimme a second...
Uh-huh, here we go...artificial insemination....
Ok, you know what? Fuck that. I aint gonna be able to do a tirade on that shit. Let me give this another try...
Pretty faces, pretty faces, pretty faces...i love dem pretty faces. But they can piss me off sometimes. Fuck that. They piss me off a lot. Whats up with girls with pretty faces? Did they all get together one day and decide that “hey, here's an idea, why don't we all be bitches?” and yes I can already hear all you naysayers but before you all open up your pie holes in protest, pause and really think about it. That's right, I can hear the wheels turning...pretty girls are bitches. And yes, I admit, there are exceptions to the rule, there always are. just not that many. Now girls, take a look at the girl on your left...now at the girl on your right...all three of you are bitches. The ones who arent bitches arent in the room...now what does that tell you?
Okay um, maybe I should stop here. I'm only fucking with you anyways. I don't really think pretty girls are bitches...not that many of them anyway. And for any bitches (oops!) I mean, ladies that I might have offended, let me offer you my sincere apologies...seeing as you're the same girls I'm gonna wanna bang come next weekend...it wouldnt be advisable to piss you off...
Am I right?

Yet Another Reason to Hate Valentine's Day (A Flash Back)

I never did tell you her name, did I? And um, I guess I should thank you for never asking. Not that I wouldn't have minded. Its just that she doesn't really like having her business being put all out there. Never has. And I guess that as long as she remained nameless, anonymous, she could convince herself that It wasn't really her business that I was putting all out there. It was mine. My dirty laundry. She was just a shade of lipstick on the collar of my favorite shirt. She could be anyone. And I reckon thats just the way she liked it.
Her name is Samantha. Sam for short. I called her Sammy once but she thought that a tad too much. And so I settled for Sam. Unless of course she's having one of her blond moments, in which case I call her “Samantha who”.
Now, to be quite honest, Ive never been one for valentine's day. Never liked it, probably never will. Least of all because I hate the color red. And so when I say that a romantic valentine's day in Mbale with Samantha was the last thing on my mind, I hope that you will be apt to believe me. I asked her up because...well, I really don't know why I asked her up. Ive never really thought about it. I do know though that I never really expected her to actually agree to come. I had asked her half jokingly and so when she did say that she would come, I took it as some sort of sign I probably shouldn't have. But in my defense, wouldn't you? I mean, you don't go out of your way to go on a trip to somewhere you've never been to be with someone unless you're trying to say something...or, as I later found out, unless you're Samantha.
She arrived on the afternoon of Friday the 13th (please, no jokes) and the first thing that struck me was how good she looked. Up to know I don't know whether it was because I hadn't seen her in some time or if she really was having one of her “super cute days”.
It was nice to see her. But although we tried our best to make nice, there was no denying that my unanswered question, or rather inadequately answered question was still looming over us.
But even though, I committed myself to not bringing it up that day. In my opinion, it was too soon. I wanted us to at least try to enjoy ourselves before I rained down on our parade.





Saturday




The weather was wonderful. Not too hot, just enough sun, the hint of a breeze and the promise of a star lit night. Some might even say that it was perfect. Not me though. I don't believe in perfect. Not anymore. I'm too old to believe in fairy tales.
But that being said, it was a pretty good day. I enjoyed myself. Even if most of the time I was on edge waiting for the perfect opportunity to drop that mother load of a bomb in her lap. A opportunity that never came. I was foolish to even think that it ever would. Theres no such thing as perfect, remember? Just a series of small compromises, even more and even smaller denials and one huge pair of “mother of God, what are you wearing?” rose tinted glasses.
We hung out, caught up, ate ice cream, walked around, looked for pork, couldn't find any so settled  for goats meat and rolexes instead, a brew or two or three, got her a hotel room and wound up on this king sized bed that was just begging to be rolled around in.
with the evening having pretty much only one direction to go, I decided, much to the chagrin of the Lloyd writing this, that “you know what? That's not what I want. Not with this thing eating me up inside, tying my stomach into knots, making my head swim.” And so I decided to open my big fat mouth.
I had one arm around her. Had her in a place I liked to think she thought of as home. I could have kissed her if I wanted to. Turned the night into magic. A dark magic where all else would have been forgotten. At least until the first gray streaks of morning and sanity returned. But instead of doing this simple thing, instead of losing myself in the curve of her neck and the plum of her lips, I licked my own, took curious note of how my chest rose and fell and finally came out with it- Hiroshima!
She didn't say anything for a beat. Maybe two. Didn't do anything either. Then feeling her slowly exhale, I watched as she rolled out of the curve of my arm and onto the expanse of the bed. If she had thought of it as home before, that was now nothing more than a distant dream.
Seemed to take a moment to choose her words carefully. But even though, there was still a weary note in her voice when she said,
“my answer hasn't changed Lloyd. We still cant be together. For the same reasons I gave you before.”
I let that sink in. I let it marinate. And once it had, once the full absurdity of the situation had hit me, I got angry.
“Then why did you even come?” I asked her as calmly as possible. But even though, there was still a slight tremor in my voice.
“Ive never been to Mbale before, I thought it would be an adventure.”
“You thought that it would be an adventure.” I repeated after her.
“You thought that it would be an adventure.” I said again. This time more  to myself.
I laughed. But her and I both knew that there was no humor behind it.
“Let me ask you,” I continued,
“Knowing how I feel about you, it never once crossed your mind that boarding a bus, which you hate in case you've conveniently forgotten, to go somewhere you've never been, on valentine's day weekend, yes I know Ive said that I hate it and I do and God knows you're about to give me a reason to hate it even more, to visit me might appear to some, hell to anyone, to have some sort of special significance?”
Now although I'm not quite sure I said exactly that, I am pretty sure that I did say something to that affect. As for what she replied to that? I have not a clue. Of course, I'm quite allowed to speculate but that, for some reason, wouldn't feel quite right.
One of the disadvantages of letting things marinate for so long; things run quite amok, deciding to play hide and go seek with your memory. I'm not up to playing, however, and so i'm going to do my best to provide a pretty faithful summarization.
Advantage of king sized bed meant for rolling around in #4;
Perfect for putting as much space as you can between you and someone you're not especially fond of at the moment without falling off the friggin' bed, saving them from potential bodily harm.
She slept on one side of the bed and I slept on the other. She got the wall. I loved the wall. I was angry enough to try and take it away from her but some sensible part of me that had miraculously stayed put against all the odds managed to convince the rest of me that it wasn't worth the hassle.
And so it was until the first gray streaks of morning and sanity returned.

What They Refer to in "Rehab Land" as a "Breakthrough"

Ive written the opening sentence for this thing about 15 friggin' times but still haven't been able to come up with something I like. I guess this is going to have to do.
So where do I start? *sigh* oh yeah, I came pretty close to relapsing today. I wanted to, I so wanted to. And not even because I really wanted to (if that makes any sense) it was the challenge of being denied something and setting out to prove that if I really wanted it I could get it. The “it” in this case being 7 minutes in heaven (fall out boy reference anyone?) with girl X who's proving to be quite the slippery fish. Playing with my hair (well, that's gone now) tugging at my hand (cant she cross a friggin street by herself?) saying what a great couple the two of us would make (I can make any couple look good) and how friggin cute she thinks i am (uh...duh). But when it comes down to the business at hand, she don't dish out. do you know how friggin frustrating that is? I would rather she be friggin up front about it. But a tease? Not cool dame...not cool at all.
Not an excuse though. A commitment is a commitment and I'm glad I made it out here right in the open. I got people who can call me up on it (You know who you are and I love you immensely for it). Ive got my head on straight again though. And for future reference, if ever it needs straightening, never hesitate to do the needful (again, you know who you are).
*Sigh* this is really hard. Because even though I no longer miss her, there's still that void that she left behind to deal with. And the fact is, thats what this really all boils down to. Getting over her. I have a Samantha shaped hole in my heart (thats not her real name but Nimo you know who I'm talking about) and Ive been trying to fill it with all these other girls even though I knew from the get go that none of them would be able to replace her. And so I decided that since plan A wouldn't work I would proceed with plan B; burying myself in so many of them that I wouldn't have time to miss her or want her back.
Well, thats obviously not gonna work anymore...if it ever worked at all. I gotta deal with this thing head on instead of simply setting up petty distractions to tide me over...
Hey! Look sponsor, I think this is what they refer to in rehab land as a “break through”. And if it is, well then I guess that means I'm one step closer...
Pass me my chip!

It Aint No 'Ting but a Chicken Wing

Its been awfully hot these days. Lots of sun, absolutely no cloud cover and just enough humidity to make you sniff yourself and say, “Hot damn, I need a shower!” At ten o'clock in the morning. After but two hours since your last one. And for those of you who think that you've gotten away Scott free, this heat seems strangely immune to deodorant. Whether its sure, Burberry or that funny vanilla body spray she who shall not be named used to wear. Or possibly still does. Who even gives a cuss?
Now I think it would be prudent of me at this point to warn you that if you're looking or waiting for some sort of point to this, I'm afraid your not going to find it. Because quite frankly, there isn't one. I just liked the way the title rolled off of my tongue. Something I heard in a movie once. I think. Or maybe it was a TV show. Or maybe I read it somewhere. But thats besides the point. The point is...well the point is that there isn't one. So read on at your own risk.
So...I'm supposed to be drama-toxing. (don't know what that means? Well ask Nimo, she's the one who came up with it after all) and all in all, I think I'm doing a pretty good job at it. Going on two weeks without any drama. Of course, the way I left things with a couple of certain individuals may not be exactly, exemplary but making amends will come a little later on in the program. Because making amends, if not handled properly, would just mean the re-introduction of drama and right now, I'm too chill enjoying these drama free days to give that all up for the sake of “making amends”. And Nimo, darling, if you're reading this, how far up the 12 step ladder is making amends anyway? Wait, don't say anything here, inbox me the answer.
But drama-tox or not, theres this one girl I want to get with. No problem right? Wrong. Theres one complication. White Greek boy friend who she's intensely loyal to. When it comes to jumping into the sack that is. And that's all I want. A roll in the hay. This business of walking around, holding hands whispering sweet nothings into each others ears with no friggin pay off is a fucking joke. They say that persistence pays and I know that in this case it would but Ive been down that road before and eh, it aint all its cracked up to be. Drama was inevitable. Of course the last time I actually liked the girl and sex had been the last thing on my mind and thus the drama but I still don't want to take my chances. You never know what could happen. But that being said, do I really see myself pulling out? Well, maybe just as I'm about to come (no, I wouldn't be that stupid, of course I would wear a rubber) but out of the race before those six seconds of pleasure? Not a chance.
Wait, she's on messenger right now...and oh, how about that? Her phone is now on, she's just sent me her number....let's see what she's doing today. And if I'm lucky, maybe it'll be me...

The Dreaded End/ I Am Not a Lemming {Forgive My Jabbering I Am Not Myself}

I walk into Charlie's. The 12 inches of a hair on my head sticking out in every direction. four sets of eyes follow me as I cross the linoleum floor and land in what is to be my hairs electric chair.
“Dead man walking...dead. Man. walking.” I can almost hear Percy Wetmore, that asshole, shout down the mile. (for those who don't know, thats a “Green Mile” reference. One of the best novel-movie masterpieces of all time)
I take a long look at myself in the wall length mirror. I'm shivering. And its not even cold. Get it together. I tell myself. Get it the fuck together.
After a second, Charlie himself walks up to me. He seems intrigued.
“What can I do you for?” he asks after a standard issue 'our long hair makes us brethren' greeting.
I swallow. Try my best to calm my nerves. It wouldn't make do for my voice to come out all funny. It would let him know that there was still a chance of talking me out of it.
Deep breath. Inhale through the nose, exhale through the mouth.
“I want to cut off my hair. All of it.”
Charlie's eyes stray to the top of my head yet again. After a moment, they drop to look me square in the face.
“Are you sure?”
I nod.
“Yup. Let's do this.”
Charlie shakes his head.
“well, if you're sure...”
“I am.”
I hope I sound more confident than I feel, I think as I watch Charlie, in the mirror, tie a neck strip around my neck followed by one of those polyester oba nylon apron thingys they cover you with to keep your recently liberated hair from getting all over you.
Picking up the clipper, Charlie asks me how low I want it.
“Level one.” I tell him.
He sort of smiles. To me it looks more like a grimace.
“That's really low, you know.”
“Yeah, I know.” I assure him.
“Ok.” he says nodding. “Just as long as you know.”
He turns on the clipper. The Buzz-Buzzing it makes jolting me like 20,000 volts of electricity coursing through my body damning me to the grave..
I close my eyes.
“ten minutes,” I tell myself, “ten minutes and this will all be over.”
Yeah, the cynical part of me adds, with your hair all over the floor...




Deep breath. This is gonna take some getting used to. I keep touching my head to make sure it really happened. That I'm not just dreaming. Or somehow just imagined it.
“Yup, it really did happen.”, the thin carpet of hair left on my head proclaims every single time.
“Now I'm just like everybody else.” A part of me despairs silently, mourning its loss.
“I am not my hair.” I try to convince myself as I stand in front of the mirror. But nobody's listening. Not now. Not tonight. Try again in the morning.
“Now its back to charming them” , I sigh.
Before, the hair did half of the work for me. There's just something about a man with long hair that turns girls on. And girls, dont you dare try to deny it.
My game had upped because of it but to be quite honest, it had also suffered. I got lazy. Smiled, let them touch my hair, said something vaguely funny, told them I wanted to go home with them and then it was on. Now it wont be so simple. Or will it? I guess you'll have to ask me in a few days. The weekend is coming up after all...
There was a point I was trying to make. I'm sure of it. Um, lemme think...lemme see...
Nothing. I cant remember, for the life of me, what I wanted to tell you. Something about not wanting to be a lemming. About not wanting to be part of the everybody in “everybody else”. And as corny as it may seem, my hair helped me do that. Or at the very least I managed to fool myself into thinking that it did. I would walk down the street and eyes would follow me. Do you know how many stares I got today? Like really? A grand total of ZERO. Zilch. Not...a...one. and its not that I necessarily crave the attention, its just that being so used to something and then having it suddenly taken away from you is well, kind of a traumatic experience. Like losing a child.
Then why cut it off in the first place? You may ask. A very valid question. I just...I just felt it was time.
Then stop pining.
Well I intend to, thank you very much.
So is that it? Is there anything else you would like to share with me?
I cant really think of anything...
Then good night.
(Stern voice...there's no arguing with it)
*sigh* Good night...

Frm Boi-Toy 2 Luv Jones

“hey, u deserve to know that I got married. I hope, hweva, that we can stil be friends. coz wat we had was great. o'wise I wish u d best. in everything. GUD NYT.”

Lisa (via text message)

12:25 am

wow, now ain't that something. She got married. Just like that. No warning, no wedding invitation. Not nothing. Not that I would have gone even if I had gotten one. Hell no. I mean, what would have I said to the guy?
“hey, congratulations. Um, by the way, I fucked your wife.”
Talk about the most awkward conversation ever.
of course, she may not have been his wife at the time but I am pretty sure that they were already romantically involved. In fact, if my memory serves me correctly, I actually remember Matthew mentioning something about her man being out of the country or some shit like that. Not that I gave two shits. I was there to get it in...the rest was just details; easily overlooked.
That being said, a lot of stuff suddenly makes a lot of sense. Her sudden lack of interest for one. I mean, think about it. After being so hung up on a brother, after only a week she was throwing around the word love like it was a frisbee, her sudden turn of apathy was more than just a wee bit...well, sudden.
She started screening my calls, not replying my messages, avoiding our once casual hook ups...i found it odd, of course but I had always chalked it up to her making me pay for hurting her feelings. For using her and dumping her like an old ratty dish cloth so torn and full of holes that it was beyond useless. I guess I was wrong. I guess it was because her man was back in town. And that he had come to do the one thing that I was never going to: put a ring on it.
And you know what? Good for her. And I mean that. She deserves to be happy. I just hope that she'll be happy with him. And no, I'm not just saying that because deep down I'm thinking that she would have been better off with me. Because the fact is, she wouldn't have been. I would have broken her heart everyday that we were together until there was nothing left to break. She deserves better than that. And if this guy can offer her that, then good.
It does make me wonder though. Its not the first time this has happened. Or something similar to it. I seem to attract the same kind of woman. The lonely girlfriend who's boyfriend isn't around to show her the attention she needs. Ive built up quite the reputation. For being the surrogate boyfriend. The guy who you call when you're looking for a night of seamless fun. He wont respect you in the morning, but honey, isn't that kind of the point? That's what a boyfriend's for. And so by default Ive become a chronic dater. No girl is willing to give me the chance to be anything more than that. Because if I can charm my way into her pants (and this is a girl who considers herself pretty principled) how many other girls have I managed to charm out of their underwear? Not a number she wants to think about and certainly not a number she wants to play around with.
And I have to be honest, for most guys, thats not necessarily a bad thing. I mean, a nigga can get a whole lot of nookie that way. And everyone knows a nigga don't play around when it comes to nookie. But what happens when said nigga (in this case, me) gets tired of the nookie? When all he wants to do is get all love jones on a chick. Settle down. Get himself a boo and just chill...what then?
Now, don't ya'll be jumping to any conclusions now. Because I'm not saying that I want to settle down and make babies or nothing. But then again, I'm not saying that I don't. All i'm saying is that when the time does come, how do I keep the boy toy image from working against me? Ideas anyone?

Relapse: They Call Me The Corruptor

It was supposed to be simple. I go over, get her comfortable, get her naked; then bing, bang, boom, i give her the business and then out of there.
Business as usual.
I had no qualms about it. In fact, I was actually quite the expert at it and had no doubt whatsoever that things would go according to plan. Forget that I was in the worst drought of my life, (well, maybe not the worst but certainly the worst in recent memory) forget that I was a lil rusty (I needed some serious greasing and there was not a drop of alcohol in sight) and forget that this girl had a white dude for a boyfriend who she would not shut up about, (you should see her Facebook profile pic, its ridiculous) I was going to get it in.

Step 1: Going over
Was simple enough. I had never been to her place and she didn't have a phone on her but she proved quite resourceful, giving me the number of a boda guy she frequently used named Robert who I called when I reached kamokya and who drove me right up to her front door. The only zib there may have been was that the dude quite calmly and like it was the most common thing in the world asked me to pay him five thousand Uganda shillings for services rendered.
I ran a hand through my hair.
“you cant be serious.”
but he was.
I did a few quick calculations, I wasn't that broke but there was no way I was going to fork over 5k for a ride that clearly didn't deserve it. I told him I had two. After a minute or two of back and forth and a little persuasion on Bridget's side, he finally accepted the money. I handed it over and followed Bridget inside.

Step 2: Getting her comfortable
Now although she had home court advantage, the advantage was really mine. She was wearing a pair of short shorts that showed of her thighs and a blouse (without a bra) that tied at that back of the neck. A few flicks of the wrist and that baby would be gone. And so I set about the task of getting her comfortable. I made her laugh, made her dance, let my hands roam free... I pulled out all the stops but at best, it was a hit and miss. She would only let them roam so far. Too far up the thigh and she would spin away giggling, asking me what I thought I was doing.
“you know what I'm doing.” was my answer more than once.
“but I have a boyfriend.”
Pulling her down on top of me. (there was no where to sit but on the bed)
“I know, but he isn't here is he?”
But the thing was, he might as well have been. Damn friggin technology. And damn yahoo with its yahoo messenger. And damn video chatting. Damn it all to hell. Every time I thought I was getting somewhere, every time that hand reached that border between “a big maybe” and “now we're talking” there would be a quiet “bloop” and a new IM from that Greek bastard she called her boyfriend. And every time that happened any progress made would suddenly vanish and I would have to start all over again. Pish-tosh, I was beginning to think, you know what? Fuck it. If I have to work this hard for it, it obviously aint happening. But the thing is, anyone who knows me can tell you, I aint one to give up so easily.

Step 3: Getting her naked
She kept on telling me how cute I was. So cute that it scared her.
I gave her a puzzled look.
“What does that even mean?”
“what it means,” she said drawing close, “is that,” she pulled me in as if for a kiss but stopped me just one yard shy of the touch down line, “I don't trust myself with you...”
she pushed me away. Got up and went to the kitchen. It was a moment or two before she reappeared when she did she came back with two glasses of wine. The wine had been a birthday gift from that Greek bloke of hers. An hour before she had been scared to death to open it. Now she was cracking it open and putting it back with a guy who would not hesitate to take the first opportunity to take advantage of her.
“bad move.” I mused to myself. “Bad, bad move.”
All smiles i accepted the glass of wine.
After a couple of sips she set down her glass.
“I wanna go out tonight, what do you think I should wear?”
she got up and walked over to where all her clothes were hanging. I got up and followed her.
“Let's see what you've got.”
she pulled out a flowered, if my memory serves me right, pink, black and white mid thigh high dress with a black belt.
“What do you think?” she asked me, holding it up.
I told her to try it on and I would tell her exactly what I thought.
And so she did. Practically undressing right in front of me. I tried to be gentlemanly about it but couldn't help but catch a little glimpse of titty before she pulled on a bra. A little glimpse of cutchie as she slipped out of her panties and into a pair that matched her bra. I watched as my window of oppotunity closed. On came the dress and out came the makeup bag. I was losing the friggin' battle.

Step 4: Bing, bang, boom- giving her the business
I don't think I have to tell you just how easy it is to get it cracking with a girl wearing a dress. Especially a short one. And so with this in mind I decided to look at my glass as half full instead of half empty. My vigor renewing as a result.
She still tried to fight me off but there was less disdain in her voice and I could tell that I was at least a step closer than I was before.
But you want to know what the most fucked up part of it was? Through it all she was still fucking IM'ing that guy of hers. It was kinda getting on my nerves but I kept my mouth shut about it and kept my engine running. And then she started talking dirty to him.
How do I know? I was sitting right there. And boy does this girl have a dirty mind.
After a couple of minutes of trying to keep my eyes from straying to the screen, she burst out laughing.
“what?” I asked, whipping my head to look at the screen.
“He wants me to touch myself.”
she was still giggling.
“then why don't you?” I was seeing a window of opportunity beginning to open again.

Bloop.
*And make sure you close the windows first.*

I laughed with her about that one and watched as a mischievous grin crossed her face. i could tell the wine was beginning to work.
I think she surprised both of us when she slipped out of her panties and tossed them in my direction. I caught them, surprised and threw them back at her.
“What are you doing?”
“What does it look like i'm doing?” she asked, positioning herself in front of the laptop,
“I'm having cyber sex with my boyfriend.”
She threw me a look. “Feel free to watch.”
I watched as one hand reached for one keyboard and her other hand reached for the other...

Drama-Tox Thesis: pt1

Leave me at the corner...(remember to breathe)...leave me at the corner...(i cannot breathe)...leave me at the corner...
but she doesn't.
She never listens...She doesn't care.
She's dragging me down with her, the destination's hell.
Leave me at the corner...I try one last time. But its of no use, my fate is sealed. Death is inevitable.
She smiles. She knows there is no escape. That I know there is no escape.
But I know something that she doesn't know. There's help on the way. An intervention. One that will force her to release me. All it needs is time...




Hey Nimo, I guess now its my turn. Um, I hope you don't mind me using your name; I'm sort of just winging it here. and as for the rest of you people out there, just to make things perfectly clear; Nimo is NOT the “she” forementioned above. she's far...far from it. As a matter of fact, Nimo *hand over heart* (my sponsor, my friend) is on the same mission as I am.
And um, what mission may that be? You might ask. Well, (one swallow, two swallows, a sip from my glass of milk, one more swallow) that would be Mission: Drama-Tox of course.
Let me explain:
Considering everything thats been going on recently (and when I say “recently” I mean like the past year or so) and all of the drama that's come along with it, Ive come to the realization that although I enjoy it (and loath at the same time) its not all that healthy for me. I need to take a breather. A major one.
They say that the first step to recovery is to admit that you have a problem. Well...hi, my name is Lloyd and I'm a drama junkie. I love the high of feeling low. Of beating myself over the head for being so stupid. Of scratching my head and wondering just how the hell I'm going to get myself out of this one. And how I even got myself into it in the first place. And why.
To go into the specifics of what Ive been stupid about, what Ive been beating myself over the head about, would mean writing you a book and seeing as I'm not up to it (and I'm sure you wouldn't be up to reading it even if I was) I'm not going to waste my time. However, let's just say that it involves two individuals (yes, they are women, although I'm pretty that sure both would prefer being referred to as girls) that I care about who through my vast ingenuity, I have managed to completely alienate. With one its been a merry-go-round and with the other a swing. One makes me dizzy and the other gives me vertigo. The mixture has left me feeling...well feeling kind of disoriented.
Okay, I feel like I'm going a little of course here. And the truth is, I don't even know which course I'm supposed to be taking. Its three in the morning and I'm feeling pretty tired. Maybe its time to go to bed and try again in the morning...
yeah, I think thats what I'm going to do. So until until morning...

The Dark: Chapter Nine

So what if you have a little trouble navigating the stairs? Its not like youve forgotten how to walk. Its really not that bad you know. It really isnt. You are quite capable of going to the bathroom by yourself. You have been doing it for years. and nothing has really changed except for the fact that yo have a stupid cast on your leg and a pair of crutches to keep you company. but you can handle that. Youve dealt with alot worse. Remember that summer when your foot got crushed by an SUV?
But inspite of your best arguments your mother insists that if she let you go by yourself she will only worry. and she's tired of worrying. She's done enough worrying to last her a lifetime. And so letting out an exasperated sigh you let your mother act as your personal escort. Talk about a lack of privacy.
Understandabley, it takes you twice as long as usual to do your business knowing you mother- your Mother for pete's sake is standing right outside the door like youre friggin five or something.
Washing your hands and drying them on a hand towel you stare at yourself in the mirror. Almost all the swelling has gone down and your face isnt as mishapen and discolored as it was before but you know you are never going to look the same. The doctors said that they tried their best to twist your nose back into place but you can already see that it is going to heal crooked. The place where it broke as clear as a hot summer's day. But thats not the only thing. There is something else. Something in your eyes. Something that wasnt there before. Its as if there is someone else staring out at the world from them. Youre still there but so is someone else. The lights are on but youre not the only one home.
There is a knock on the door, dispelling all your thoughts.
"Is everything Okay in there?" Its your mother.
"I'm fine." you call back.
After one last lingering glance at yourself, you hop to the door and jerk it open.
Your mother's forehead kneeded with concern, she hands you the crutches without saying a word.
"I'm fine." You repeat and taking the crutches you head for the stairs with your mother in toe.
You negotiate the stairs carefully, your mother lending you a guiding hand here, a word of encouragement there and the more than occasional "almost there." in an attempt to calm your nerves. Inspite of your complaints, youre thankful she's there.
It's not long before you need to take a break and so letteing your mother know, you stop on the landing a little more than half way down to catch your breath.
As tiny beads of sweat break out on your forehead, you feel the three pairs of eyes below peer up at you. You dont have to look at the owners to know what they are thinking.
Pity. Sympathy. And in the case of your father; Guilt. And if their stares could be translated into words they would be saying something like "Poor kid, no one should have to go through that."
"But I dont want your pity!" you feel like screaming at them. But you dont. You cant and so instead you silently take in their silent stares. Trying your best to concentrate on the task at hand: catching your breath. The awkward silence of the moment however, forces you to get moving before youre ready to and so by the time youre sitting safely in your seat again youre virtually heaving.
Your mother brings you another glass of iced lemonade before you have a chance to ask. You thank her as she sets it down on the side table next to you. After a few sips you feel alot better and about ready to talk. As if sensing this Dective Gervaldi clears his throat. As if on cue his partner, a small, bird like woman with thin and drab hair, thick rimmed glasses and a suit that appears two sizes too big sets down her glass of lemonade and pulls out a small notebook.
You know what is coming next.
"Are you ready to continue?"
You exchange quick glances with your parents. They both nod their heads in encouragement. Turning to face Gervaldi you nod your own.
Consulting the notebook his partner has held out for him to read, Gervaldi is silent for a moment. Then looking up from it he clears his throat again.
"Okay. Now tell me what happened once the three of you left the party."

T.E.X.T.H.E.R. (Alex It Isnt Working)

After our lil talk yesterday, after reviewing the current situation, after reviewing the current situation(s) in fact (we all seemed to be going through something) I decided to try and do it Alex's way. I told myself I wouldn't call, I wouldn't text, I wouldn't even speak her name...not until and only until she made the first move. Not until I knew what I was dealing with.
“she's fucking with my head.” I remember telling them. But the thing is, I was letting her. I had always let her fuck with it. It was a fucking vicious cycle of head fucking and I never got fucking tired of it...am I saying fucking too much? cos' I kinda feel as if I am. But no, you know what? I'm not going to go back and replace all those f-bombs with something a lil more...how should I say...appropriate. I should, I know I should; we do have kids on here after all. But fuck it. They shouldn't be reading this anyway. This is all assuming of course, that the intention of writing this is to post it on Facebook...but then to be quite honest, it kinda is.
A minor deviation, forgive me. What was I saying? Oh yeah, so I'm going to try things Alex's way. Though I know from past experience that the success rate of such a venture is usually um...lemme see...um...kinda like nil. In fact, Ive felt compelled to send her a text the entire day. A few more hours and I'll be home free at least...for another day.
One day at a time, they tell all addicts, just take it one day at a time. In my opinion that's some ol' bullshit. A day at a time? You have to be fucking kidding me! That shit is eating me up second by every fucking passing second and you're telling me to take it one day at a time.
“Then fine, just be all nonchalant like.”, I tell myself. Make it look like you're doing you're thing and you've just taken a moment out of your busy schedule to find out how she's doing. Not under any circumstances is she to know that she's been weighing down your brain for days. You did that before remember? and look where that got you.
Just say hi. Find out how she is. You don't have to ask her when you can hook up. She doesn't even have to know that you're even still in town. About to close that multi-milli-shilli deal that you've been looking to close.
Deep breath. I reach for my phone but a second later pull back my hand. Not so fast. Thats only inviting disaster. Pulling yourself back in. you know that. stay on the course you've taken. Convince this other girl (she's great btw) that she's the one that you want and not just some girl whose only significance is to help you get over your overcomplicated ex.
Convince yourself.
But I cant. She has that hold on me. Just like Alex's has a hold on him. Its fucked up aint it?
“Love's a bitch.” I tell myself. It really is. I would love to say that I no longer love her but that just wouldn't be the case. And that kills me.
Just one text... just one...thats it.

The Dark: Chapter Eight

The trees shudder in the chill of the night. Towering above you like tall eerie sentinels. Their wind rustled leaves giving the illusion that they are indulging in a secret to which you are not privy to.
As the old cracked leather creaks beneath you, you shift in your seat to get a better look out the window. The moon is full and bright casting everything in an unearthly bluish light.
You appear to be at the edge of a wood. The nose of your car sniffing at its feet. How you got there you have no idea. The last thing you remember is getting into the car to go to the police station. To go and turn yourself in. but after that...nothing. Nothing but this place- at the edge of the woods. You cant help but feel you have been here before. That it holds a certain importance. A certain hold over you. You dont know how but you cant shake the feeling that this place has somehow left its smudgy fingerprint on the surface of your pitiful existence.
Reaching for the door you step out of the car not bothering to close the door behind you. You take a few steps towards the darkness of the woods, the knarled roots of the nearest tree hard under foot. you suddenly stop, however, as if you have just hit an invisible barrier. Your breath begins to come in short ragged gasps. The palms of your hands sweaty. your throat cardboard dry. You suddenly know where you are. The realisation horrifies you.
Why would you come back here?
Then as if deciding that you are privy to their secrets afterall, the trees themselves seem to answer you. As one. As if it is the spirit of the forest itself answering you. And this alone horrifies you ten times more than the realisation of where you are. Because that can mean only one of two things. that one- you are completely out of your mind or two- all of this is absolutely real. The latter certainly being the scarier of the two.
Refusing to play into your paranoia, you decide to get the hell out of there. Turning, you are about to head back to the car when something stops you. Something isnt right. It takes you a moment to place your finger on it. and then it hits you. you had left the door of your car open. Youre sure of it. You would bank your life savings on it. But unless your mind is playing tricks on you it is now closed. your eyes travel up the closed door to the open window. you feel your blood freeze in your veins.Your breath condense right there in your throat. There is someone sitting behind the wheel.
Blinking several times you make a vain attempt to will whoever it is sitting behind the wheel of your car out of it. You have no such luck. If anything, whoever or whatver it is seems to sense that you are watching them. Slowly but with the gravity of a planet, the person turns to face you. You feel your legs turn to jelly beneath you. Stumbling a few feet backwards you struggle to keep you feet under you. Its Him. Youre as certain of it as you are that you have ten fingers and ten toes.Its the eyes. Glowing as red as rubies formed in the very fires of Hell itself. Only one question belittles your conclusion: How?
Suddenly, a violent wind kicks up, clawing savagely at your clothes, tearing leaves from the surrounding trees, sucking the very breath from your lungs. and then the voice of the forest speaks. A wispy wraith that almost passes over your ears in incomprehension.
"He's waiting for you."
You glance up at the trees. At the knarled fingers of their ancient branches. Then, after a moment, beyond them, at the sky. It is rolling with dark, mean looking clouds. Clouds that threaten rain. That not only threaten rain but promise it.
Your eyes fall back to earth. back to your car.
To your empty car. With its driver side door open.
Just as you left it.
You take a step towards your car but think the better of it. He's waiting for you. God knows he's not one to toy with. Its better you find out what He wants.
And with that decision set in stone in your mind, you turn on your heels and face the woods. The dark, menacing, soul swallowing woods. The wind, changing direction, pushes at your back, urging you fowards.
Unable to disobey, unable to ignore, you take a step forwards. then another. Then another. Before long the wood has swallowed you. There is no longer any escape. There is only one direction to take.
The moon, penetrating the thick canopy above you in shards, lights your path in glimses. A thick root here, a puddle of water there. Making your procession easier but only by a fraction. You trip a number of times but somehow manage to keep your feet under you. All the while the wood has become a muted hush. As if holding its breath in quiet anticipation.
And then you see it. Just as you left it.
It is an old structure. Probably more than fifty years. Even though, it still appears sturdy, strong and if given some time and attention; inhabitable.
The old cabin sits in the middle of a small clearing. The area immediately surrounding it is strewn with gravel, discarded sticks deemed unworthy to serve as firewood by some long gone hiker as well as a number of small to medium sized boulders.
The gravel crunches under you as you cautiously make your way across the clearing to the foot of the porch steps.
The warped old wood creaks under foot as you take the first step up to the cabin. As you take the second step there is another creak. This one, however, is deeper and more prolonged. And comes from above and in front of you rather from beneath you.
You look up from your feet and find the door of the cabin swinging inwards. Opening up on a darkness that you have no words to explain. No words to describe.
You pause. But only for a second. Then gathering your wits about you, you climb up the rest of the stairs, walk across the porch and stop in front of the open doorway.
Peering into the cabin you see nothing. Then taking a deep breath you cross the thresh hold, the door of the cabin closing behind you with a deep and prolonged creak.

The Dark: Chapter Seven

You feel awful. More than awful. Like someone tossed you into a huge trash compactor and let it run just long enough to crush every bone in your body without managing to kill you.
You try to open your eyes but the effort is more than its worth and you quickly give up. and so instead of affirming your long awaited return to the world of the living by allowing it to flood your throbbing retinas, you try to once again bury yourself in the comfort of unconsciousness.
after a few restless minutes, however, you realize the world isnt going to just sit by and wait for you to wake up when you feel like it and so you decide to brave it and hope for the best.
With a will strong enough to bend iron you manage to pry open your eyelids.
You expected the brightness to be a shock to your retinas but had no idea it would be so damn painful. It feels las if someone is poking at your eyeballs with a tiny hyperdemic needle, injecting them with a saline liquid that then pours out from the corners of your eyes in the form of tears.
The tears run down either side of your face pooling in your ears even as you try to blink them away and try your best to bring your eyes into focus.
It takes a few moments but you eventually manage to bring some clarity to the world around you.
Its unfamiliar; pristine with clear cut corners. Slowly swiveling your head from side to side trying your best to avoid giving yourself a sense of vertigo, you slowly take it in.
The bed across the room is empty but obviously occupied. The bed sheets and thin hospital issue blanket are in a tussle, the bedside table giving harbor to a number of 'Get Well Soon' cards and a conspicuous looking basket of fruit. The sight of the peaches and pears and bananas and apples sets your stomach into motion and you realize just how hungry you are. You feel like you havnt eaten in days. Like your stomach has been completely hollowed out, deserted, your body fighting to remember what its even like to have food in its system.
Trying to ignore the hunger gnawing at your insides you continue your inspection of your surroundings.
Your eyes straying from the luscious basket of fruit you notice a number of chairs at the side of your apparent roommate's bed. Only one is occupied. a withered looking woman taking up a semi-fetal position fills it; her extremities sticking out every now and then. She looks awfully uncomfortable and you wonder how long she has been like that; trying but failing you're quite sure to catch a few winks of sleep.
Shifting your gaze from the chair you find yourself wondering if anyone is watching over you. If anyone even cared enough to want to. With some sense of satisfied vanity your eyes arrive on the form sitting in a chair of its own next to your bed.
The form is not as depreciated as the one across the room, nor does it appear to have been there very long. And on closer inspection you realize you do not recognize the form filling the chair at all. The person watching over you is a complete stranger. You let out a small gasp that comes out sounding like the cough of an old dying Studebaker alerting the stranger of your return to consciousness.
The man shifts in his seat. There is no pretending you are still asleep and so you meet his gaze when he brings it to your face. His lips twist into a wry smile.
"Awake are we?"
You dont answer but ask him a question of your own.
"Who are you?"
Your voice comes out sounding like a car driving over gravel. Your throat feels as if you have swallowed some as well.
Instead of answering your question the man stands up and walks away. He's back within moments; with a nurse. She's pretty with a luxurious head of hair. Smiling, she repeats the strangers words.
"awake are we?"
But unlike when the stranger said them you do not feel threatened or the least bit apprehensive by her words. Her voice has a sing song quality to it and more than anything soothes you.
Still smiling she holds up a tumbler with a plastic spoon sticking out of it.
"You must be thirsty, how about a couple of ice chips to sooth that throat of yours?"
You manage a nod.
Leaning over, the nurse spoons a chip of ice into your mouth.
"Dont swallow it whole but let it melt on your tongue." She instructs you. You obey without a thought. After the chip melts you let the chilling water slowly run down your throat. You feel the difference almost immediately.
"More?"
You nod. This one more vigorous than the first.
She spoons in a couple more but then tells you that's enough. You can have some more later. You give her a disappointed look but she doesn't budge.
"Later." She assures you.
Then addressing the stranger, she tells him that maybe he should wait until the parents got there. They have just been alerted that you are conscious. They'll be there in no more than fifteen minutes.
The stranger nods but says that he would like to ask you a few questions before your parents arrive. Just to lay down some ground work. Nothing serious.
The nurse is obviously not sure how wise it is to leave you there with this stranger but then realizing that he wasn't going to budge no matter what she says, the nurse gives in.
"Okay," she allows, but warns him not to over strain you. you need your rest.
The stranger nods, assuring the nurse that he'll take it easy.
Then gesturing to a remote resting next to you on the bed, which you have not noticed until just then, the nurse tells you that if you need anything, anything at all, all you have to do is just press the red button and she or another nurse would be right in.
"Okay?"
"Okay."
Giving the stranger one last warning glance, the nurse walks off. carrying the tumbler of melting ice chips with her.
The stranger waits until the nurse is out of sight and out of earshot before he speaks.
He introduces himself as one Detective Gervaldi. Homicide.
"Homicide?" You repeat. This time as a question.
A puzzled look crosses the detective's face.
"You mean they havnt told you?"
Gervaldi takes your blank expression to mean that no one has.
"I'm sorry to be the one to tell you this but your friend Kelly... she's dead."
The detectiive's words make your heart stop. You close your eyes. When you open them again, the sting of tears touches the corner of your eyes. This time you dont try to blink them away but let them fall uninhibited. Your best friend...gone.
"I'm sorry for your loss but I need to ask you a few questions. About what happended two nights ago. the night of," taking out a small notebook Gervaldi refers to it,
"The night of Spencer Elson's party."
You barely register the detecive's words, they are of no importance to you. Of no consequence. Only one thing registers. Only one thing matters. Kelly. How can she be dead? She was invincible. Death proof. Immortal. It just isnt possible. But deep down you know it is possible. She isnt Death proof. She isnt immortal. She's just like everyone else. Fallible. Fragile. Delicate like a dandelion, easily blown away by the slightest breeze.
After wiping away the tears and clearing your vision, a brief inspection revealing Gervaldi's serious demeanour and no nonsense attitude, makes it obvious that the detective is telling the truth. He has no reason to lie.
"H-how did it happen?"
Gervaldi raises an eyebrow.
"I was hoping that you could tell me. After all, you were there."
Your expression is a puzzled one.
Leaning in, Gervaldi tells you that you were found unconcious just a few feet from where Kelly was. So that meant that whatever happened to Kelly, you were there.
"What about Fifi?"
Gervaldi glances at his pocket notebook.
"Fifi Payton? She's alive but just barely. She was dumped in the woods two, two and a half miles from where you and Ms. Novak were found. She's still unconcious so I havnt been able to get her statement yet."
It doesnt make sense. Kelly dead? Fifi just barely alive? You in the hospital? You dont know what to make of it all. What the hell happened?
And just as youre asking yourself this question, images bombard your head. Relentless, coming in from all corners. Catching you completely off guard.
You quickly close you eyes in an attempt to block out the images but the self imposed darkness only makes the images more vivid. You open them again only to have the images sperimposed ontop of Gervaldi's face. There is no getting away from them.
"Tell me about that night." Gervaldi insists.
You shake your head. Both in refusal and in an attempt to shake it free it from those horrible images.
You close your eyes again. Not only in another attempt to dispell the sharpening memories but also to close out the presence of one Detective Gervaldi, Homicide. You cant handle this right now. Its all too much to take in.
Then as if the gods heard your private lament, you hear a familiar voice. Opening your eyes you spot a familiar face. Infact you spot two. Your parents have arrived and not a moment too soon. You have never been so happy to see them in your life.
Your mother heads straight for your side smothering you with a hundred pounds of much needed love and attention. Planting kiss after kiss on your cheeks, forehead, nose and lips. Your father hangs back to deal with the nusance that is one Detective Gervaldi, Homicide.
Although never laying a hand on the detective, your father makes it clear that his presence is highly unwanted. After a few moments and a promise that he will be back, Detective Gervaldi, Homicide jaunts out of the room leaving you alone with your parents. Your heart swelling you feel as if you have never loved them so much.
Your father's hand on your head and your mother's lingering on your arm you finally feel safe enough to let the damn break. Your vision blurring, you allow yourself to cry in earnest.

The Dark: Chapter Six

The dark circles under your eyes betray you. You haven't slept in days. Every time you try to, every time you close your eyes your head becomes a parade of horrible images, of dismembered body parts and blood, lots of blood, gallons of the stuff. You're not eating either. You cant seem to keep anything down. and even if you could, you're even too afraid to leave your room to get anything to keep down. Afraid that anyone who would see you would know. know that you're a murderer. As clear as if it was burned into the flesh of your forehead. And so you've lost weight. your skin has lost color. You look skeletal. your face is ashen. You know that you're slowly killing yourself but wouldn't that be infinitely better? wouldn't the world be a much better place without a person as fucked up as you are taking up space in it?
You have never contemplated suicide, not even after what happened to Kelly, but you have to admit that at the moment death is starting to look like a pretty inviting destination. Of course you would never actively plan to kill yourself, you're too much of a coward, but what about just letting it happen? just sitting back and letting the waves wash over you, the tide pull you in, the current drag you under? Even a coward like you could do that.
But the question is: do you want to let it happen? Are you so sick of your life that you see death as your only viable option?
You're not and you dont and know it. at least deep down you do.
What you really want is to kill the creature living inside of you. This despicable cancer that is growing stronger by the day. Feeding on whats left of whats good in you. Growing bolder. That no longer masks its existence but flaunts it. Lets you know that its there. That its watching. And that its responsible.
The disapearences of of those people. The ones who were responsible- for what had happened to kelly. Those disapearences were not coincidence. They were not random. You had never believed that they were. You had your suspicions but you hadn't been sure.
Not until now.
Not until those images that were too real and just too fucking vivid to simply be manifestations of your imagination had started flashing through your mind. Had started keeping you up at night. Still do.
They're memories. You know they are. They have to be. You feel detached from them but somehow you know, you fucking know that the blood that was spilled, the flesh that was ripped, the bones that were broken in these flashes are real. A result of your hands. They may not have been under your control at the time but they were still yours. Still are. And that horrifies you because when everything is said and done it is you who is responsible. Because if a weapon is ever found it will be your fingerprints they will find on it. And if the blood soiled clothes that were worn during these acts of violence are ever found it will be your clothes that they will find. and if ever the dead could talk it would be your face they would say was the last thing they saw.
So what are you saying? you ask yourself. That I'm totally screwed?
Well, yes.
Then what are my options? you wonder. If indeed I have any.
You hear yourself sigh inwardly.
You could turn yourself in. Get yourself some help.
You dont know that much about that stuff except from what youve seen in the movies but it sounds like you have that personality disorder. What is it called? A split personality?
yeah, thats it, a split personality disorder.
Is that stuff even for real, you ask yourself.
Even as the thought forms you already know the answer.
You shudder.
Then I have to get help. Otherwise the body count will only rise.
You have enough blood on your hands as it is, you tell yourself.
You glance at your watch.
Its late but you cant wait until morning. Anything could happen between now and then.
Making a decision, you get up out of your chair. Grabbing the keys of the beat up Honda your parents had given you for college, you leave your room for the first time in days.
Your destination: The police station.

To Whom it May Concern...Again (An Excerpt From...)

So this is what it has come to. To writing you this letter. This letter, of which, I have no intention of seeing the light of day. This letter, of which, it is my intention to burn after saying what I have to say. And if through some miracle, through some lapse in thought or through some sort of carelessness on my part, your eyes do happen to chance upon this page, keep in mind that it was never my intention for you to read this. And that I am not writing to you but rather to some version of you that I have conjured up in my head. A version of you that will not laugh at what I am about to set out to say. A version of you that will not cringe, will not pity nor feel sorry, regretful or remorseful.
We made the right decision. Even if it was a coup on my part. Even if I did shove it down your throat.
But that is not to say that it has been easy. A depression has descended upon me like a fog. It is a battle even to get out of bed in the morning. But don't feel sorry for me. I will pull through. Today is a good day. In fact, Mo is coming over. He says he knows just what I need. No doubt a night of drunken debauchery. Anonymous women, sloppy kisses in dark corner booths and even darker corners. Probably not the best solution but he thinks he's helping. And you know Mo, when he gets it in his head to do something, he doesn't let up until he has done it. And so i'll give him his chance at bat, his day in court; even though to me the chance of success is minimal, it's just comforting to know that he cares.
Peter too. They've been incredibly understanding through this entire thing. But enough about that. Mo will be here any moment and this is the last thing I would want him to find me writing. I guess I'll get to burning you later. And when I say “you” I mean the letter, not you. Well, I have to run. It's been um...interesting conjuring you up,


As always,


Lloyd.

Aptitude 4 Destruction/ F.A.I.L.U.R.E

i guess this is one of those days where i hate myself. one step forwards, two steps back.
even before "the talk" i was already feeling pretty miserable...
it's happening all over again. the late nights, the hang overs, the fucking "i want a girl to go home with so who should i call?"s...
i thought i was past all of that. i thought i had graduated on to the next one.
apparently not. auntie Helen seems to think that i'm slowly killing myself. and although a lot of her garble was self-righteous and condescending there was still alot merit in her words.
there IS something wrong with me.
i'm not happy. haven't been in a very long time. i'm twenty-three, one month away from twenty-four and ive done absolutely nothing with my life. I dream, i walk, i slip, i fall, i sleep, i cry, i beat myself over the head, i tear at my clothes, i swallow and spit lie after lie trying to convince myself i'm not some sort of failure. that i'm worth a damn. that i can still turn this thing around.
but now i'm not so sure. because every time i seem to make a little head way, something has to happen. its either this or its either that.
i'm starting to feel as if i'm simply destined for destruction. like its encoded in my DNA. like its inescapable...inevitable. like a vampires lust for blood. its evil, its dark, its loathsome...it is all of these things, it is more...and because it lives in me...it is what i am.
is there any hope? who knows. all i know right now is that i haven't slept in 48 hours and i'm friggin tired. i still kinda feel like i might puke all over myself if i lie down for too long but i guess, all things considered, that i just have to risk it...

Nitey.


listening to;
"warning sign" by Cold Play


(U Kno Who U R...)

24 is Not My Lucky Number But Thank You For Your Optimisim (InterLude)

Its been a while since I last did this. Four weeks at the very least. So excuse if I come off as a little rusty...

So wow...its twenty-ten...and everybody's talking about how this year's gonna be the year...
"I'm taking this shit to the next level homes."
Ronnie in a half drunken daze, while swinging his bottle danderously close to my head.
"Less talking and more walking, my nigga. That's how I'M goin to roll this year. So take one last look at my balls, homie, because this boy is about to blow up."
and then he proceeded to unbuckle his belt and pull down his jeans. I stopped him, luckliy, just in time.
"what optimisin.", i thought as I put him on a bajaj, paid the sour smelling dude who I was entrusting to get my boy home safely and watched, hands in my pocket as they headed away from the vuyos that is Kla on a saturday and into the night...

*cue the music (i'm thinking something like "Simple Little Melody" by B.E.P)*

P.S. lemme know if you disagree.


In any case, once they were no more than an insignificant blip on my radar, I pulled out my phone and made 3 different calls to 3 different girls and got 3 different answers. It was the third and final one that was the clincher:
"Youve got fifteen minutes." she said. She sounded tired, a lil drunk and not all that in the mood but who gave a fuck?
"i'll leave the door open."
Hanging up, I pocketed that little bitch, my sleek and sexy MTN Lite (dont hate on me if you werent able to get one), jumped on a bajaj of my own and warp speeded my ass over to buffy's place...I so had this in the bag; hook...line...and sinker...

*Ahem*
So where was I? Oh yeah, So everybody's talking about how this year is gonna be the year...but the year for what exactly? To finally bang that African Woman model? you know, The one with the rich boyfriend and the tendency to look down her nose at any homie less than 6 feet tall and any nigga who still uses a taxi as his main mode of transportation. and Marlin, dont you dare pretend you dont know who i'm talking about.
Or how about the year to finally start that business youve been starting for the past three years but keep making excuses as to why it is nothing more than a good idea that you want to implement somday. Even if it is someday soon. Yes, Boozie, I'm talking to you. A lil less booze might actually help you with that, you know.
My point is this, everyone always enters the new year with all these resolutions, all these goals and all these expectations that only fizzle out by month three; march or there abouts. so my question is this; whats the fucking point? I mean, youre only setting yourself up for disapointment after all.
my solution? That's easy; drink...be merry...have sex...burst someones cherry (even if it IS the neighbor's daughter who's joining senior one next month and still thinks of a rubber as only a scholastic tool) and live like todays the last day of your life...

1:17 am

And NO, I dont actually think that. The truth is, I dont know what I think. My fingers simply got away from my head again. But I guess on some level, though I hate to admit it, I get a kick out of the whole Devil May Care approach to life. No responsibilities, no consequences. Boy, would that be a way to live. Unfortunately, life doesnt work like that. Not unless you wanna be a bum. And believe it or not, I dont wanna be a bum Jane.

I dont wanna be a bum...

And with that 2010 has officially begun...

listening to;
"Get Me Some" by Weezer

The Dark: Chapter Five

"So, are you going to tell me what happened?"
You stare at the man sitting behind the desk. He's short and balding with a pudgy but kind face. Not that well dressed you have come to notice. His practice is not a private one but attached to the campus; the pay cant be all that good.
He stares back at you. His expression is deadpan. Like it always is.
He must be extremely unhappy, was your first opinion of him the first time you stepped into his office. I would be too, you had mused silently, if I had to listen to other people's problems the whole day. When it came to his own problems he must stack books.
This prevail ant thought had led you not to take him all that seriously. Your demeaning attitude had remained persistent through all of your school required sessions. The administration seemed to think there was something wrong with you. Even though you hate to admit it, they were right.
"'What happened?'" you ask, feigning ignorance.
Dr. Patterson gives you a look that tells you that the ignorance act isn't cute anymore.
"Yes," He says, obviously a little exasperated.
"The night of Spencer Elson's party. You've been avoiding it for several sessions now."
You give a moment of pause before you answer.
"I'm only here because I have to be, you know."
"Yes, we've already established that." Dr. Patterson allows, allowing a sigh to escape his lips.
"But we also established that as long as you are here we might as well do something useful with the time that we have together."
You can see the sense in that but to remember that night is to unearth something horrible. And even though you want to get to the bottom of what is happening to you, simply put, you are just too fucking scared. and so to shield yourself, to shield Dr. Patterson who thinks the extent of your problems are your plummeting grades, you decide to take a detour. Little do you know that that is all it is: a detour. All roads in this case lead to the same place.
"I had a dream last night."
Dr. Patterson folds his hands on top of the desk.
"Oh yeah? What about?"
"About a guy in a red jacket." You say.
"What was this guy in your dream doing?" Dr. Patterson asks you.
You take a breath.
"He was playing football. He was using a head, a human head as a ball."
Dr. Patterson seems troubled by this but tells you to go on.
"Theres a whole team of these guys. Guys in red jackets passing the ball, the head, back and forth."
"What about the other team?" Dr. Patterson asks.
"What?"
"The other team. Who's on it?"
"Oh."
You swallow.
"Umm, the person the head belongs to."
"Who else is on the team?"
You shake your head from side to side a couple of times.
" No one else. That's it."
"I see. Is it possible that these people are not playing football at all? That this person without a head is just trying to get their head back and these people in red jackets are trying their best to keep it away from him or her?"
You think about it for a moment. It makes sense. You dont know why you didnt think of that before.
"So do you have any idea who the person without a head is?"
You blink. Swallow hard. swallow fast. You consider saying "no" for a second but this guy is a shrink, of course he'll know that you're lying. You decide to tell the truth.
"It's mine. The head is mine."
Dr. Patterson doesn't seem surprised by this. He nods as if he had expected that very answer.
"So what happens next?"
You lick your lips. The mere memory of the dream makes your hands tremble. Conjuring up the courage you tell him.
"I start to kill them one by one. In horrible, horrifying ways. Soon I'm covered, head to toe, in blood. Until there are only two of them left."
Dr. Patterson doesn't say anything. His silence urges you to go on.
" Then I pick up a a hunting axe thats lying on the ground, it's covered with blood but I wake up before I can reach either of them."
Dr. Patterson does some more nodding. Then making eye contact with you for the first time since you started narrating your dream, he asks you a question.
"What do you think it means?"
You dont have to think, you know. You'd be damned if you told that seedy shrink though.
Maintaining eye contact as best you can you tell him that you dont have a clue.
"Dont have a clue or just dont want to tell me?"
You turn away. Did you really expect anything less?
"I'm here to help you." Dr. Patterson tries to assure you.
"I cant do that, though, unless you let me."
"I dont need your help." You say and make a move to stand up.
"Wait.Why dont you sit back down and we talk about this?"
You pause but only for a second. After a moment you are up and out of your seat.
"Why?" You ask defensively.
"There's nothing for us to talk about. I already told you my stupid dream. What else do you want?"
"For us to talk about the dream."
Dr. Patterson is almost pleading.
"What it means. What it means to you."
You shake your head.
"It means nothing. It was just another dream."
You head for the door.
"Then let me ask you something,"
You stop.
"If it doesn't mean anything, why are you so scared?"
You purse your lips. Consider turning around but quickly change your mind.
Your answer is the slam of the door behind you.