MAAAAAAALAAAACH

Sunday, November 12, 2006

Um yeah sorry about that but uh since there's this huge-ass scholarship program for this UC I really want to go into I'll have to invest all of my time in that instead of actually finishing the "Lying..." story. So, the chapters I tried to write are going to be reduced to a nice, meticulous little short story. Well actually I should say that I'm rewriting the previous story into a completely new, shorter story. A hah hah hah fuck sorry I know. ><"

But yeah, might as well bust it, huh? If you think it's stool sample quality (*snicker*), then by all means put it on. =)



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If you were to look at him in a crowd, you'd find nothing remarkable about him. In a planet populated by billions, this is a common generalization, but in actuality this is a fitting description. The boy sported a simple t-shirt, faded paints, the smells evocative of his surburban life entrenched throughout the pockets of his clothing. Brown hair matted the creases in his forehead, bristles dotted his cheek, emerging ferns of his imminent manhood saying hello to the world. He carried along a plain black backpack as he headed towards his class, each step taken slowly, almost as if with thoughtful consideration. Everything about this boy seemed to give the impression that he was prone to flickers of brilliance, an assumption that actually betrayed his ability. Not to make him out to be a dunce, but he lacks a sense of himself, and like all people without an identity, he's merely another gear in the machine. School, sports, love, life, all in constant, sustained parameters; he never suffered from mind-jarring tensions or gut-punch lows, seemingly living an average, unremarkable life. There wasn't anything inherently flawed about him, which while on the surface would seem good, it never gave him an ambtion, the drive to become something more in any particular subject, and so he lived his life, without any real purpose, unless his purpose meant just being there.

When he gets home everyday, in his green volvo situated in the exact same space next to the curb, he performs a ritual, before diving into his real life. He'll pour himself a glass of water, letting exactly three ice-cubes welcome him home with a *plink* *plink* *plink*. Adorned above the fireplace, he laments over a portrait of a past family, happily basking in each other's warmth. Previous admiration of the figures in this caricature sicken him; they're just shadows of his memory, his brothers, each one retreating to college in pursuit of their lives, in the process dismantling his. He rests the ice-cubes in his mouth, swilling each around with his spittle before he spits them into the sink, where he will retreat to his room. This is where his day begins.

He reaches down toward his monolith of a computer tower, carresses the button as if in arousal of it, turning the computer on. Tapping his fingers expectantly, his eyes are replaced with exuberance, chasing away the placidness that haunts him daily. Windows loaded, he moves his hand fitfully to the mouse, ready to release the love he imprisons in his body. He's ready to confide his fear, love, sorrow, joy, pain, laughter... he's going to expose himself selflessly to her, splitting himself open so she can take in every single facet of his being.

The funny thing is, she's a total stranger.

Well, in a sense. They met each other in a cozy hovel seperated from the outside world, dim lighting illuminating their faces, conversation swelling the room with a sense of brotherhood. Catching each other's attention, they met through a mutual friend or two, awkwardly exchanging pleasantries. After a brief discussion, they sat themselves at another table, away from the group. And then, a spark, and they hit it off. Pretty soon they started meeting up with each other in this same place, day after day after day, until they had fitted themselves within the contours of each others being... Not feeling complete without the other, they decided to test-run a relationship, awkward giggles and brief smiles expressed on both sides. All of this would be perfectly normal if they hadn't met each other in a chat room: the bricks were pixels, the conversation text, the jokes ytmnd links, and finally, the complexity of emotions expressed so simply, the uplifting happiness and chemistry of enjoyment summarized in three simple letters. L-O-L.

Logging onto the internet message board both frequented, he saw that she was logged on. Immediately, he logged onto his instant messenger; to her, a seemingly inocuous coincidence that proved to be excellent, to him, a coldly-calculated move to make her talk to him, an opportunity acted upon with the efficiency of a stalker.

"Hey" he typed.

"Hey you" she responded back.

He cracked his knuckles, and began the fascade of his life. Fingers moving deftly across the keyboard, he maligned his daily life, turning something ordinary into extrodinary, making things out that aren't actually that way. It was a certain kind of art, like a pianist. A simple intro into his day, he plays the phrase that enthralls his audience. Next, comes the transition of the tulumptous descent into madness, the horrors of the school accentuated with sharp notes in minor key, making his plight almost palpable to the girl, the sentinals at his locker that intrude upon him. Awestruck, she finds herself wanting more, urging the artist to continue. He switches his tone, forte forte! Sweeping his fingers across the keys, fast notes followed with a faster theme, indicative of the swift retribution he brought down upon his antagonizers. The notes were banged, angrily, the plastic frame of his keyboard cracking, parroting the sounds his fists had made upon skulls in school that same day. And then, the crescendo! A daring tornado of notes, a rising platform, raising her to the height of her empathy as he details each and every single satisfying plea they made as he lost control. And then, the descending scale, the music becoming softer, gentler, poetically horrific, as every work should be. Blood had apparently fallen on his hands, at first a drop or two, then into a hazy mist he drunk on, immanently satisfied. Not knowing how to end his masterpiece, he decribed it as feeling like red-kool-aid, an abrupt thud, and the settling of sound.

On the other end, she gives off a smile, proud that her now-boyfriend, after going through ten years of oppression, finally stood up to his own colossus, knocking these pillars down and reveling in the ruins of his former antagonizers. Really though, she felt that a high-schooler, especially a junior, could only take so much bullshit before it engulfs him. She had learned from a television show that standing up for yourself was the right thing to do. Later that day, she learned that if you're yourself, everyone will like you.

Little did the boy know, he was in love with a ten-year old girl.

Little fingers typed back to him, giving him his love back.


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Yeaaaaaaaaaaaaaap.