One of my favorite new jams
Jimmy and Leslie
That was it. The suitcases were packed. The cardboard boxes were stuffed with Styrofoam and sealed with red tape. The posters that we had bought and framed together over the years were removed from the walls and were veiled with elastic moving wrap. Leslie asked for the Lost in Translation poster when we first started to take them down. I was reluctant at first because it was my favorite and glancing at the impassive Bill Murray in his Japanese robe always gave me a deep sense of comfort (it was something about his eyes and how they embodied the thought, “life is confusing, but let’s just be hopeful that things are all going to turn out fine in the end”), but I gave it to her anyways because considering she had promptly and relentlessly asked me for it, I thought that possibly she had a more dramatic attachment to the poster than I did. It was her favorite movie too anyways – or I think it was. Out of pity she let me have the other four because she felt badly about taking it, but I couldn’t have gave less of a shit about any of them. I planned to get wasted at my new apartment, shit all over them, and then smear the word “F-U-C-K”, one letter per poster.
Leslie was doing something in the bathroom. It seemed as if she was trying to figure out what was going on with her period or something because she kept complaining about how that area was hurting all day. It made her twenty times more irritable and made this whole process forty times harder for me to deal with. She had been inside for five minutes. I was counting the seconds.
The moment she would come out, having finished washing herself or sticking a tampon deep inside (the thought made me cringe – I had always hated the stiff texture of tampons ever since I was young), would be the end of our lives as Jimmy and Leslie. She would say something like, “What the fuck are you doing staring at me like that, you dipshit?” or “Are you going to help me or what?” and walk downstairs to greet her new, enigmatic lover. He would walk up the stairs with deliberately loud, overbearing footsteps to exert his virility and to impart to me that he was in fact following her up the stairs. I would see his stocky head rising up into my sight followed by his thick neck and broad shoulders. I would look down on him because of his cliché Urban Outfitters t-shirt and would morosely question how Leslie could have cheated on me with this douche bag. I would think about specific qualities about myself that I know would make me better than him:
1. I am talented in photography – he probably isn’t talented in anything besides being good looking
2. Her parents love me
3. I am responsible
4. I am great with cats
5. I’m family friends with Fred Armisen
6. I have a prescription for Xanax
7. My parents are rich
He would look at me in the eyes, and I would look back into his eyes as if we were figuring out each other’s pasts and determining each other’s futures. I would then submit to his domineering presence and unassertively ask him if they wanted any of my help. He would then say, “Nah bro,” or “Don’t worry about it bro,” or “Bro, bro, bro, bro, bro, bro, bro, bro, bro, bro, bro, bro, bro, bro, bro, bro, bro, bro.” I would tighten my butt muscles to subdue my desire to clothespin every inch of his body and engulf him in flames.
I was losing time. I could feel our lives separating. I could feel our past speedily incinerating by the second. (I would store its ashes in an urn in my new apartment).
As I stared at our taped up boxes stacked upon one another, I thought of what was inside of them: Leslie’s expensive vintage clothing, her mother’s beloved lamp from 1973, her book collection, my photography equipment, her computer, her jewelry, my shoes - our entire lives were stored in those tattered, taped up boxes. Our belongings were what had physically united us in the same space. Our belongings were what had made this house ours. Without our belongings, this apartment would have just been space. Empty space. We would have had no reason to return to this empty space because it would have meant nothing to us. Without her vintage clothing or her mother’s lamp, Leslie would have had no reason to return to this space we called our own after work everyday. Her belongings had bound her to this space. My belongings had bound me to this space. Seeing as though our belongings were still together, touching, in the same vicinity, in this space we had called our own, we were bound together by this supernatural force of possession. As long as our things were together, we would be together.
I leaned my ear against the door. I could still hear water. I still had time to do something. I felt like I fully understood the supernatural force of possession. I could manipulate it however I wanted.
I ran over to the boxes. With tense hands, I tore the boxes to shreds. I found her clothing. I ripped the clothing with my teeth. I scattered them across the room. I stepped on them. I found her mother’s glass lamp. I threw it across the room. It shattered against the Lost in Translation poster. I found my photography equipment and crushed all of it with the heels of my shoes. I was doing it. I could feel our lives coming together again. I felt closer to her than I had ever felt. I wanted to shout in excitement. I wanted to roll around in the shattered glass and touch myself all over. I started to dance like I had danced in the 5th grade in my tap dance classes. “Jazz hands up and down! Feet side to side!” I wanted to cry, “Hey Leslie! I did it. We don’t have to worry anymore. I fixed everything. Please come out and let’s be happy together again. Things are coming together again. Things are coming back together again.”
@2 months ago with 2 notes
The Stiff Couch
A few minutes ago, I stepped onto the deck of the house.
From there I could see and hear children playing with wooden swords.
It reminded me of my youth.
I felt tired and my mouth was dry.
A beam of sunlight shone brightly on the children.
I imagined the sunlight burning the children.
They would fry and burn.
People would look at them burning and not take notice of them,
Because it’s normal for things like that to happen in this town.
As I sat down on my coffee-stained sofa,
It felt 3x stiffer than it had ever felt.
No one can blame me that I turned and went inside.
The burnt children ceased to exist.
I could only see a half -eaten piece of toast.
I sat down on my cozy, red bed.
I ran my hand across the blanket as I imagined that I was dividing the Red Sea.
I feel slightly satisfied.
Content.
Before long, before anyone realizes, I’ll be a new man.
@3 months agoi’m here
i’m listening to blink 182
fuck it all
my life is over
i just want to die listening to this song
but it’s adam’s song not my song
im depressed
@6 months agocl@nk
“Save me from regret” I murmured to myself as I stared down at my shoes trying to get the metal tips of my shoelaces to clash and make a clank. I was on the way to Union Square, but I didn’t quite have a specific reason to go there. ”I’ve really lost my purpose” I thought as I was frustrated with my futile attempts in making that lovely sound with my shoes. I was angry and sad and I was really beginning to feel like I was experiencing the introductory signs of becoming a true nihilist. “My shoelaces are fucking depressing me” I thought as I breathed the repulsive miasma of shit ‘Halal food’ and ‘New York style nuts’. I didn’t care anymore whether I made it to Union Square or if I just gave up to lie down in the middle of Broadway and let the pedestrians crush my insignificant body down to hell. I didn’t care anymore, I just wanted to hear the most gratifying noise of the tips of my shoelaces clanking up against each other and if I didn’t, well then hey, what’s the point of living anyway?
@6 months ago with 2 notes
[Flash 9 is required to listen to audio.]
sum shitty cover i did a while ago of summertime by girls
