She wanted to meet

at the restaurant

we went to

on our first

date.

I knew what it was,

of course.

After 3 years together

she had packed

all of her

things

and went to her

mother's

two days ago

and hadn't spoke

to me since.

Well,

besides today,

that is.

It was a guy

from her job

at the bank.

He had "ambition"

she kept telling

me.

I sat on the edge

of the bed

and stared at the

bright red

numbers

on the clock.

4:42

I had to be there

at 5:30.

I smoked a bowl,

put on my

jacket

and headed out

the door.

It was a brisk

fall

evening.

Sun still up for

the moment.

I was on foot;

the car broke down

and I was out of

steady work.

It didn't matter

though.

It wasn't far and

the cool air

was invigorating.

October was great

in the country.

My favorite

month.

All the trees

were painted

with exquisite shades

of different

colors

and the air felt

refreshing and

clean.

I lit a cigarette

as I made my way

around the first

bend.

I watched as

the smoke

whirled

wildly

in the wind

as black birds

scattered in

masses

from the waving

tree tops.

I snapped out of it

as I passed the

park

entering

town square.

The children were

laughing

and running.

They had no

idea of the

shit-storm

they were

entering.

It's all a joke.

I soon came upon

the front of

the restaurant.

My life was about

to change

dramatically.

The birds

would continue

to fly,

the leaves

would continue

to change,

the mail

would continue

to run,

and the cats

would continue

to kill the

mice.

The sun was setting;

showing off brilliant

shades of orange

and pink

as I put out my

cigarette.

I stared at those

glowing colors

for a moment

out there

on that

silent horizon,

sighed,

and reached

for the

door.

After all these

years

of staying clean

and only smoking

grass,

waking up and

struggling

through reality

sober

is something

that still eats away

at my insides,

gnawing

at my brain.

I feel like I'm under the

influence

of some much worse,

much more

harsh

drug.

It feels concrete

and hopeless

and like everyone

else.

I can't stand it.

I am content with

a little grass

but if I don't have that

I will take anything to

fill that

void

inside me.

Being sober

is hell.

The most boring

and tiring

way to experience

reality.

It is truly

awful.

But

I'm under

the influence

at the moment.

Slightly.

Enough to ease that

monster inside

me.

All is well

until the time

comes

when I have nothing

to escape with.

No nourishment

for my hunger.

When I will retreat

into my dark room

to have my soul

slowly

sucked from my

body

in the most uncomfortable

way possible

and reality will burn into my eyes

and mind

and spirit

and it will be too much to fucking

bear.

Death seems like

a great feast

to a man

dying of

starvation,

like air to the

burning lungs

of the diver.

But I feel

in my bones

if I were to kill myself

I would come back into this

hell over and over.

So, I ponder of my

current age,

28,

and think,

"You're reaching the

halfway point, man!"

"Don't give up!"

"Don't be a bitch!"

"Stick it out

till the end."

And go

naturally

into that

next place

that I hope

is much more

tolerable

than this

one.

I'm so fucking tired

of driving this

interstate.

Two parallel lines

forever slapped

next to one

another

with nothing to see

the entire way

but a bunch of

dirty metal boxes

of varying shapes,

sizes, and

colors

rolling on

puny little

wheels, carrying

ugly faces

and speed-riddled

truckers.

The radio overplays

the same

tired,

mindless

shit

over and over

and over.

This garbage will

crawl into

your

brain.

If I hear Taylor Swift

one more time

I'll run this

metal box

I'm traveling in

over the next bridge

and I'm definitely

taking a few of

you brainwashed

fuckers with

me when I

do.

Jesus,

I'm losing my

mind

out here.

Cali to

Tennessee,

3 full days

on this barren

stretch of

not a fucking

thing.

I've been

presented with

the 'finger'

twice already

and it's not

even lunch.

I don't mind

though.

I take a shot of

Jim

for every

finger

I get.

I keep a

handle

under my

seat.

I wish I could just

fly this car over

everything.

Get there in a

fraction of

the time.

Just a few more

stops for gas

and it'll

all be

over.

Speaking of,

I needed to find

fuel quickly.

I was on dead 'E'

and it was 4 miles

to the next exit.

Then,

as if it all

weren't enough

already,

I ran out of gas.

I let it slowly

coast to a

stop on the

shoulder,

switched on

the hazard lights,

and looked ahead at the

endless,

heartless

highway.

You could see

the clear waves

of heat

rising

from the sun

pounded

asphalt

making the road

ahead

blur into

the horizon.

I laid my forehead

on the

steering wheel

and sighed.

When I opened the door

the sweltering,

humid air

took my

breath.

I stepped out

into the sun.

Cars and

semis

zipped past me

in a flash,

covering me with

dust and

debris.

I stared at the

dirty heap of

steel for a

moment

then climbed back

inside and

rolled down the

windows.

I'd walk to the

next exit

for gas

a little later.

Besides, it wasn't

going anywhere;

No more than

I was.

Just a little

setback

out here

on the open

road.

I kicked back,

threw my left foot

on the dash,

and reached

down for the

whiskey.

Nas was

blaring

through the

speakers.

A misty night in

Nashville

blanketed in a

greenish hue.

Jaron and I sang

and laughed as we

drove back to

the apartment.

It had been his

birthday bash

at our favorite

bar.

A vodka night

and lots of it.

Three more turns

and we would

stretch

our impeccable

evening

into morning.

I don't recall

why it was,

exactly,

that I was driving

so fast

but it felt like

a superb idea at

the time.

So I did.

I slid around the first

corner

like a seasoned

stunt man.

Flawless.

Jaron cheered

manically!

I threw it into the second

corner

HARD.

My back tires

left the road

and thrust us

into a large

embankment

and into a lonely

yet,

incredibly sturdy

light pole.

The force of the

impact

knocked us out

cold.

When I awoke

Jaron was still

out.

The car was

steaming,

windshield shattered

It looked as if a great

silver web

was cast over

it.

The car carried the smell

of burnt oil and

hot steel.

I shook him

gently.

"J, wake up."

He was bleeding from

cuts on his head.

"Come on, J!"

I shook him

again.

"ughh..mmbuh."

He was making noise!

He was ALIVE!

About that time

those sickening

blue lights

danced off the

crumbled glass

illuminating

the inside of the car.

"Well, here they are."

I sighed.

They took me to

the police car

and Jaron

to the ambulance.

I could see him

through the

window.

When he

finally noticed me,

his bloody face

laughed

and he gave me the

finger.

I must have

smiled

all the way

to

jail.

It suddenly occurred to me that observing my roommate's behavior was exactly as I'd expect primate observation to be.

He has no real mechanical skills to speak of. It's as if his fingers are large, fixed objects without dexterity that are just shoved into objects he wishes to manipulate. The subject has a very careless, harsh, somewhat caveman-like way of handling objects.

Most of what he touches ends up damaged and what he works on poorly done.

The subject also displays some type of constant intestinal disorder that causes him to have chronic diarrhea and gas. He uses the facilities without shame. No running water, air vent, or post-doo doo spray. Therefore, you hear and smell every intimate deposit. He farts, out loud, roughly every 20 mins whether it be mid-sentence during conversation or in a room full of guests. There is no holding it in for a more appropriate time and/or place. That would take a bit of work, class, and consideration for others. None of which are the subject's strong suits. The gas gets forcefully pushed out as soon as the feeling arises.

It's as simple as that.

Every morning he goes outside for a morning cigarette and blows a "snot rocket" from each nostril, right to left, and wipes his nose with his bare hand before rubbing it on whatever clothing he happens to have thrown on in his barely waking state.

I will keep studying the subject in his natural habitat and report back with any new developments.