About a year ago this time I was depressed and thinking about bad things.  Then a few months after that when I realized I was going to college again and all of my friends were back home, I forgot about that and I just tried enjoying myself.  So now that I've been moved in and at college for a month, I feel like I'm ready to talk about it some more - I'm beyond just initial impressions and misgivings and doubts.

Well, my grades are excellent but I'm bored as hell.

It's been really hard to meet people since I live off campus in an apartment.  It's not at all like the dorms were - I could just leave a door open if I was bored and sooner or later friends or strangers would stop by to hang out.  Not here.  I think if I did that people would walk by and probably shut it out of respect for my privacy or something.

I don't even want to finish the entry.

I have not posted in a while. 

To begin, I should say that I was persuaded to write something after an anonymous person left a nice reply to a post.  I wonder if they'll ever come back to check out my cynical words again.  Passing judgment is a rather sober thing to do, and it's not something I consciously like to do very often, but hey, everyone judges everything whether they try to or not.  Not sure what I was trying to say with that line.

<center>* * *</center>

As usual, with the passing of time, there have been many changes to the world around me as well as myself.  I'm not really the same person I was a year ago at this time, because circumstances seem to be such that everything is going to turn out all right for me...but I still worry at times about life and things. 

Whereas last summer I made the decision to not return to college, this year I am anxiously awaiting to begin anew at a different school, with different people; and hopefully the year that I took off will end up benefiting me in the end.  I just felt like I never connected with everyone else in my year, since everyone else was always older than me.  But now I think I'm more determined, less moronic, more mature, and less prone to fucking stupid girls who smoke pot all the time.

Last year's situation was that I was in a boat, and it was sinking.  This year's situation is such that our old boat sunk and we're floating along wearing our little life preservers and getting swept away in the current.  My god, I hope that there aren't any sharks in this water, because then we'd be royally screwed.  Maybe the bank will leave us alone if I punch one of their lawyers in the face.

My dad's increasingly eccentric - and grossly irresponsible - behavior has, instead of improving, gotten much, much worse.  He went from being a dependable man into being a man who depended on drugs, sex, and drugs.  

I haven't talked to him in about three months and I don't care. 

Without him to help us out, at home...well, we're keeping our heads above the water.  I work full time <i>still</i>, at Wal-Mart, to finance myself.  But I'm much less stressed out about it all, because I have a goal for the future now that doesn't involve wanting to swallow a hundred pills with vodka and kiss my ass goodbye.  Maybe it's because I tried to do that before and I just woke up with a bad hangover and a sore stomach, feeling like a fool.

I am leaving for Massachusetts in a week with my friends to go play a rock show; hopefully that will go well for everyone.  The singer wants me to drop out of college to play with him - and although that is admittedly a dream of mine - it is simply impossible for me to walk away from college.  Yesterday I got a letter from my school telling me that $26,000 of my tuition for the year is being paid for in scholarships and grants...and that all I owe for the year is $2,000.  How the hell can I spit in the face of the school and destroy this golden opportunity by pursuing music?

Music can always come after I've gotten an education.  And there's always Wal-Mart to look forward to as well.  I've got a fine choice of career options for being manual labor at that evil corporation.

"So you've finally got me," he whispered.  His face was smudged with dirt and grime; and while his eyes shone eerily in the pale moonlight, there was nothing to be seen in those once brilliant orbs - his gaze was weary and defeated.  And so was his posture:  he was leaning heavily against the stone wall of the corridor, sucking in air in raspy, uneven breaths.  His hair had lost all of its luster and hung limply in front of his thin face.

This was Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived.

He coughed violently into his hand and spat blood on the floor before his assailant.  "Do what you're here to do."

His captor grinned, enjoying seeing his rival in such a state.  He would enjoy seeing Harry die very much.

"Are you surprised?" 

Harry stared back at him blankly, saying nothing, and his grin grew even wider. 

"Not even in the slightest?"  Sensing that he would not receive an answer to his question, he straightened his shoulders, withdrew his wand - ash, fourteen inches - and brought it to bear on Harry.  "Any last words from the famous Potter?"

And then, finally, the broken young man opened his mouth to speak, asking, "How could you?  We...I trusted you, Ron."

The only surviving Weasley smiled a bittersweet smile in remembrance of long ago pains and horrors.

"Things change, Harry," he said softly.

omg plz read nad review!!!!

XXXXXXXXXXX

“Voldemort must be dealt with,” stated Albus Dumbledore, and the assorted gathering of powerful witches and wizards all nodded in assent. They were all assembled in an enormous room; seats were arranged in a semicircle expanding up and out from the floor like an old Greek amphitheater. The newly appointed Minister for Magic straightened his collar and cleared his throat before continuing, “Unfortunately, he has been successful in avoiding all our attempts to capture or assassinate him. However, I have a new idea. Please, let me introduce you to the man who I think will be able to settle this once and for all.”

He gestured to a shadowy figure standing behind him, and the figure stepped forward into the light. He dropped his hood and stared out at the crowd. “My name is Harry Potter.”

Instantly whispers and mumbles rippled throughout the audience. Everyone knew that Harry Potter had been missing – and presumed dead – for the last six years. He'd grown in that time, and he'd changed much from the narrow boy of seventeen they'd last seen.

His shoulders had widened out, no doubt the result of his daily workout, his chin and jaw were proud and strong-looking. The trademark glasses which he'd worn throughout his Hogwarts years were gone, replaced by contacts or perhaps he'd had his vision magically restored. When he spoke, it was with complete confidence. This is what he said:

“I am going to kill Voldemort. I'm strong enough to do so now.”

“Prove it!” called out a voice from the back of the room.

A tall wizard rose to his feet and strode down the aisle until he was standing before Harry.

“This is the Grand Warlock Sigmund, Harry,” said Dumbledore. “He's the head of magical intelligence for the Austrian government and he's dealt with hundreds of the most dangerous wizarding criminals in all of Europe.”

Sigmund raised his chin and looked down at Harry with a haughty glint in his eyes. “If you can best me in a duel, then I believe you can bring down Voldemort. Do you accept my challenge?”

“Of course,” came the reply. Harry smirked and backed away.

“Are you ready, boy?” The warlock sneered at him.

“I'm always ready,” he muttered. Turning his head he said, “Albus?”

Dumbledore nodded and glanced at both wizards, checking to see if they were ready. Satisfied that they were both prepared for the duel, he said, “Go.”

Immediately Sigmund sent a dozen curses and hexes flying towards Harry, but he simply held up his hand in defense. The spells were all absorbed into his palm and he smirked again and cocked an eyebrow at the older wizard before saying, “Is that the best you've got?”

Then he snapped his fingers and all of the pent up energy shot back at its original caster. Sigmund just barely managed to throw a shield up in time to block the spells.

“Impressive,” was all he said before heading back to his seat.

Harry moved to the center of the room. “Are there are any others who would wish to challenge me?” The assembly was silent. “Good.”

*********

After the meeting ended, Harry stood with Dumbledore.

“You look like you have something to say, Albus,” Harry mentioned, looking his mentor in the eye.

“I'm just proud of you, Harry.” Dumbledore smiled at him, his eyes twinkling merrily. “You're like the son I never had.”

He pulled Harry into a warm hug and they were quiet for a moment after that.

“I have something...or rather, someone to show you.”

“Who...?”

“You can come out now,” he called out to the empty room.

Out from an alcove stepped Hermione Granger. There was a certain hesitance in her stance, but she carried a hopeful gleam in her eye. She slowly walked toward Harry, unsure of what to say or do.

“Hermione,” he said, nodding politely at her.

“Harry.”

They were standing only a few feet apart, but then suddenly they had both closed the distance and they were holding each other. Hermione squeezed Harry and whispered into his ear, “I missed you.”

“I missed you too,” he replied.

She backed away from him and there were tears in her eyes, but she was smiling. “Harry,” she began. “I never had the chance to tell you...and for years I thought you were dead...but....” She sniffed and looked him in the eye. “I love you.”

“I love you too, Hermione.”

Then, their eyes locked and they kissed lightly. It would have gone further except they both heard a cough and they split apart, suddenly embarrassed that they had almost made out in front of Albus Dumbledore. A smile appeared underneath his beard and he raised an eyebrow.

“I'll be leaving now,” he muttered.

“Thanks, Albus.” Harry laughed and then kissed Hermione again.

*******

Harry managed to track down Voldemort using a sophisticated tracking spell he'd invented himself. He found Voldemort in the Forbidden Forest with a bunch of his Death Eaters. They were planning to attack the school.

“Tom,” he shouted, to be heard over the noise of the forest. “An old friend would like to come out and play with you!”

He saw Voldemort whip his head around and glare at him. “Who are you?”

“Don't remember me?”

“I'm afraid not, no,” he answered, stepping closer to Harry as his Death Eaters moved to surround him. “We've met before?”

“Yes. A few times, actually.”

“Oh?”

“But I'm sick of stories where there's a lot of witty banter between the hero and the villain in their final confrontation, so I'm just going to kill you now.”

“What-”

“Mortenis Capum!”

Voldemort's head separated from his shoulders and soared over the clearing they were standing in. Harry, taking advantage of the surprise of the Death Eaters, sent various jinxes and hexes at the lot until they were all dead.

He looked around at the carnage he'd strewn and he smiled. It was finally over.

EPILOGUE

Harry and Hermione ended up having four children: James, Lily, Albus, and Minerva (or Minnie, for short). However, Hermione passed away shortly after the birth of Minnie and Harry soon found himself alone. For five years he grieved her death until suddenly Ginny had approached him (her marriage to Dean had failed) and they got together. After marrying, they had another eight children and then Harry lived happily ever after.

I don't know which is more incriminating for me: the empty beer cans scattered haphazardly about my room or the half-empty handle of Captain Morgan's I keep under my desk for easy access. I came home from work the other day and noticed that where my posters once hung on the walls there was stark white spackling covering up what were presumably gaps in the aging paint. It was obvious that someone else had been in my room.

I'm pretty sure that I've never mentioned this in any of my other entries but maybe you could have guessed - I rather enjoy my privacy and I don't like it when people waltz into my room uninvited for even something as trivial as borrowing a pen.

Now I'm wondering if my dear mother even noticed the evidence in my room. She hasn't confronted me about it yet and I can only hope that she won't. If she did, it would inevitably turn into one of those insulting parent-child talks that are disgustingly awkward nowadays since I usually disregard everything I am told. But that hasn't happened in a while.

I got an email from tech support on my old university account informing me that the spam filter is down and as such, I may receive spam while it is down.

I looked at the email and I said, "What the fuck do I care? I don't use this email anymore except to put on business applications and stuff so I look professional because it has a dot edu at the end."

And then I got to thinking, "Gee, I wonder what would happen if someone really flipped out about this? I mean, I see it all the time at Wal-Mart. Freaking customers get so touchy about things sometimes."

So I thought about how ludicrous it would be if someone sent him a reply email, demanding better performance from the tech support staff and the university. Just for shits and rocks I wanted to see how simultaneously vile and petty I could sound in a single email.

Searching for a starting point, I squinted at the bottom of the screen and found what I was looking for:

Thank you for your patience, Dave Jaeger, Network Manager.

Here goes:

Well fuck you, Dave! I'm not giving your goddamn school $34,000 a year so I can get some spam delivered to my inbox! You'd better bust your tiny little balls to get this fixed right away. I swear to god if I get any fucking spam mail delivered to my precious holy sanctum that I call my inbox, it'll be your blood that gets spilled! This is absolutely un-fucking-believable, and you know what, Dave? I'm holding you accountable for this complete and utter fiasco. Fag.

The first three hours were an escape - tranquil and relaxing.

However, despite the fact that many people think driving alone is a time to be introspective, I must argue to the contrary. For the duration of the entire time that I was driving, my mind was not dwelling on matters of philosophical concern, rather I was concentrating very, very hard on not driving off the road or destroying any of the cars and trucks traveling beside me. For the most part, I was successful. We'll get to that later.

How about we skip to the good stuff?

Aaron, being the manly hero that he is, found us an absolutely ridiculous frat party to crash late on Friday night. Since we had every intention of getting hammered, we had to walk about a mile to this dilapidated, tiny house that had dozens of excited, horny, and buzzed college students flocking to it like flies to a lamp.

It was disgusting. But it was so, so exhilarating.

The cover charge was five dollars and when I stepped through the slim front door, I was handed a solo cup and some cheap plastic beads. The rest of the party was pretty much the same from there on out - crowded, cramped, hot, noisy, and smelling like marijuana everywhere. Naturally, I was fairly put off by the crowd: insecure guys wearing Hollister and trying to impress the girls; women dolled up with their miniskirts and overdoses of makeup, grinding against each other and acting like sluts.

I wanted to go home two seconds after I got to that party, and the whole time I was there - every single time I fought my way through the writhing sea of sweaty human bodies occupying every single ten by ten room of that fifty year old house - I thought to myself, dear god, this has got to be a fire hazard!

* * *

The second party wasn't nearly as claustrophobic. But it was just as disgusting.

It was the crew team's semi-formal - which meant that everyone was wearing suits and dresses. I showed up in ripped up jeans wearing a borrowed button-down shirt that was three sizes too large.

Aaron lost himself in the crowd, dominating the beer pong table (or did they call it Beirut?), and Pete scored early and scored often - on a seventeen year old high school senior.

And as for me?

I tried. I swear to God, I tried. But the seventeen year old's sister had a boyfriend and girls seem to find reasons to get away from me no matter what I do. Seriously? I don't think I'm a bad looking guy. But compared to a bunch of six foot three incredibly muscular crew members? Forget it.

The beer was Keystone and I wanted a fucking Yuengling.

* * *

I hate people, but I love social gatherings. Unfortunately, most of the time, social gatherings involve people I don't like, so I end up hating those, too. What is wrong with me?

Okay, it's time to end this entry. I accomplished and discovered absolutely nothing in writing this.

You can hear my band here. Except it's not really my band because I'm the one who did the drums, the bass, and the guitar parts and Pete's belting vocals aren't anywhere to be found.

We'll have you looking lovely, lovely, lovely, lovely, lovely, lovely, lovely, lovely, yet!

* * *

So what do you know, I'm working at Wal-Mart these days. It's only temporary, mind you, and I truly mean that. I plan to be part time by January and I want to be done there forever and ever by August at the latest. All it is to me is a way to get money so I can save up for when I go back to college.

And it will happen.

So what do I do? I unload the trucks, which means that I move around hundreds of boxes each day and hurt my back a lot. But it's okay, because I get paid $7.45 an hour to do it. Also, if the other sales people in the store or the hired muscle are lazing around, they call me to do their bitchwork for them since Wal-Mart likes making me do their jobs for them. And I have these cool people I get to hang around with and take orders from, and they're called managers. If they catch you sitting down they slap you around, slice your digits off, disembowel you, and then piss on your corpse. After that, they take your remains and turn them into the candy on the display shelves.

I'm just lying. Relax.

I just wonder sometimes though. Who has aspirations of becoming a manager at a place like Wal-Mart? It's such a miserable existence - giving your life to a huge company so they can just make more and more money and slowly destroy small family businesses. It's such a dead end job, really. There's no thought in it, even as a manager, and what kind of promotion or movement can you expect at such a place? A transfer to another location? Become store manager? It's so MEANINGLESS!

What should you care what I'm saying, anyway?

* * *

I haven't talked to my dad in quite a while, and if things go right for me, I won't have to talk to him anytime soon until I have to give him some sort of obligatory acknowledgment of his existence on Thanksgiving. Hopefully he won't spring up anywhere around here in the meantime - it's gotten to be quite nice when he isn't at home rambling about his skewed ideals. I can't wait until I get accepted somewhere and I can leave again.

* * *

So what have I been doing with myself outside of work?

Nothing.

All of my friends are at college and the guy who I was recording with keeps blowing me off so I won't ever get to start my guitar tracks on our songs. Since I have this desperate urge to leave the house and nobody to really do it with, I think I'll give Christine a call and see if she wants to do something in the near future. After all, both of us dropped out of the same college and we both live five seconds away from each other.

End of rant.

Hey, that could be the title for a fantasy novel.

* * *

So... now that I've finished all the available alcohol around here, my life has suddenly become less dramatic. HA!

* * *

It's all a dream, dream, dream!

I pulled a knife on Pete.

No, I'm not lying.

I felt threatened by his actions and the sheer way he was able to simply overpower me like I was a child. I wanted it to stop, I didn't want to hurt him, I wanted him to back off and stop pushing me around so I pulled out my pocket knife. But he reacted poorly and used that ridiculous iron grip to lock my wrist at my side and then, and then he didn't even continue. He just gave me this disgusted look and backed away and we didn't look at each other the rest of the night.

Later he told me, "I can't believe you would pull a knife on me..."

Yeah, me neither.

It was just stupid... I don't want to talk about it anymore.

Endless in perfect synchronization, twirling in spirals around in my head.

Why am I scared of people in a room?

Sometimes I want to move out to Utah or something where NOTHING EVER HAPPENS because then there wouldn't be people there to piss me off and I could be happy.

I hate it when people call me and then they bitch out and they're like, "Oh, I'm sorry, wrong number."

Actually, no, that's not true. I don't mind it when that happens.

However, I do mind it when shit like that happens at 1 AM and people call my house phone. Or when one person calls me four times spread over three days. FUCKING PEOPLE LEARN HOW TO FUCKING DIAL THE RIGHT FUCKING NUMBERS ON YOUR FUCKING PHONES.

Three days ago I was in my kitchen. My cell rings and I answer. Here's the conversation. Absolutely ridiculous.

Me: Hello?

Other Person: Hello?

Me: Hello?

OP: Hello?

Me: Hello? Who is this?

OP: Who is this?

YOU SHOULD KNOW WHO I AM! YOU DIALED MY PHONE NUMBER!!!!

I hang up, and then thirty seconds later:

Me: Hello?

OP: Oh, wrong number again, sorry. Click.

Today I saw I had a missed call from 215 624 0489, whoever the hell that is. And I thought to myself, who is this? I don't know this person. What a douchebag. And then I got another call.

Me: Hello?

OP: Oh, wrong number, sorry. Click.

And then THIRTY SECONDS LATER AGAIN!

OP: Wrong number aga-

Me: WILL YOU STOP FUCKING CALLING ME!??!?! CLICK.

* * *

And then, five minutes ago at 1 AM:

Me: Hello?

OP: Ryan?

And I'm thinking to myself, who the hell is this? Why didn't he just call my cell?

Me: Who is this?

OP: Carl Johnson.

I do not know a Carl Johnson. Except from San Andreas. Maybe.

Me: I DON'T KNOW YOU! WHY DID YOU CALL MY HOUSE AT ONE IN THE MORNING?!?

OP: Oh, I'm sorry. Wrong number.

* * *

AHHHHHHH!

I try to make a point to write in this journal whenever I'm drunk. I think that when you're completely out of your mind, you make the most honest comments. Because when you're sober and thinking in rational terms, and still thinking logically, your brain screams at you, "HEY NO! DON'T WRITE THAT! THAT'S EMBARRASSING!"

I say fuck that. When you're not thinking straight you say what's on your mind, you say what you're really feeling, you say what you really, truly, honestly mean. You're truthful and REAL.

So with all that said, I'm drunk at a friend's house. His older brother's friends are all over and talking about having sex, smoking marijuana, and, "Oh, this wine is a bit sharper than THAT wine."

It makes me feel uncomfortable.

...and squeeze it in your hand. Watch the blood seep out of the disconnected arteries and pour all over the floor and you. Watch it as it still struggles to live, to throb feebly in your grasp, trying to stay alive but with no purpose.

Then imagine that the heart you're holding is your own. Imagine that you're holding a broken piece of yourself and the only thing you can do is watch yourself die.

Man, wouldn't that suck?

* * *

Hello and welcome once again. Sorry to be such a downer, but hey, that's just me.

I'm still working on my story, although it's far from being finished. But that's okay. I'll almost be happier if it takes forever, because I can just spend that much more time not worrying about anything.

I can just be free and I won't care and everything will be okay...

...where's the alcohol?

"Man," said Aaron, regarding me with a serious face. "I wish I was loved. I mean, family love, yeah, that's a given. But LOVE love? No, I don't have that."

Peter's lying down in the other room, drunk and nearly passed out, yet he still managed to hear what was just said. "I love you, Aaron. Don't worry about it."

"You don't mean that."

"Yeah, I do."

"Pete, you're drunk. Forget about it."

A moment's silence. Hesitation. And then, "Aaron, I'd take a bullet for you."

"You'd what?"

"I said, 'I'd take a bullet for you.'"

"You can't mean that."

"But I do."

Aaron sat at the counter, sipping from his tall glass of water. If you drink a glass of water after you drink, you won't get a hangover he says. I wonder if he's telling the truth.

"Hey, Pete, but... uh, no offense, I wouldn't take a bullet for you."

"Man, fuck you, Aaron. But I still love you."

* * *

My friends. I love them. I hate them. It doesn't make any sense when I say things like that, does it?

How about if I said: "I wouldn't have anything without them."

Does that make any more sense to you?

It does to me.

Friends will disagree and piss each other off and drive each other to the point of insanity, but in the end, they'll still be friends if they like each other enough. That's the kind of relationship I have with mine.

Sometimes I feel weird calling them that. Sometimes they feel more like very good acquaintances rather than friends. It's because whenever there's a quiet, "bonding" moment, I always shy away and never share my secrets with anyone. I'm always the one who listens. I'm always Ryan, the good listener. Why am I such a good listener? Is it because I don't ever, ever say anything? I'll be honest - I'm very quiet so I don't usually have anything to say to you. But I'll also be brutally honest as well - usually I don't even pay attention, and that's the real reason why I don't have anything to say.

That's a lie.

I really do pay attention, but sometimes I zone out and I can't connect the dots as well as if I had actually been REALLY listening to you.

My friends - to put it simply, I know much more about them than they know about me. And as sad as that sounds, I like things better that way. It's just the way I am. Am I secretive? Yes. Am I awkward and socially withdrawn? Yes.

Do I hate people for the most part?

Yes.

* * *

I feel guilty.

I feel guilty tonight because the alcohol wasn't enough, and I wanted to smoke. I wanted to smoke because even though I felt the alcohol wreaking havoc on my body and making me feel stupid and carefree, I still wasn't feeling it. If anything, I wanted to feel even more stupid. I wanted to be dumb. I wanted to become a fucking vegetable so I wouldn't have to think about the world and how rotten a place it is and how much I hate the people who live here.

Yesterday was eventful. Get ready for a blatant Dane Cook rip off without any of the humor.

Okay, here's what's going to happen. I'm going to write the ending to my day, and then I'm going to Tarantino it and go back to the beginning. So here's how it ended:

"No you don't!" my dad screamed at me through the car window as I threw it into reverse and skidded backwards across the gravel. I heard the dull thunk of his fruit juice bottle colliding with my car door and I think, "Shit, that's probably going to leave one hell of a dent."

So that was the end. Now we're going to rewind this misadventure and see this from the beginning.

I'm driving up the road with my dad sitting shotgun. I was chaffeuring him around because his car is in the garage. We were heading to our next destination after Car Sense. All goes well and dandy at our next stop, the phone store (not for him, the people at the store assured him that his phone was working fine and that there was absolutely nothing wrong with it, contrary to what he argued) until just after we leave. I pull up to the exit of the parking lot and dutifully watch the road for oncoming vehicles. I see an opening and pull out and then I hear-

"WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING!"

-and I panic. I think to myself, "Oh my god, is there somehow an eighteen wheel trailer heading our direction that I missed?" That's seriously what I thought because the frantic manner of my father's voice led me to believe that some horrible fate of epic proportions was about to come crashing down on us and flatten my Civic like a bug. I'll admit, the thought made me uncomfortable and having my dad screaming bloody murder from the passenger seat did nothing to calm my nerves.

My car swerves haphazardly onto the road as I look frantically over my shoulder, trying to see the monster truck about to come crashing into us, but there's nothing. Nothing at all. No cars, no trucks, no buses, and no terrifying eighteen wheel trailers coming our way. The road is clear and I turn at him and say, "Why'd you yell at me?!"

His answer is defensive, snappish, and ultimately unsatisfying.

"You drove over the curb."

"Well sor-fucking-ry," I mutter and he turns to look at me.

"What did you say?" he asks in a horribly quiet voice.

Louder, I say, "Sor-FUCKING-ry. You made me nervous."

I got one hell of an earful for that. I'm sorry dad, it's not like you haven't heard me say the fucking eff word a million times before. It's not like you haven't heard me screaming it at your face and really meaning it.

"I don't get any respect from you or your sister anymore!"

A pity. Go figure. Fuck around on the side, leave home, and expect respect?

No way.

No fucking way, dad.

I continue driving down the road, doing my best to ignore his angry lecturing which is just so much bullshit. I listen to him complain about how nobody respects him anymore and how everyone expects him to always be the one who knows everything. It's all rambling and he's not making any sense. And then, finally:

"Are you listening to me?"

I glance at him, then I look back at the road. Always watch the road when you're driving. Remember that.

"No."

"No?"

He says that like he can't believe what he's just heard. I guess he's not as sharp as I thought he once was. It's probably the ecstacy he's taking that's fucking with his head like that and putting holes in his brain. I can't take it anymore, he's pissing me off too much.

"Why don't you shut up and stop being such a whiny little bitch?"

I've wanted to say those words to him for such a long time. He's such an insecure little prick who thinks he knows everything.

However, rather than shutting him up, he starts to flap his trap even more. I sigh. Mission failed. Won't he shut up?

"Let me out here."

"No."

"I said let me out!"

"No. Stop being such a whiny little bitch and I'll drive you home."

That's what I said. Those exact words. We drive in silence. Sweet, delicious, welcome, refreshing silence.

We drive on, and then he points out a gas station.

"Stop here, I want to get something to drink."

As he's in the convenience store looking for a beverage, or quite possibly preying upon some middle aged women, or maybe even buying some more condoms for god-knows-what, I contemplate leaving him. After all, he wanted to get out of my fucking car ten minutes ago, so why should he be upset if I decide to ditch him at a gas station? It's not like he wouldn't be able to bum a ride off of somebody. It's a freaking gas station.

But I suck it up and wait for him to come out and I drive him back to his office where he's been driving around the company's cargo van.

I pull up into the gravel parking lot.

"I'm leaving you here."

He shoots a sidelong glance at me, trying to measure me up. Maybe he was trying to get me to cry or something, I don't know. Then he gets out of the car and he turns around says to me, "Come inside with me."

I just stare blankly at him, willing him to go away so we can end this thing quietly. I'm waiting to see if he'll calm down or not. If he doesn't, then I know I'm leaving.

More forcefully, "Come inside with me."

Things aren't looking good for him as I remain silent. And then he gets angry. His face gets all serious and he wags his finger at me threateningly. He leans in closer to the car and shouts at me:

"Come inside with me!"

That's it, I'm gone. I waited to see if you could be a big boy and control yourself but evidently you can't. He sees me reach for the shifter.

"No you don't!" my dad screams at me through the car window as I throw myself into reverse and skid backwards across the gravel. I hear the dull thunk of his fruit juice bottle colliding with my car door and I think, "Shit, that's probably going to leave one hell of a dent."

I leave him standing in the parking lot in a cloud of dust, and I don't care at all.

Shit, nothing makes sense - so I won't think about.

I'll go with the ignorance instead.

Yes, that's exactly what I'll do.

* * *

We're walking around the mall, me and friends. John's going on and on about how he's worried about the girls and where the hell they were, and why Brian wasn't with them. Stupid shit like that.

"But you don't understand!" he'd say, passion seeping from every word and motion he made. "Girls just DISAPPEAR down here in Florida. You hear it in the news every single day. You guys just don't understand."

And while he'd be gesturing wildly and desperately trying to convince us to see his twisted point of view on reality, I'd hang back and think violent thoughts and try to keep myself from hurting someone.

"John," I said. My patience was gone. Used up. Dry. Dead. I turned to him and pointed at him, like it would make my words be more significant. "I try to be the coolest motherfucker around here. I really try to be cool. I don't let this shit get to me. But those girls, those freaking girls are the most high-strung crazy bitches I've ever known."

"But I worry about them. I don't want them to be on their own."

"Dude," I shake my head and wish I had a full shot glass in my hand. "They are the most controlling women I have ever met. Do you think they'd take shit from anyone? No!"

"No, fuck that! We're going to find the girls."

Yes, we're going to find the girls in a crowded, tourist-filled mall in Orlando. End of discussion - I lose. One to nothing, John.

* * *

I hate dishonesty. I hate suckups and brown-nosers. I hate insincerity - I hate phonies and fakes and shallow people. I mean, I hate people in general, but out of all people, the people I hate the most are the dishonest ones.

Fucking Cheryl.

"In between dating Dan I only hooked up with two other guys at school. It wasn't that bad."

Oh, Cheryl. You're young, you're sexy, you're curvy, you're attractive, but you're also a psychotic nutjob with a control-freak personality. I don't think your looks could ever compensate for the kind of suffering I know you inflict upon the poor souls who you call your boyfriends.

* * *

Take another drag. Calm yourself. Breathe in and let the smoke clear your worries and relax your body and cleanse your soul. Breathe in and let that tobacco-saturated, grainy, polluted smoke destroy your dying asthmatic lungs, but make sure to pretend to enjoy the glorious taste of your three dollar Swisher Sweets.

Try to take the time to enjoy the last of your Hynotiq-mixed Corona and vow to yourself that you'll never drink again. Never ever ever, as long as you live.

God forbid that you ever violate the promises you make to yourself. You're going straight to hell.

Take a breath. Waltz into the living room and put a smile on your face. Make sure to joke with everyone, even the ones who piss you off. Carly. Brian. Cheryl. Peter.

My friends, the only people in this sad little miserable fucked up world. The only people who I can ever hang out with and feel normal with.

The people who I associate myself with so other people think I'm cool.

The people who piss me off and make me feel violent.

I've said it before and I'll say it again - they're good people. And maybe there's more truth to that than I like to believe. Maybe they're the good people and I'm the bad person, but thinking that makes me feel depressed so I'll think otherwise.

Shit, nothing makes sense. So I won't think about it - I'll go with the ignorance.