Conflicted
I punched my reflection in the mirror, knuckles bleeding. I could barely look at myself. How ugly can a person be? Then I had to push it aside. "No," I whispered, "it's not my fault. It's my parents. They had me. I look like them. I hate them." They're beautiful. "I hate them."
When I'm stressed, I tend to eat. I feel fat and ugly pigging out on whatever we have stored in the house. My parents aren't home, so I snuck out onto the roof, baggie of pot in hand. My friends and I usually smoked it together, but it kept the urge of consuming everything away. I could barely tolerate myself. My eyes shifted down to the grassy floor beneath me, hundreds of feet down. I could do it, if I wanted to. But I didn't. Because I like the way food tastes. And I like the way weed smells.
I don't have much money to buy anymore pot by the end of the day. I'm stoned and pissed. Not a good combo. Angrily, I storm towards the CVS closest to my house for work. I was still surprised that they wanted to hire me considering my track record. Not like it matters; when I'm sober, I put my mind to things. I'm better than this. Working at a register and putting packs of candy back in their assigned spots was beneath me. So I don't stay at work long. I clock out when I see that we don't have many customers. Pretend to call sick. Eye the money in the register. The cameras here don't work; they're just used to scare people off. So I take it and leave.
There's this girl I like who I've smoked with before. I text her, I head over to her place. The hookup doesn't last as long as I want it to. She said that she's exhausted from work, which I can agree with. We lay side-by-side, the smell of her sex ghosting the air along with the hotbox. I can't think of much else except for laying beside her nude form and closing my eyes for awhile.
©SelfTitled, 2017
Selfie
I have a zeal for classic deception. The wants of man always heads to same direction. A little tickle or stretch in time, can deliver what saints deny. I did not wear mini skirt, or look at another in the eyes. My slow whisper of incriminating thoughts, makes humanity wish for more.
They all have a mighty conscience. An inner alarm that beats my spell. A little pressure, here and there. The streams of passion eats the bell. I'm not the lady who stinks like hell. Holding the staff laced with skulls. Blazing fire in my eyes. Canker-worms drew from my mouth. That's is fiction. An opaque reality.
Deceptions are like chocolate candies, all taste so sweet and promising. A chocolate candy can have different colors, red, blue, orange and so on. People are all bound with tastes. Some prefer blue, others red. The taste of the candy is all the same. The simple difference is attraction. A boy may be into blondes, while another like ebony girls. They end up on a steep bed. The flux of passion as declared. All have the same consequence. She might be a talkative. You prefer a quiet girl. All are candies.
This I call classic deception.
No man can survive on his own. You need another for his gold. Temptation cannot be avoided. In a flick of a moment. You're alone, jobless. Those thoughts I administer, make wave to the surface of your mind. Before you say, "Curtis Jackson"
you are deep in the pit of oblivion.
I have not always been these cruel to man. My first and only love, the creator of all things we see and observe, divorced me, and sent me packing with half his wealth. He took life, and I took death. He cheated me, yes he did. Only extramarital affair according to his rules, should split a pair. But he let me go, quick, with my belongings.
What did I do that hurt him so? Banishing me, from heavens mighty fold. I asked him just one single question. A request a loving husband should behold. I asked him for a joint account. Let I, Lucifer the love of your life be the second signatory to your will. You and I, would be the board of directors of these great civilization. All you have to do is approve this bill of gender equality. That way, we would have equal rights over all matters in the universe.
You should know men with politics. They prefer women as a commodity. Use and dump when ever they please. Every moment I cry lake of fire, hoping my love would one day have mercy on me. My voice was not loud enough, so I went into the heart of men. Convincing them to join my protest. So many Hashtag the campaign and tweeted to hell. With Instagram desire and snap chat temptation, the Christlike Facebook followers are my best friends.
Moreover, It as been said that, I'm not omnipotent. That is, I cannot be at different places at the same time. Obviously, I have minions. As a fallen queen, my title comes with some benefits. I don't mean flashy cars, castle, gold shoes, diamond earrings. That my dear, is all part of my brand. I have demons who specify in different categories. In my organization, just like many other company around the world, we have hierarchy.
This rankings are based on the ten commandment God gave Moses on Mount Sinai. My primary goal is to frustrate heaven as much as I can. To make my beloved husband beg for my forgiveness.
Lucifer Morning-star (my organizations name) is divided into three. The stealing department, Killing department and my favorite, the destroying department. To explain how they all work, I will use a simple example. Say we have a man. This man from a tender age gave his life to Christ. The stealing department primary objective is to make sure that man rely on petty crimes. "Pilfering" as dictionary calls it. One good example is small time gambling or betting. These demons will make all the wells of blessings connected to this man unavailable. They try to stall the angels on the way to deliver such blessings, by talking about those days when they were angels of God. Cracking old jokes and so on. The unfortunate man would be tempted to bet or gamble his tithe or offering. Since those lovely demons would have made the odds of winning enticing. After, when the progress of this department seems fruitful. Things go as they are planned. His file is emailed to the killing department.
Wait, did I tell you every man alive as a file in my organization. Here at Lucifer morning-star we have detailed profile of everything a man does. From his great great grandfather to his unborn generations.
At the killing department, the wells of blessings of that man is poisoned with low self esteem. He begins to stop going to church, he stops believing in God. When that happens, his file is emailed to the destroying department. There the wells of blessings are destroyed. Oh! I love that word. He's marked for hell and marketed to the public as hell candidate. There are more intricate explanation as to how my organization works. For more about Lucifer Morning-star please like my incriminating thoughts and always ask for more. We are in your mind to help.
In conclusion, people are fund of saying, the devil cannot pray to God. Why would I pray to someone, when I know where he's. If I need anything from him, I will go and ask him face to face. They are only jealous that I have a better audience with him than they do.
The opposite of failing
Another one in the mail today. “Thank you for your interest in our stupid magazine. We read your material carefully, but decided it is not what we are looking for right now. Best of luck elsewhere, wanker”
At one point, he had started to collect rejection letters from possible employers, editors, publishing houses, production companies and magazines. The letters had really piled up over the years, and he simply couldn´t throw them away. Each one was significant, a testament of an era, marking a closure for a particular dream. Each one of them had built his character, and made him slightly more bullet-proof.
You simply tell yourself there´s a million reasons why that person rejected me. Maybe they hadn´t had their breakfast, or were going through divorce, or suffering from hemorrhoids. Is that self-delusion or self-esteem, hard to say? But over time, you build up courage to try again.
Once you have dealt with the shame and self-doubt, “what was I thinking, they have real writers”, you move on and decide you don´t suck. The more rejection you get, the less it stings. And one day, your blood pressure will not budge a single digit upon reading. It´s a shame really, he missed the thrill he used to get. In fact, what´s the point of this, if you don´t even feel it anymore.
Oh, another one just popped in his email. The editor of something saying, “thank you for giving us a chance to read blah blah”, and continuing saying something about “payment”, and “working over the details over the phone”…wait, what?
He put on his glasses and read again, from the beginning. This one was different alright. He couldn´t work it out. It seemed that this publishing house wanted to, not just to publish his story in a collection, but also pay for it. This did not compute? That´s like being invited to a party, and be paid for attendance. Why didn´t it say anything about this “not being a good fit for us”, or apologizing for “not being able to give more detailed feedback”?
He checked his calendar, and double-checked this was not opposites-day. It was not the 1st of April either, the sender was not asking for his credit card number, and the email address seemed valid.
This feeling he was having, was something else. What was this? There are a million courses, books, and support groups that help you deal with disappointment, but not a single one to help you with accomplishment. What to do, when the proverbial balloon doesn´t pop, and there is no sad trombone for soundtrack? High five someone? Yell out “Yoo hoo” while shooting two pistols recklessly in the air? Open a bottle of champagne only to spray most of the content on the ground? He didn´t know, and it felt amazing. It seemed he had a lot to learn after all.