Am I Here?(In This Room)

                                                              Devilock 1

 
                    "Mental pain is less dramatic than physical pain, but it is
                      more common and also more hard to bear."
                                                             - C. S. Lewis


Everything about the room was basically the same compared to my two previous 51/50's: two beds for two patients, two beside tables with two drawers for cloths, and a window. The only difference this time was my roommate and I had our own bathroom with a shower. The one thing I hated most about the mental hospital was there were no locks on the bathroom doors, because I later walked in on my roommate right after he had gotten out of the shower, and I got myself a perfect view of his hairy fat ass. I mean, I understand that there can't be locked doors for us mental patients to be behind, other than the doors which keep us from leaving the building, but, shit, I saw the man's ass. It ain't that hard for the orderlies to carry keys for the bathroom door. The only way a suicide-case could kill themselves in those particular bathrooms was to drown themselves in the toilet. And I've never heard of anyone committing suicide by shoving their head in a toilet bowl.
     There was also something else different about the room. Not what was inside, but the fact that on this third 51/50 I was on the third floor, and the view outside was actually decent. The first two times in the hospital my room was in a one-story building with view outside the window being nothing more than green leaves from a large bush behind a chainlink fence. This time I could see blue sky with meek looking clouds sprawled all around on a sunny day. But that was only half of it, literally. The lower half was the top of the building next door made of brown brick.
     The first morning of my third 51/50 I sat on my bed staring at this view thinking how comparable, yet opposite, the image before me was to the infamous phrase: Glass half full, half empty.
     I remember thinking, Half blue sky, half brick wall. What's good is on top. What's bad is on bottom.
     My roommate was behind me in his half of the room, pacing back and forth around his bed, stomping his feet on the hardwood floor with each step. Every once in a while he'd raise his forearms in front of his face in a kind of defensive manner. He mumbled things, but I couldn't understand a word he was saying. I felt bad for him, and I also felt bad for those who would never try to empathize with him -- if they ever could, that is. I definitely could, because I was as bad as him the two previous times, but at least, other people could understand the words I was saying.
     I stared at the decent view outside, remembering everything which led me to that room -- every detail of each day, every second of each hour -- but I forgot the most important thing of all: how great it felt to be alive.
     What got me in that room on that particular occasion was simple: I attempted suicide and failed. The person who saved me simply wanted a residence to smoke weed at instead of in a public place. My best friend, Mario, called me to make sure I was home alone because he wanted to get high and watch a movie with me.
     "Yeah, okay," I said, "but I don't think I'll be conscious to answer the door when you knock on it. If I no longer can walk by the time you arrive I want to apologize to you now. You'll have to find a good hidden spot to park your car and smoke a blunt in the hope no Pig will smell you."
     There was a long pause that must've lasted almost two minutes. I could tell he was high already.
     "What?" he uttered finally in the receiver.
     "Look, man," I began to explain, "I swallowed a bunch of pills with the intent to overdose and die. So if I can't answer the fucking door by the time you get here, you'll have to find somewhere else to get high. Is that registering in your brain, Mario?"
     "Olavi, you did what?!" he yelled into his cell phone, causing static on my end.
     For a second I thought my hearing was going bad, and wondered if that was the first to go before the body began shutting down.
     "I'm already on my way," Mario said, breathing heavily. "Stop swallowing pills. Unlock your front door. We're going to the hospital soon as I get there."
     "Okay," I said, then hung up.
     I walked to the front door, unlocked it as my friend commanded. I then stood still, looking out the living room window, waiting for Mario's arrival like an obedient dog waits for the master of the house.
     I don't really remember the moment I decided I was going to kill myself. People would say I decided when I began swallowing a pill one at a time that very morning, not stopping until pill number twenty-five, because the bottle was empty, but that would not be the actual truth. I believe I made the decision way before I was truly happy, back when I was a teenager, way before I was officially diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder.
     In my younger years I always seemed unhappy, always would stress and worry about things with no reasonable justification in doing so. What brought joy to others seemed to be a weight on my shoulders, holding me down emotionally, and spiritually. Sometimes I'd be alone in my bedroom crying, hoping I wouldn't wake up the next morning. Dreams were my safe-space -- mental disorder seemed not to effect me in dreams, even if it were a nightmare.
     Even after recovering from my suicide attempt, it took me years to realize, and accept, I didn't have to live behind bars to be in a prison. This is what most people don't understand about manic depression: on a beautiful spring day the sun burned, the wind stabbed, and when I looked down, all I could see was dirt.
     To be honest, in my experience with being Bipolar, being depressed wasn't the worst part of it. Yeah, I eventually tried to kill myself when I was at the lowest in the spectrum of Bipolar emotions, but it was when I was on the highest end, the manic experiences which had me at my most self-destructive. When a cokehead aims a loaded gun right at you, and you laugh at the idiot, you got problems you definitely need to rectify.
     Anyways. Mario's car pulled up on the curb in front of my house. Before he could make his way to the door I was already outside, locking the front door.
     "What are you doing, man?" he said, raising his hands over his head. "You fuckin' with me, or what?"
     "No," I replied, turning away from the door, put my keys inside my pocket, and started walking to the car. "I'm starting to feel like my head got an elephant sitting on it."
     "How many pills you fucking take, Olavi?"
     "Twenty-five." I went to open the door, but it was locked. "I ran out." I pulled the car door's lever again to no avail. "You gonna unlock the fucking door, man. If I pass out, you're gonna have to carry my fat ass."
     Mario sat back in his car and unlocked the passenger door for me. I sat in the carseat, noticing my butt seemed heavier. I pondered if slow death felt like being pulled into the ground, maybe into Hell, even though there wasn't such a place.
     "Why is your engine off?" I asked.
     "Cause I thought you were fucking making a cruel joke," Mario said. "I mean, you of all people killing yourself. I wouldn't have ever fathomed such a thing. Why? Why the fuck you doing this?" He  was shocked, angry, and didn't seem to believe what was happening.
     "Just drive me to the emergency room. Third times a fucking charm."
     He started the car and took off, tires screeching through the streets of my neighborhood. If we weren't pulled over by the cops, it would be a miracle.
     "What happened to your hair?" He asked. He must have wanted to keep me awake and talking.
     "I cut off my devilock so my parents would maybe put it in a picture frame, cause I want to be cremated."
     "What's wrong with you, man?" he asked, shaking his head and staring down the road.
     I began crying, and said, "I just felt ashamed."
     "Ashamed of what?......"

Am I Here?(Oh, Lovely)

                 

                               "My story is of such marvel that if it were written with a needle
                                on the corner of an eye, it would yet serve as a lesson to those
                                who seek wisdom."
                                                                   - One Thousand and One Nights


It had been almost seven hours since my last cigarette when I finally lit one in the back patio of the bar. The longest timespan I had gone without one during the day was eight hours, and that was when I was eating marijuana cookies on a regular basis, and I'd forget the fact I was a smoker eager for a routine nicotine hit.
     She aloud me to do this after we got our drinks at the bar -- more like encouraged me to do so after noticing I was a bit on edge and fidgety during our conversation. The thing was I didn't want to have a cigarette while we were hanging out, because she was a non-smoker, and on top of that, a workout freak -- the complete opposite of me. Though I knew there was really no chance of us ever seeing each other after that day, I still held onto the hope that maybe -- even if it truly was an imaginary daydream -- she'd want to keep in contact, and see me again. Even though I've matured over the years, I still believe in attaining the impossible: the true love I want the most. I honestly prefer it over the winning lottery ticket. But such an idea was thwarted when she asked me what was wrong.
     I didn't want to lie to her, so I admitted: "I haven't had a cigarette since this morning."
     I remember thinking that if she suggested I go out to the patio and light up while she sat inside at the bar by herself, I wouldn't have moved from the barstool, not even if she insisted to the fullest extent. There was no way in Hell I was leaving her side in the short timespan we had left being in each other's company; I aimed to take up every second that was left, before we made our separate ways -- most likely for good as I already said.
     Then, like being struck by lightening, she said, "Let's go out to the patio. There's tables and chairs we can sit at."
     "You don't mind me smoking?" I asked.
     "No," she replied, getting of the barstool, and making her way to the entrance leading to the patio. "I prefer being outside when I drink beer, anyway. Just don't blow the smoke in my face."
     So there we were, sitting in the back patio section of the bar, our beers on the table, and me enjoying a natural tobacco cigarette. Old school rock 'n roll played on the speakers bolted to the walls, as well as a flatscreen television with no sound tuned to some sports event. A familiar scene I had not been in for quite some time.
     "Do you feel better now?" she inquired.
     I took a nice, long drag, inhaled the mouthful of smoke in one big breath, leaned my head back, then blew it from my lungs with the feeling of ultimate relief.
     "Never mind," she said. "You've just answered the question." She took a sip of her beer.
     "You know," I began to say, "non-smokers will never truly understand what we smokers go through on a daily basis, especially in this era where the only hip thing to do is try to live long enough to see the next century."
     "I had a cigarette once," she admitted.
     "Really?" I was a bit shocked; she didn't seem the type to even consider experimenting with unhealthy substances.
     She nodded. "Yep. When I was in college."
     "How did that go for you? Let me guess, you threw up after one drag."
     "How'd you know?" she asked, genuinely surprised.
     "I usually can tell, because a girl your size, who most likely was drunk at the time, will barf right after the smoke passes the throat. So, you ever try cocaine?"
     "No," she said. "That was never appealing to me. You?"
     I leaned my head up in thought. "Hmm, once, twice, ten times maybe." I looked at her, grinning. "You could say I learned the hard way it was appealing."
     Before taking another sip of her beer, she asked, "You ever think about quitting cigarettes?"
     "Living in a state mostly run by hippies I'm asked that question every other week. I usually ignore the question, but I'll tell you there are three types of tobacco smokers: one loves it, but always says to people they want to quit; the second eventually quits -- hopefully before it's too late; the third hates the question you just asked."
     "Which one are you?" She had this grin on her face that put a spell on me, and I loved the feeling it had on my spirit; I wanted to tell the truth.
     "I'd say two out of the three," I said.
     "Which two?" she asked.
     "Um, the first and third, I guess."
     "So you love to smoke tobacco, tell people you'll quit, and hate when asked if you'll ever quit."
     "Correct," I affirmed, exhaling smoke. "Maybe we shouldn't get into a discussion of lifestyle choices. It --"
     "No, no," she interrupted, "I mean no disrespect. I'm just trying to get to know you better."
     "Okay, okay," I said. "No restrictions, continue on ahead."
     "I'm genuinely curious to know what it would take to get you to stop smoking cigarettes," she said, her head tilting to the side a little.
     I found her looking cute, causing me to have no desire to speak lies, or half-truths. As if being controlled by a puppet master, I put up three fingers.
     "It would take three things, I guess."
     "What would they be?" she inquired.
     I sat silent for a moment, taking the final puffs of the cigarette before dubbing it out in the ashtray on the table.
     I said, "Love. Raising a child. And maybe a cancer scare, or getting cancer."
     She nodded her head slightly, then finished her beer.
     "Hopefully only two out of three," she said. "Love, and having a child."
     "I prefer the former over the latter," I admitted. "The stress of raising a kid for eighteen years might make me relapse." I chuckled at my own comment, then took a bug gulp of my beer.
     "What kind of a name is Olavi?" she asked. "I've never heard the name before."
     "It's Finnish," I informed. "It's my father's middle-name, as well as my grandfather's, his brother, and my great-grandfather before them. Obviously it was passed down to me, but instead of it being my middle, it's my first."
     "What's your middle-name then?" she asked.
     "I, uh, actually don't have one."
     "That's kind of unusual," she said, making this facial expression where she raised her eyebrows, and one side of her lips.
     I smiled at the site of the look she gave me. It had been three years since I had a really good conversation like this with a woman -- a real woman, I'd like to add, not some numbskull eager to itch her crotch with a man's dick, or stupefied by drug use. Being with this particular lady was the ultimate relief, comparable to a cold shower after working a double-shift at a steel factory. I honestly wouldn't know such a feeling, because I've never worked that hard.
     "Actually," I began to say, "one of my closest friends doesn't have a middle-name either. You see, he's Mexican, and I think it's a Latino cultural thing to not give their kids middle-names, because it was my mother's decision to just give me a first and last only, not my father's. My father agreed cause he thought it was cool, and the fact I'm first-generation Finnish-American."
     "So your mother got the idea from your friend's parents," she stated. "That's how you two are such good friends, eh. Both your parents were good friends before you two were even born."
     "No," I corrected. "I've known Mario since the third grade. I'm thinking it's a Latino thing because my mother's Mexican. Well, point in fact, Mexican-American. She was born in San Francisco. My father was born in Finland. He came to America when he was thirteen years old."
     "Whoa," she uttered. "Usually it's the other way around."
     "Yep, that's usually the stereotype people assume when I tell them that about my heritage. Even when I tell Latinos I'm half-mexican, they ask when my mother hopped the border." I couldn't help but giggle when I finished the sentence, saying, "Mario hates it when I remind him of that fact. I mean, not everyone makes such an assumption, but it's most people who do."
     "I couldn't even tell you were half-mexican," she confessed in a tone which contained a slight hint of guilt.
     "No one can, really," I said. "With us mixed race people it's a flip of the coin -- or, as some others would say, a roll of the dice -- on whether we're born pale, or with darker skin. I got brown eyes, pale skin. I actually have a cousin who's Mexican-Irish, skin a shade darker than most of the Latinos I know, and has blue eyes. Both his parents have brown eyes. Did you know the chance of my cousin getting blue eyes is only like six percent. It kind of makes me hopeful in a way. No matter how small the possibilities of a certain outcome, doesn't mean it can't happen."
     "Interesting," she said, smiling. "I mean, that's cool."
     "Thanks," I said, raising my glass. "To the great melting pot that is the United States." I then began to finish my beer.
     She leaned back in the chair, staring at me as I poured the beer down my throat. I expected, at most, to be with her no more than maybe thirty minutes before she decided to part ways with me. We had come to the point where anything could have happened, positive or negative. I leaned toward the negative, because I no longer believed my personal desire could be achieved at that point in my life, since my heart was broken three years earlier, leaving me alone in a dark place, and feeling as if stuck at the center of a black whole in space, remembering I was once a bright star surrounded by lifeforms I failed to keep alive due to my self-destructive behavior.
     I breathed a sigh of relief after finishing my beer, admitting to myself that merely being in that place was a first step back into the light out of the void.
     "You know," she began to say, "originally I decided on not meeting up with you when you e-mailed me you were coming to town."
     "Oh," I uttered.
     This was it, I thought. She's about to leave.
     At least it was better to hang out with someone you admired for a short while than to have never met them at all.
     A little hesitantly I asked her, "What made you change your mind?"
     She crossed her arms, grinning. I loved that grin, the way she lifted one eyebrow, and how her biceps flexed by the simple motion of crossing her arms over her chest. The mere sight of it made my dark, dormant soul light up like a Roman candle.
     "My friends convinced me otherwise," she replied. "They looked you up on all your social media accounts, and then told me you seemed friendly, innocent, and most of important of all, harmless."
     "Any naysayers amongst your friends, or was it unanimous?" I asked.
     She leaned her head back a bit, raising her eyes overhead in thought.
     "Um," she uttered. "No. Not one said to proceed with caution either."
     "I'm just being curious, but do you always seek approval from your friends before meeting new people?"
     Leaning forward in her seat, looking closer into my eyes, she said, "Only if they're men I've met through the internet."
     "I was just kidding by asking that question," I said, putting up my hands in civil surrender. "Of course you'd do such a thing. I mean, I'm basically a stranger to you."
     "Yes, of course," she said, leaning back in her chair, uncrossing her arms, and laying her hands on the table. "I made another decision when we were having lunch earlier today. One I made myself. Do you want to know what it is?"
     "Sure," I said.
     So far I had been lucky to be in an intimate only once in my life with a beautiful woman which had lasted nearly seven years; being with this particular woman for most of that day made me feel even luckier, even though we were most likely to separate in just a few minutes. One day I would tell people, I met her once. Not only that, we had lunch, had a cool conversation about this and that, then we went to a bar, and I got her a --
     "I'm gonna get us more beer," she said. "Does a pitcher sound nice to you?" She stood up, and moved around the table, then stopped before she went passed me. "When I get back I want you to tell me about yourself. Like everything about yourself, so by the time we leave this bar later you won't be a stranger to me, you'll be a guy I know, and then I'll come to a third decision whether we'll end up being friends or not." She then continued on walking toward the inside of the bar.
     Somewhat awestruck, I half-turned in my chair.
     "Haven't I said enough about myself?" I queried. "What else do you want to know?"
     She stopped walking, and turned around.
     "When two people first meet there's always some restraint from one or the other. I want to learn everything about you, because I know you know a lot about me. Give me an autobiography, Olavi Pijnen, not a simple synopsis. Just don't start with the day you were born, or the first memory you ever had. Have another cigarette so you won't be smoking while you're talking." She turned back around and went into the bar to get the pitcher of beer.
     Sitting alone at the table, I lit another cigarette as she requested, and as I inhaled the first fresh drag of tobacco smoke, I became a bit overwhelmingly nervous. For a moment I had no clue what to tell her, or even where to begin. After a few more drags I began rummaging through my memories as if I were looking for my favorite toy in the attic with the intention to simply look at it, only to realize I had thrown it away when I felt it was useless to me. All I had was the image of that particular toy in my mind, and only the words to describe it.
     There are things in my past I hadn't mentioned to anybody, but since I wanted her to make a sound assessment of my character, I decided to tell all without shame or restraint. Why not? The probability of her choosing to remain present in my life in any capacity was minuscule anyway. I accepted a long time ago that the occurrence of miracles are imaginative for people like me.
     She came back outside to the patio with a pitcher filled with beer in one hand, and two empty glasses in the other.
     "I ordered us burger and fries, if you don't mind," she said, placing the pitcher and glasses on the table.
     "No, I don't mind," I said. "As you can already tell by my size, I don't mind food."
     I moved to pour her and myself a glass of beer. She put up her hand to stop me.
     "No, please allow me, Olavi," she said, then began filling the glasses.
     "Thank you," I said.
     I sat silent for a moment, staring at her hand as it gripped the pitcher's handle, the other holding the glass at a certain angle so the beer foam would not overflow. If she asked me what my favorite part of her body was, it would be her hands. It wasn't because of how they looked to me, but all the talented things she did with them: the way they moved and touched the strings on a guitar; when they created a painting; played the piano; even when they clapped.
     The sound of the glass of beer clanking on the table as she placed it near me woke me out of the little reverie regarding her hands.
     "Before I begin I just want to say something," I said. "When I drink and talk I tend to rant more than I should. So, warning, we may be here a lot longer than you might expect."
     "I don't mind," she said. "There's nothing wrong with liquid courage to remove shyness from the mind."
     "And one more thing." I finished my cigarette, dubbing it out in the ashtray. "I ask you not to judge me too harshly, for one must not be defined by their past mistakes and bad choices. The past is bordered by the eternal present, and the future only comes when I finish telling you my story."
     "Alright," she said. "But before you start, I want to know something. What kind of haircut is that? I know it's not a Mohawk."
     "It's called a Devilock," I informed. "This is my third one. And like the saying goes, third times a charm, because I've been letting it grow for six years. I cut the first two off for reasons which will be explained as I tell the story you want to hear."
                               

Am I Here? (An Author's Note)

                                      "If you make a mistake, you should enjoy it."

                                                                                 - Adam Ant

I am a fool. I say that because I am writing this at approximately 12:58am, and the date is April the first, April Fool's Day. A day celebrating pranks, hoaxes, and playful frauds. But I'm not doing such juvenile things - not that I'm an iconoclast, or a misanthrope. At this moment, at this point in time, I am thirty-one years old, overweight by about thirty pounds - maybe more if I were so obsessive with such perfect health - and have recently found out I have high blood pressure. I know why. It's because I don't workout, don't go for hikes, or even walks longer than the times I walk down the street to my corner liquor store to buy a six or twelve pack of beer for the weekend. The only thing I do that is close to working out is moving boxes at my part-time job, and I've done it long enough to where my body is all around use to the routine of the same goddamn movements - pick up, push, drop, or (when I fucking feel like it) throw. Keep that to yourselves. Point in fact, I'll never tell you where I work, so forget I ever mentioned I move boxes. 

     On top of not pushing my body's physical capabilities to it's limit and progressing, I smoke cigarettes, eat shitty American food, and every weekend, as I've already mentioned, drink too many servings of booze - beer, and occasionally a whole bottle of whisky. God, that shit's good, especially with Root Beer. Most people find it weird I prefer that soda over a Cocoa Cola, but I got to say, "Yummy!" And there's nothing like an extra-large pizza, and finishing it with a lovely IPA six pack. Yummy, yummy, that shit tastes good, and makes you feel good. The unfortunate outcome these days - the fact being that I'm now in the dawn of my third decade of living, and remaining somewhat stagnant physically, as well as spiritually - is the fucking hangovers are now a terrible, horrific weight on my mind and body. In my twenties it was the complete opposite: wake up the next morning, jump out of bed, eager to go outside, smell the air, feel the sun on my face as I smoked a cig, excited and ready to experience what was next. But not anymore! Fuck NO!

     Now I wake up in the morning after a night of swallowing down a six pack - let's face it, it's basically past noon - and I seriously do not want to move. My head hurts. I've awakened from a lovely dream, but I cannot for the life of me remember what happened in it. If I do somehow manage to remember the dream - for fuck sake - I was at work, the building was bigger, and there were an endless amount of boxes everywhere. It was literally a nightmare where I was in Hell, and unbelievably I had a smile on my face. Then I lay there in my bed after awakening with a headache so bad my head might as well be in a vice with Joe Pesci at the handle. And just like in the movie Casino he'd be looking down at me, his face contorted by seemingly permanent rage and madness. 

     Hey, dog, look at me, he'd say. Do you want to keep feeling like this on your days off? 

     Obviously I'd be too scared to answer his question. That, and the fact my head was in a vice, and I couldn't hear him. 

     Hey, you little shit-stain, this is your imagination fucking talking to you. Now, I don't like to repeat myself. Answer my fucking question. Do it, or I'll pop that fucking eye out of your head like that fat Irish fuck in the movie.

     Sorry, I'd say. Just give me a moment. I feel sleepy. 

     Joe Pesci makes a move to turn the handle. 

     I was just kidding, man. No. No. I don't want to feel like this every fucking weekend. 

     Don't kid me, motherfucker, Pesci would say. I'm not a fucking apparition to amuse you. Do I look like fucking Casper to you, MOTHERFUCKER?!
     Shit, I'm babbling like some fucking wino in Times Square just before the cops come and beat the shit out of him because they're bored, and the Mayor allows it.
     I would like to repeat: I am a fool. I declare I am a fool because I not only admit it, I accept it with open arms. I utter a sigh of relief to proclaim such a thing. Yes, it is true, I am a fool. I want to run onto the set of some major news network in a few hours as the anchors begin reading from a teleprompter, get right in front of those cameras as everyone around the United States sits down in their pajamas and bathrobes before their televisions, drinking coffee, eager to hear what the fuck is going on in the world - if they even care, that is - and I want to scream these words just before security tackles me, then drags my fat ass out of the building: "I AM A FOOL! I am a fool. And I'm not lying. I ask you all to admit this to yourselves when you look in the mirror after you watch this, and say, 'I am a fool, and I know it.'"
     Very much like the film Network. You know, the one where a news anchor in the 70's yells: "I'm mad as Hell, and I'm..." No?
     Anyways, what I'm attempting to do here, person-who-is-actually-reading-this (thank you so much, by the way... I love you) is helping myself acknowledge that I'm an idiot who has made mistakes, bad ones, and now I have high blood pressure at thirty-one years old.
     To better ourselves in the long run, we must first admit our own faults. People who are true assholes, who live miserable lives, and exploit the faults in others, do not accept the faults within themselves. I've witnessed this with my own eyes and ears for years, and it sickens me to the point of suicide.
     So it is with great trepidation I tell this story that is my life - or was my life to be more specific - and certain events which transpired due to the fault of my bipolar disorder. Some events have been embellished, because I want to have fun pouring my heart and soul out to you fools as you eat it all up gleefully. I even changed my name, because I had to change the names of certain people involved in certain events, because what will be depicted in great and exciting detail may lead me to end up being served a subpoena. Even so, I'm honestly going to have a hard time with my telling of this tale of quasi-debauchery. I had a hard enough time admitting I suffer from bipolar disorder, because I know certain assumptions people would have. Such as: "He probably would shoot a lot of people." I know such a notion is crass, but I've heard it said about people who simply see a therapist on a monthly basis.
     There will be moments as I write this story where I will cry. Tears will fall onto the paper. Ernest Hemingway said it was easy, that all I have to do is sit and bleed, but I will find myself looking through tears. Fortunately, I'll be able to see the words I write down on the page, because, honestly it doesn't take sacrifice to tell a story; it requires an understanding of the complexity and simplicity of human nature which I've experienced myself.
     By the way, if you're expecting something deep and profound - some kind of existential explanation on the meaning of life, or perhaps an uplifting adventure - by this semi-autobiographical work, just stop reading this shit right fucking now, and go find something else, because - as you've read already - I'm an admitted fool destined for failure. Then again, I'm fucking bipolar; of course I'd say weird shit like that.
     Though I've never put my hand down a toilet to retrieve drugs I had stuck up my ass, some of you might see certain life choices I made to be a tad comparable. 

SOC #39: Purple Blue

It was the day after the third anniversary of her death when I came to visit her tombstone, and I didn't find what I had expected. This was the third - and maybe - last time I had come to visit her resting place. When I came upon her tombstone the previous two times there were roses laid at the base of it, left there by her family the previous day, the day of her death. There were no roses this time. Maybe they didn't feel like coming on her death day anymore, I thought. Coming to visit her on the day of her birth seemed more appropriate to me. I wanted to come to the cemetery on her birthday, but then there'd be a chance I would meet any one of her family members, and I wanted to avoid such a thing, at any cost. So I chose to come the day after the anniversary of her death rather than the day of. I figured people didn't visit their loved ones the day after, because they'd most likely remember their days of mourning too much rather than remember the beautiful life the departed had. But then again, why visit the grave on the day of their death? People do such things; it simply is the way of human nature, I guess. I don't want to explain to anyone my nature and the reason why I visit -- not to her family, let alone to any of mine. It was my secret. I hadn't told anyone I visited her grave to pay my respects, and tape two hearts carved from paper -- one purple, the other blue -- to the top corners of her tombstone. I didn't say anything as I did so, and I wouldn't stay too long. Her and I hardly talked when she was alive, so I didn't speak to her when she was dead. It seemed to morbid to do so. On this day I did talk though, I had to. On this third -- I decided right then and there -- and last visit I taped the purple and blue hearts to the upper corners of the tombstone, then stood there before her, thinking about the reasons why I did this. I thought about the ways she looked when she was happy, her smile, when she was sad, when she cried, and the sound of her voice. I still remember everything, even if I wasn't apart of her life. I wanted to cry, but I held back the tears with all the effort I could muster, because I had no right to cry. I wasn't the love of her life, and honestly, I didn't know who was. Most likely it was a handsome man, a healthy man who made her happy until she died. I hoped she died in her deathbed with a smile. It was a good twenty minutes before I finally decided to leave. I turned and saw someone standing a few feet behind me. It was her father. I froze, panicking a little bit, and basically stopped breathing. I didn't know what to do, or what to say. I wanted to leave, move my feet, and go around him. Say I had the wrong tombstone, and look stupid. He said, "Hello. Who are you?" I took a deep breath, still unable to form words with my mouth. I took another deep breath. Shit, don't panic, I thought. Be as cool as you can be and simply leave. Her father asked, "You alright?" I managed a nod. He said, "Seem like you're about to faint." I finally said something: "I'm in the wrong place. Sorry. I thought--" He interrupted me, "You're lying, young man. You were standing in front of my daughter's tombstone for nearly half an hour. Now, there are only two reasons you'd be doing such a thing: you either were an obsessed stalker of hers; or you were an old flame none in our family knew about. So, which one is it?" I replied, "Neither." He said, "Then why, for the past three years, have you been putting hearts on her tombstone?" I said, "I didn't know anyone in your family knew." He said, "Last year her brother didn't make it here on the anniversary of her death, so he came the day after. He told me later that night the hearts taped to her tombstone were a nice touch. I told him I didn't leave any hearts, just the roses. And for a whole year the hearts were a mystery to us -- the person who left them anyways. Now today I find out it's you. Would you like some red wine?" He held up a paper bag I didn't even notice he was holding. I said, "Okay, sure. Just a little." He reached inside the paper bag, took out two plastic cups, and handed them to me. Then he took out the bottle of red wine, removing the already uncorked cork from the top of the bottle. Before pouring the wine into each cup I held in each hand, he said, "We're gonna finish the entire bottle." Then he proceeded to fill each cup to the brim. I said, "I don't know. I don't feel like getting buzzed at the moment." He asked, "Do you have to drive home?" I said, "No. I don't live too far. I walked." He said, "Then help me finish the damn bottle." I handed him one of the cups. For a second, I assumed he'd hold it up so we'd drink in honor of his daughter, but he put it right to his mouth and proceeded to drink all the wine in the cup. While he did so, he shifted his eyes towards me and saw I wasn't drinking yet, just staring at him, a bit astonished. He gestured with his other arm for me to drink. So I did, but I drank only half the wine in the cup. When he finished, he said, "If she were alive to see me drinking over her grave, she'd slap the shit out of me. Excuse my language. So, please do tell me why you leave these hearts." I remained silent. I didn't know what to say. Obviously I knew the reason, but I didn't know how I'd explain it. He asked, "Is it a long story?" I said, "No. It's a short one, I guess." He said, seeming to demand it, "Then tell it to me." I drank the rest of the wine in my cup, then told him. "I didn't know she died until almost six months after. My friend told me at a pool party he was having at his place. The thing is I've known your daughter since kindergarten, we basically went to the same schools until we graduated high school. Over the years we talked, but hardly. We were more acquaintances than friends in actuality. The night before I found out she was dead I had a dream which made me remember something that happened in the second grade. Something she did for me." For a moment I stopped speaking. I was going to cry, and because I hadn't told anyone this story for years -- and of all people to tell it to, her father -- I had no energy to stop the tears from flowing. My eyes began welling as I went on. "I came in from recess to find a piece of white paper on my table. On it, drawn with crayon, were three hearts. I didn't know who it was from. But of course children will be children, and someone hollered it was your daughter who drew those hearts for me. She sat right in front of me in second grade." Tears began rolling down my cheeks. Her father said, "So that is why you leave these paper hearts." I said, "Sort of. No, it's not the real reason. People question why they are alive. What's the meaning of life, blah, blah, blah. I don't ask such questions. They are simply unanswerable. But I have an unanswerable question which is what color were the hearts she drew on that piece of paper. I will never know now. Were the hearts purple, or were they blue? I wish she were alive to tell me." My eyes closed. I put my hand on my forehead. I was about to weep, but I felt her father's hand on my shoulder, and he asked, "Do you remember the color of the roses I leave here every year?" I opened my eyes, wiped away my tears, and looked at him. I said, "Yes." He informed, "Her favorite color is what the roses are of. The color of the hearts she drew for you." Her father then reached over, and removed the heart that wasn't the color of the roses. "Now you know."

SOC #38[redacted]: Bloody Screaming Ants

Just when I thought I had attained success, safety, and comfort, I found myself in the patio section of a five star restaurant on the sixth floor, wearing a suit I hated, and surrounded by uppity shit-heads babbling on and on about the same shit I've heard again, and again from humans in lower classes, and all I could do as their idiotic words entered my ears was damn myself for even going out that evening. I mean, I had to admit, no matter where I found myself, no matter how much money I made, these fucking hypocrites, these opinionated hawks, these fucking sheep, these goddamn, flesh eating zombies...I can go on, and on folks with these damn figurative descriptions, but like these well dressed, overly educated morons are doing to me, I'd bore you, the reader, to death. So there I was - waiting for my supposedly exquisite meal (which, by the way, ain't worth two hundred a fucking plate, believe me) - wanting desperately to scream at the couples on either side of me to shut the fuck up. The rich husband and wife to my left were complaining about the lobster we had as a President, while the lesbians on my right were bitching how the loser didn't suck enough cock to win the election. I wanted - or needed, to keep my brain sane - to pick up my one hundred and fifty dollar red wine bottle, which was basically still full, smash it on the husband's head, then hold up the broken bottle to the two lesbos, and inform them, "Look, the Nazi won, but you're still able to be at this fancy restaurant, wasting your fucking money!" But I had to keep my cool. In my mind I wished I was back working at the docks, in the lunchroom, listening to my coworkers bitch about sports. Though I found the subject uninteresting, it was exceedingly more tolerable than hearing about political bullshit none of us truly had control of, other than the pathetic attempt at voting. My opinion: it don't fucking work. If anyone tells me otherwise, I tell them to FUCK OFF! I earned my way to that five star restaurant, and none of it had to do with politics. "Do as you please," is what I live by. "Good or ill, live with the consequences," is another. "Go with the flow, and roll with the punches," was another, just like that night. I was meant to be on a date, and my date had stood me up, and I ordered my food without the bitch. Then my cellphone rang, and it was her, telling me she was late due to the fact the freeway was blocked by lunatics who had chained themselves together across all the lanes, both ways. I said, "Oh. Well, I ordered food for myself. And I apologize for thinking some negative thoughts just before you called." Why should I lie to her? I liked her, and wanted our relationship to go further than this date. She said, "No need to apologize. I'm sorry. I could've been there sooner if I were more astute, I guess." I said, "How were you to know maniacs were going to block the freeway?" She said, "They're protesters, dude. They're just expressing themselves." I finally noticed the blabbers weren't at their tables beside me, but with everyone else at the railing, looking down at the large courtyard six floors below us. One fellow patron said, "Look at that. I can't believe his supporters would have a march at this hour of the day." One of the lesbians stretched out her arm and pointed, saying, "Look, it's their opposition." Her wife said, "How can you tell?" And her wife replied, "You can tell by how they dress." I said to my date on the phone, "Sounds like there's gonna be a dog fight down in the courtyard. Maybe we should postpone. Next week perhaps?" She said, "No." I closed my eyes, expecting she would never see me again. She then said, "I'll just wait until the pigs unlock the idiots, and I'll meet you somewhere else we can eat. I know a place open twenty-four hours. It's a diner. We can chill, and you can tell me how the dogfight went. You got a good view, right?" I went up to the railing with the other fools, and looked down at the courtyard. Hearing the distant cries and screams from those peasant idiots as they made their way toward each other for the showdown on the green grass and between trees, ready to pound each other bloody, I thought to myself how lucky I was to be among weak idiots, and how much I miss being with the grunts back when I worked on the docks. Those people were dumb, but not dumb enough to be like those I saw below me, or those beside me. I said to my date, "I'll preface my recollection of what is about to happen down there with this: it's about to go all Braveheart down in that shit." She replied, "Cool. I was told you weren't as boring as James Franco." I asked, "Who would say that about me? James Franco? You dated that old stoner?"
She said, "I'll tell you about it later, after you tell me about your life. Okay?" We ended the phone conversation. The fight in the courtyard had begun, and I started feeling sick at the sight of the chaos, not in my stomach, but in my mind. I turned around, went to my table, downed the rest of my glass of wine, then picked up the bottle before going back to the "show" down below. (I noticed my food still wasn't there on the table yet, but I immediately didn't fucking care) It was a fascinating sight, I must admit. It was like this: there was a large group in the middle, and only about three to four pockets of them were fighting. Those on the edges of the pockets were not staring at those fighting, but were staring at those not fighting, sizing each other up, stepping forward, then stepping back. All the while the people on the furthest edges of the fights were really doing nothing. Well, the supporter of the lobster President were drinking beer, then throwing their empty cans at the opposition, while the other side threw full cans of soda back at the drunks, some were smoking weed from a bong, or joints and blunts. It was strange, and all I could do was drink the rest of the one hundred fifty dollar red wine, and end up feeling dissatisfied. When I got back to my table, I found my food waiting for me. The portion of the meal was so small I still had an immense appetite when I paid the bill, leaving the robotic waiter a thirty percent tip, hoping he was working his way through college. On my way out of that hawk den of a restaurant my date text my phone the location of the diner. She ended the text with the words: Can't wait to hear about what happened over there. I thought to myself, "Maybe she won't end up being the one."

Wind's Dark Sigh (9. Life in question)

Getting ready to look sexy for the evening as she browsed through her cloths hanging in the closet, Rolanda could not stop thinking about how handsome Hugh Mungus was. He was a bit on the chunky side, she thought, but she didn’t mind such a physical characteristic in a man. It was the way he carried himself which peeked her interest most, the way he spoke — seeming to not give a shit how he was perceived by others. She especially liked the fact he didn’t seem to fawn for her affection, as if acquiring it from her was the last thing on his mind. She had met plenty of guys in bars and nightclubs who made a beeline for her like a piece of metal to a magnet when she simply said a word to them. A “Yes,” or even a “No,” — or even a general look in their direction — and they would dive in like a hawk to a rat. 

     After laying her choices of attire for that night on her bed, Rolanda picked up two in each hand, moved over in front of the mirrors of her sliding closet doors, then held each of the outfits over her chest one at a time, comparing them. Two things occurred to her as she was doing this: One, she was doing an interview for a podcast listened to by an audience full of stoners. Why the fuck would she look sexy for that? And two, for some reason she had an inkling Hugh was the type who found it displeasing when a girl tried too hard to win a man’s attention by hyper-sexualizing her looks. 

     “I want to talk, not fuck,” Rolanda said aloud, tossing the two skanky outfits back onto the bed with the rest. 

     She stood before the mirror, gazing at her face, then rubbed the surface of her cheeks with the palm of her left hand, thinking about the way Hugh had looked at her earlier that day, and how she wanted him to look at her later on that evening when he came and picked her up. Removing the hair band from behind her head, she undid her ponytail, and let her hair go down to her shoulders. 

     “He’d like that,” she said. “I’d bet my life on it.” 

     She then looked down at the rest of herself in the mirror still wearing the tight jogging spandex cloths, and the thought occurred to her that maybe Hugh liked things simple in his life, nothing extravagant, or made to be perfect. So she decided for the rest of the day she would wear a green t-shirt, blue jeans, and sneakers. Turning away from the mirror, she went to her bed, picked up the sensual assortment of attire, then walked to her closet and simply tossed them back inside. Near a stack of plastic containers full of cloths there was a small pile of casual clothing all mixed together: t-shirts, tank tops, jean pants, jean shorts, sweatshirts, and a few bra and panties. Kneeling beside the messy pile of cloths, Rolanda dug in to find the green shirt, and blue jeans. She found a green shirt with an image of an emoji crying with laughter on the front. She couldn’t decide on what pair of blue jeans to choose from — they were all in different styles — so she compromised by choosing the only gray jeans she had. 

     After tossing the shirt and jeans she was going to wear for that evening, Rolanda got undressed, and took a shower. As she stood still, eyes closed, hands at her sides, she let the water rain onto her face and run down her body, all the while she pictured Hugh in her mind. She thought about the sound of his voice, the way he talked, the words he used, his desire to refer to Rolanda by her birth name rather than the stage name mostly everyone calls her by, the way he walked so leisurely as if he had no need for things he found useless, and his hands. She wanted his hands to touch her, and she knew that if they did, their intention would be nothing more than to comfort. 

     Rolanda opened her eyes, reached over for the bar of soap, and as she began rubbing it on her body, she imagined Hugh’s hands touching upon the sides of her neck. Her head moved out of the path of the falling water as one of Hugh’s phantom thumb stroked up the back of her neck to the base of her skull. She took a deep breath, then exhaled as a soothing, calming sensation went down to the base of her spine. The relaxing feeling turned into her imagining the touch of Hugh’s tubby — and most likely — hairy belly going up against her back. His hands then moved along the surface of her skin down to her boobs.

     “Do you like them?” she asked aloud as the imaginary hands passed over her chest. 

     Not as much as I like you, Rolanda Mazed, Hugh whispered into her ear. 

     Rolanda leaned her head back as the hands moved over her six-pack abs. One went to her inner thigh, rubbing up and down, as the second began slowly rubbing her vagina. 

     A few minutes later Rolanda came out of her reverie, ceased masturbating, when she realized a man hadn’t made her feel so sensual since the early days of her relationship with Mathew. She didn’t know why all of a sudden she felt the need for intimacy. It must have been the fact she was so busy being a Content Creator for the Social Media scene that she never stopped to ponder who she wanted to spend the rest of her life with. Rolanda was always on the move everyday, constantly moving, whether it be filming something, creating music, on her bicycle going places before it was stolen, working out in the MMA gym, or jogging, all the while doing Snapchats. She did all those things as if caught in an unfaltering stream, always going in the same direction at the same hastening pace. Until that very day when by chance she ran into Hugh Mungus. It had given her pause for the opportunity to become aware of what was most important: her own private happiness. 

     As she pondered this self-identity predicament, Rolanda finally realized that she really didn’t know Hugh well enough to be thinking of him the way she was — especially to the point of masturbating in the shower. 

     Drying herself off after the shower was over, she couldn’t help but laugh at herself as she looked in the mirror at her reflection in the bathroom. 

     “Come on, Rollie,” she said to the mirror. “Naughty, naughty, you should’ve asked if he had a job before masturbating to him.” 

     Later in the kitchen as she heated up Harriet’s leftover spaghetti in the microwave, Rolanda realized she had not done a Snapchat since after finding out from Cal her bicycle was stolen. 

     She took her phone out of the jean’s front pocket, and said to her followers, “Hey, everyone. No need to worry about how I’m doing since my bike was stolen. I’ve gradually gotten over it. I’d just like to say, never assume a complete stranger won’t help you in a time of need. And I want to remind all you guys at six tonight I’m being interviewed on Stoner Class podcast, so take the time out of your evening and listen in.” End of Snap. 

     The microwave beeped, and she smelled Harriet’s spaghetti in the air. She took out the bowl of the hot Italian food, and carrying it to the dining table, she couldn’t help but hold the spaghetti close up to her face and smell its fragrance. 

     “Hugh, Hugh,” she said aloud, sitting at the table. “What would I do without you, Hugh?” 

     Before Rolanda could take the first bite, the front door basically burst open; she didn’t even hear it being unlocked. Harriet came rushing in, nearly out of breath, panting a little bit, and slammed the door shut behind her. She looked right at Rolanda with wide, worried eyes. 

     “How are you, Rolanda?” she asked, hands going to her hips. “You doing good? Feeling all right? What’s up?” 

     Rolanda was holding the fork wrapped with spaghetti halfway from her open mouth, looking up at her roommate. She didn’t know what to say, being weirded out by the way Harriet came in, asking her a series of questions, and standing there the way she did with her hands on her hips like a worried parent. 

     “Damn, Harriet,” Rolanda finally said, “what the Hell happened to you?” 

     “Oh, nothing,” Harriet replied, swatting her hand in front of her, “same old shit day at the office. A bunch of ‘do this, do that,’ with innuendo I’m a worthless pencil pusher, and all that stuff. I wanna know how things with you are? The show last night, how was it?”

     “Well, it began on a high note,” Rolanda said, placing the fork back into the bowl of spaghetti. “The crowd clapped and cheered at the end. But after the show the night ended on a bit of a downer.” 

     “How?” Harriet asked, taking a step closer to the dining table.

     “I, uh, kicked Max out of the band,” Rolanda said, nonchalant, and then proceeded to eat a mouthful of spaghetti. 

     “Oh,” Harriet uttered with a sigh. “Anything else?” 

     As Rolanda chewed, she thought for a moment if there was anything worth mentioning, then she remembered about her bicycle. 

     “Oh, yeah,” she said. “My bike was stolen because that dumbass Cal left his garage door open last night while he was taking a shit.” 

     Harriet giggled, saying, “Maybe you should kick him out of the band too.” 

     “No, no,” Rolanda said. “I wouldn’t do that. That’s one of the last things I’d ever do. Cal’s too much of a good friend, and he does what I say. Mostly.”

     There was a moment of silence between the two roommates until Rolanda spoke. 

     She said, “You know, I had almost completely forgotten about my bike until just before I did my recent Snapchat a few minutes ago. I must’ve got so distracted by him I —.”

     “Him?” Harriet interrupted. “Him who? Max?” 

     “No, not Max,” Rolanda informed. “Never mind.”

     She didn’t want Harriet to know about Hugh until there was a better reason to talk to her about him. In all the time she had lived with Harriet, never once did they have a “girl talk” conversation about the other sex. 

     Harriet crossed her arms, taking another step closer to the table — so close, both her thighs were up against its edge. 

     “Why are you being so coy?” she asked. 

     “I’m not being coy,” Rolanda said. “It’s just weird having this kind of conversation with you, especially after bursting in through the door like that as if you were Swat. And you’re talking to me like my damn mother.” 

     “Okay, sorry. So, what’s his name?” 

     “Dammit, Harriet,” Rolanda said, dropping the fork in the bowl with a loud clank. “Fine, you win. Hugh, his name’s Hugh. I met him right after Max stormed out of the Band Wagon last night, and today when I went jogging — as luck would have it — I ran into him on the trail. And since you’re being nosey all of a sudden, he’s been on my mind the last couple of hours.” 

     Harriet broke out laughing so hard her head went back, hands dropping to her sides as she backed away from the table, spinning around, turning her back to Rolanda. 

     “What the fuck’s the matter with you?” Rolanda asked. “You come bursting through the door, panting, and ask me twenty questions about my day. Now you’re laughing like a fucking clown. What’s up with you? Did you get a promotion at work that involved free cocaine?”

     “His name’s Hugh,” Harriet managed to say through all her laughter. 

     “What’s so funny about that?” 

     Harriet then gradually regained control of her composure, as if willing herself to cease laughing any longer with some struggle. She turned back to Rolanda, wiping away tears of laughter. 

     “I never expected you to hook up with a guy who had a name like that,” she said. “Point in fact, I never expected you to find a man for yourself like…at all.” 

     “What’s wrong with the name ‘Hugh?’” Rolanda inquired. “And what makes you think there’s gonna be any kind of hook up? I just met him yesterday.” 

     “Okay, okay,” Harriet said, waving both her hands, “I’m sorry. Made an ass of me. Assumed too much.” 

     “By the way, where’s your portfolio, and your purse?” 

     “Holy shit,” Harriet said, her hands going to the sides of her face. “I left my shit back at the office. Fuck. I gotta go back.” 

     Harriet turned to leave. After opening the front door, she stopped in the threshold, and turned back to Rolanda. 

     She said, “Before I forget to mention, my cousin is going to come and visit for a few days. He’s crashing on the couch. I hope you don’t mind.” 

     “No, of course not,” Rolanda said. “When’s he going to be here?” 

     “Between now, and whenever he shows up. We haven’t seen each other in years, so he wants his visit to be as close to a surprise for me as possible.” 

Wind's Dark Sigh (8. Sentence goes onward)

Like Cal claimed he almost did just before Rolanda’s bicycle was stolen, Ronald nearly sharded in his shorts when he realized it truly was Rolanda standing there on the same hiking trail as him, just feet away, looking directly at him. His mission literally was beyond the rookers of Bog. All he wanted to do that day before continuing onward with his mission was get some exercise, and get a break from breathing in the horrific Los Angeles smog. 

     “You know, Hugh, my day this morning started bad,” Rolanda said. “I mean fucking bad. I came all the way out here to get away, block out the negative thoughts, and gain some positive vibes. And, honestly, to run into you so unexpectedly like this makes me feel good. The positively is just so, I don’t know, pleasingly overwhelming.” 

     “Really?” Ronald asked. “You sure?” 

     “Yes,” Rolanda assured. “You can distract me from the bad vibrations.” She removed the smartphone from the holder, and paused the audiobook. 

     “Um,” Ronald uttered, nervous, his legs shaking a little, “I don’t, uh — I don’t think —.” He began scratching the back of his head. “We’ve only known each other not even twenty-four hours, and I don’t think I can bear the responsibility of uplifting your spirits.” 

     “Do you want to walk alone all by yourself?” Rolanda asked. “With nothing but your own thoughts? You’re not even listening to music.” 

     The only thing Ronald had in mind was an immense urge to take off running from the path into the shrubs, bushes, and weave through the trees, turn right, then turn left in the hope Rolanda would not be able to find him, or maybe remain on the trail, find his abrupt exit strange, shrug it off, and continue with her jogging. He could take the risk of getting lost — he had his cellphone with him, but then he realized the possibility of losing reception. 

     If only we lived in an age where it was considered cool, and trendy to always have a compass on your person, he thought, then I could get out of this situation I never intended to be in. Why doth life treat us living like untamed beasts? 

     He reached into his pocket, and took out his smartphone. 

     “I see you got a good phone,” Rolanda commented. “I bet you got some good tunes on it.” 

     “Yes, I do,” Ronald said. He looked around at their surroundings, and then up at the clear, blue sky. “It’s just when I go for a long walk in a place like this I love to hear the voice of nature — birds, winds, bugs, shit like that. I prefer it actually, you know, to get away from all that noise that is Los Angeles. Though I’m having fun on my vacation in this city, I’m not really use to all the chaos within it.” 

     Ronald put his phone back into his jean’s pocket, and looked back at Rolanda with the expectation she would consider leaving him be by himself, and continue on with her jogging. She’ll do what she loved to do, and he’ll do what relaxes him most. 

     “That is rather audacious, Hugh,” Rolanda said. “Sounds like something I should be doing. Be in a meditative, zen like state of mind rather than simply sweating out my problems. May I please join you?” 

     “Okay,” Ronald said. “Why the hell not? Seems like I’m helping you so far.” 

     Fuck, it didn’t work, he thought, his mind’s voice screaming inside his skull. Does this idiot walk with any dude she runs into? Bitch, I’m stalking you!

     “Thank you, Hugh,” Rolanda said, putting her phone back into the holder on her arm. “I sure do need the company.” 

     In some cases, stalkers do manage to find a way to saunter into their victim’s lives by manipulation and succeeding in gaining trust, so the victim can be tricked into opening the door to allow the stalker easier access. The stalker will at first appear to be friendly, with the goal being to become an actual friend to the victim, a kind of counselor, maybe a shoulder to cry on, making the victim get to a fragile, exposed, and vulnerable position. Only the most skilled, and patient of stalkers can achieve such a stature. That is when the stalker, with whatever intentions they desire to commit, makes their move. But this was not what Ronald intended to do; it was not part of his mission. It had been thrust upon him whether he liked it or not, and of all people to bring about this commencement of friendship was the victim herself, Rolanda Maze. Talking to her at the bar had turned out to be a very bad, stupid, stupid move on Ronald’s part. 

     They walked on the trail for almost two minutes without saying a word before Rolanda broke the silence. 

     “You can really have a better sense of smell walking at this pace,” she commented, holding her hands behind her back. “When I’m jogging—.”

     Ronald completed her statement, saying, “You don’t have the time to smell the roses. Like that famous saying.” 

     “Well, I was gonna say I breathe too fast to notice the smell of the atmosphere I run through, but, yeah, I guess that’s basically the same thing.” Rolanda took a deep breath, then asked, “So where are you from, Hugh?” 

     Ronald felt uneasy answering, but figured in the long run, when the mission was accomplished, it wouldn’t matter. 

     “Eugene,” he replied. 

     “Where’s that?” Rolanda asked, her lip twisted in bemusement. 

     “Oregon,” Ronald said. “Eugene, Oregon.” 

     “Oh, yeah, that’s right.” Rolanda playfully slapped the side of her head. “Duh, of course Eugene’s in Oregon. Sorry about that. Just a blonde moment there.” 

     “It’s quite all right,” Ronald said. “When’s the last time you heard the words ‘Eugene,’ and ‘Oregon’ used in the same sentence?” 

     Rolanda rubbed her chin, thinking for a moment, then stopped rubbing, and with the same hand, snapped her fingers. 

     “I remember now,” she said. “That guy who was all over the news five months ago, the one who was indicted for being an accessory to the Shaker Krista massacre. He was from Eugene, Oregon. See, I don’t have blonde moments all the time.” 

     “Even people who aren’t blond have blonde moments,” Roland stated. “I had one just this morning.” 

     What he really meant to say was that his blonde moment was prolonged to however many more minutes it took until they both went their separate ways, and by the rate they were walking, and the length of the trail, it looked like his blonde moment was going to be at least an hour. 

     “What was that dude’s name?” Rolanda wondered aloud. “I can’t put my finger on it. For some reason, I actually picture that one weird looking comedian, the one who has eyes that he can’t seem to open all the way, always squinting.” 

     “That’s because the guy’s name you’re trying to remember shares the same first name as the comedian you’re picturing in your mind,” Ronald said. “Gilbert Vergo. That’s his name, the one who was indicted as an accessory to the mass shooting at Zion Fraternity on Halloween night, even though he lived in another state. Crazy shit he went through, poor Gilbert.” 

     “Do you know him?” Rolanda inquired. “I mean, since you’re both from the same town there’s a good possibility you’ve at least heard of him before that fiasco.” 

     “You’re in luck, Ms. Maze, not only did I know of him before his indictment, he was actually one of my close high school buddies.” 

     “Whoa, no shit,” Rolanda said. “Really?”

     “No shit,” Ronald confirmed, looking straight ahead. 

     “How’s he been since after the charges were dropped?”

     “I wouldn’t know,” Ronald admitted. “I haven’t spoken to him since graduation. In fact, I haven’t spoken to any of my fellow high school graduates since graduation.” 

     “Did you hate high school, or something?” Rolanda asked, genuinely interested. “Were you bullied?” 

     “No, not at all, nothing like that,” Ronald replied, chuckling. “You could say I simply moved on, never looking back, and never thinking about my school days. Well, that was until Gilbert was on the news. I did try contacting him when I learned he survived the car crash.” 

     “Were you able to speak with him?”

     “No. Like I said, I haven’t spoken to him since graduation day. It’s weird, because as kids we were close, but after entering adulthood, we never spoke one word to each other. Maybe it was my fault, maybe it was his, I don’t know.” 

     “I still stay in contact with all my friends from childhood, from elementary up to high school, even though most are all over the country, and other parts of the world,” Rolanda said. “I also still keep in touch with people I made friends with in college.” 

     “That’s good,” Ronald said with a smile. “That’s healthy.” 

     “But not for you, Hugh?” 

     “People keep to a lifestyle they feel comfortable with,” Ronald said. “Though most don’t enjoy loneliness, some do find tranquility in solitude.” 

     “You know, I just might keep in contact with you after you go back to Oregon,” Rolanda said, tilting her head, leaning a little in Ronald’s direction. 

     Her statement sent a shiver down his spine, his heartbeat sped up, and a tingling sensation went from the back of his neck to the top of his head. He felt like he was about to faint, and hit the dirt face first. 

     He took a deep breath to ease his nervousness, then asked, “What if we never speak to each other again after this walk is over?” 

     “That’s why social media was invented,” Rolanda reminded him, “so mere acquaintances can still become friends while living thousands of miles away from one another. All you have to do, Hugh, is Google my name, find me — which isn’t too hard — click the mouse, and send me a message. In your case, for me to remember you, I just have to read your name, and bam, the beginning of a wonderful friendship. I’ll break you from your shell, or at least crack it a bit for you to look out at the outside world.” 

     If there was a profile on a social media website with the name ‘Hugh Mungus,’ Ronald thought, it definitely wouldn’t be me. It most likely would be a troll account just to fuck with people.

     “After meeting you at the bar last night, I checked out your YouTube channel,” Ronald said. “And I noticed you’ve acquired a lot of subscribers. How many is it? I forgot the number.” 

     “Just over a quarter million so far,” Rolanda said. 

     “Impressive,” Ronald stated, “very impressive.” 

     “Well, I’m not in the big leagues with all the others. You know, the ones with millions.” 

     “Since you’ve pondered the possibility of you and I having a long distance friendship after today, I just want to ask,” Ronald looked over at Rolanda, “do you develop close relationships with your subscribers and followers?”

     “No, not usually,” Rolanda replied, shaking her head, “not with the majority of them. Sometimes I do reply to comments — good, respectful ones — and leave it at that. When it comes to those who send me lyrics to write music to, sometimes I exchange a little correspondence with them. For those who give me donations so they’ll receive the song sooner I’m closer with than those who do not. I share a good amount of dialogue with them via emails, and sometimes I talk to them on Skype, but that’s a rarity due to my busy schedule. Someone has got to donate a big chunk to speak with me face to face.” 

     “If you don’t mind me asking, how much does it take for a follower to talk to you on Skype?” Ronald inquired, with some excitement at possibly obtaining a secret no one else knew about. 

     “You’re not going to tell nobody now, are you, Hugh?”

     Ronald held up his right hand. 

     “Scout’s devout honor, Rollie,” he said. 

     “Two hundred, and up,” Rolanda admitted, looking guilty. “Look, when I talk to them on Skype, I make them promise to tell no one else that’s how much it takes to speak with me privately fact to face.” 

     “How much would it take for a lyricist follower to hang out with you, like you and I are doing right now?”

     “Five hundred dollar donation,” Rolanda said, rubbing her forehead with the back of her hand. “That has only happened once, and thank God it was a woman, because I don’t know if I could hang out with a dude from another part of the country I’ve never met before in my life. I mean, what if he turns out to be a serial rapist?”

     The irony of Rolanda’s hypothesis made Ronald want to cackle right then and there on the hiking trail, fall on the ground, and kick his feet into the air uncontrollably. He subdued the urge, and continued on with their conversation. 

     “Well, looks like I saved over six hundred dollars on my stalker budget, because here I am talking to you now,” he joked, his lips twitching as he struggled to keep from laughing. 

     Rolanda looked over at him, and started giggling. 

     “Man, you’re funny, Hugh,” she said. “I’m happy I met you.” 

     “The feeling’s mutual, Rolanda,” Ronald said. “Or should I call you ‘Rollie’ like everyone else does?” 

     “What would you prefer calling me?” Rolanda asked. 

     “Most people with alternative names make that choice, don’t they?” Ronald looked at her a bit bewildered. 

     “It’s not like I’m letting you create a nickname for me,” Rolanda said. “I’m just asking which name you prefer to call me by. My birth name, or my — I guess you can call — stage name?” 

     “Birth name,” Ronald answered. “Henceforth I shall always refer to you by your given name, Rolanda.” 

     “Interesting,” she said. 

     “What do you mean by that?” Ronald queried. 

     “Every new person I meet always thinks it’s more polite to call me by my stage name, as if they assume I prefer it over the name ‘Rolanda.’” 

     Ronald put in, “I think it’s because most of the new people you meet are the Hollywood types who think it’s more respectful to identify you as someone whom you weren’t born as. That, or you’re meeting celebrity worshipers who don’t want to remove the facade you’ve developed while building up your career.” 

     “That’s a unique analysis, Hugh.” 

     “That’s because I’m not a Californian,” Ronald said with a certain amount of pride. 

     “Neither am I,” Rolanda informed. “I’m from Boston.” 

     “Where’s Boston?” Ronald asked, imitating a blonde moment. 

     “Hardy har, Hugh,” she said, playfully slapping Ronald’s arm with the back of her hand. 

     The simple touch on Ronald’s arm sent a tranquil sensation to his senses and emotion, seeming to overcome the nervousness he had been trying to mask since first looking upon Rolanda on that hiking trail. He continued the conversation more at ease from that point on. 

     “So how many songs have you made from lyrics written by your followers, Rolanda?” he asked. 

     “Almost fifteen hundred so far,” she replied. 

     “Wow,” Ronald uttered. “That’s just…amazing and astonishing.” 

     “Thank you. I’ve also got a huge backlot of lyrics in my email account just waiting for me to make into a song. As I mentioned earlier, if the writer makes a donation, I push them forward in the long line so they get the track sent to them sooner. I aim to make a song every day, recording myself perform it on my camera, then later record the final track in my amateur studio, which is basically my bedroom.”

     “How long is the line?” Ronald asked. “How many lyrics are there waiting?” 

     “I guesstimate at this moment there’s at most seventeen hundred lyrics lying in wait,” Rolanda said. 

     “Damn,” Ronald reacted. “And you write your own shit too?” 

     “Yep,” she replied, nodding her head. 

     “You truly are the hardest working person in show business who’s not yet noticed by show business. Do you record all the songs with your band?” 

     “Some,” Rolanda said, “but most I perform on an acoustic guitar. I’d prefer to have my band perform every song’s recording, but they live their own lives right now, and simply don’t have the time for all that work.”

     “So after you send the lyricist followers the recording of the song, do you also put it on iTunes, or something?”

     “The ones I feel are best I upload on YouTube as well as iTunes,” Rolanda said. “And I share the profits with the writers, because legally I have to.” 

     “Whoa,” Ronald uttered, staring at Rolanda with wide eyes, his mouth agape. 

     “They don’t get a whole lot of money,” she told him, “it’s just a nice chunk of change that gets sent directly into their bank accounts.”

     “That’s like a fucking interactive fan and artist collaboration I’ve never heard of,” Ronald said. “I can’t even get my head around it. Rolanda Maze, you’re amazing. Just wow.” 

     “Enough with the damn praising, Hugh,” Rolanda said with a wave of her hand. “Let’s change the subject.” 

     “Yeah, okay,” Ronald submitted. But then said, “I think that’s just fucking cool. Your fame is just around the corner.” 

     “I’ve been meaning to ask, what’s with that tattoo on the back of your neck all about?” Rolanda said. “Are you a grammar nut, or something?” 

     Ronald cleared his throat, then said, “Project Semicolon. It’s what the tattoo comes from.” 

     “What is Project Semicolon? Is it like a group you started in college?” 

     “No, no,” Ronald answered. “I never went to college. It’s a nationwide — and sort of international — movement to give hope to those recovering from a mental trauma, suffering from mental illness, and recovering, or fighting drug addiction. A semicolon is a pause in a sentence, and then it moves onward. One can simply put a period, and then start a whole other sentence, but life isn’t like that. Just because a person has hit rock bottom doesn’t mean they can’t recover, get back up on their own two feet, and move on with their lives.” 

     “So your tattoo of a semicolon represents hope?” Rolanda asked. 

     “Yeah. That and faith, you could say. It reminds the hopeless suffering they still have the ability to regain self-empowerment.”

     “What happened to you?” Rolanda asked. 

     “What?” Ronald said. 

     “You got the semicolon tattoo. So that tells me something happened to you which you had to recover from. What was it? Mental issue, drug problem.” 

     “Well,” Ronald muttered, clearing his throat once again, “mine was neither of those. It was emotional. Something happened to someone else that caused me to experience an emotional trauma.” 

     An image of brain matter splattered across asphalt came to Ronald’s mind; it wasn’t the first time this memory popped into his head. With all the mental will power he could muster, he subdued the urge to cry. 

     “What was it?” Rolanda asked again. 

     Ronald stopped walking, and turned to her. She stopped moving as well, looking at him with sympathy. 

     “I’m sorry, Rolanda,” he said. “I don’t know you well enough—.”

     Rolanda gestured for him not to say another word about it.

     “No, I’m sorry, Hugh. The conversation completely went in the opposite direction I originally intended it to go.” 

     “It’s all right,” Ronald said. “You were just curious about my tat. Nothing wrong with that.” 

     She let out a soft chuckle, then said, “Nice rhyme.” 

     “Such is the way of life,” Ronald said, “it’s morbid at one moment, then humor pops up out of nowhere.” 

     “That’s a healthy perspective, Hugh.” 

     “It’s what gotten me out of bed every morning for the past two years.” 

     They continued on walking, not speaking a word for a couple of minutes, listening to the sounds mother nature provides to those willing to do nothing more than simply pass through it. Ronald couldn’t wait to get away from Rolanda; it would be more appropriate if they remained apart until his mission came to it’s conclusion. 

     “What are you doing tonight?” Rolanda asked. “Got any plans?” 

     This woman is relentless, Ronald thought. I give up. Time to just go with the flow. Fate is reaching out it’s hand to make things easier, for sometimes it can be cruel. Fuck it.

     “I was thinking of going to a nice restaurant, and then head over to The Whiskey a Go Go to see whatever show they’re having,” Ronald said. 

     It was complete bullshit; he was going to eat fast food, drive to where Rolanda was going to do the Stoner Class Podcast interview, then follow her to wherever she went afterwords. 

     “I’m doing this podcast thing tonight at six,” Rolanda said. “Then when that’s over I’m going to this club called The Quill to meet up with my bandmates and friends. The Quill’s this new hot spot that opened last year, and we finally got on the VIP list, so we don’t have to wait in line to eventually not make it in.” 

     “That sounds fun,” Ronald said. “Be safe tonight. Crazy cokeheads out and about.” 

     “You want to come? I can get you in, man. They know who I am, and wouldn’t mind if I had a plus one.” 

     “Are you sure, Rolanda?” Ronald asked, hoping she’d consider otherwise. “We haven’t even known each other longer than half a day.” 

     “I think we’ve gotten to know each other well enough to meet again,” Rolanda countered, insistent. “We can talk more tonight. Why? You don’t want to hang out with me. Am I not good enough to be your friend?” 

     “No, no, Rolanda, it’s just—.” He almost wanted to simply say to her that he found it too weird to just be buddy buddy all of a sudden. 

     He put his hands to the sides in submission, and said, “Okay, you win, Rolanda Maze. Hook line, and sinker, you got yourself a new friend in record time. I’ve never been to a nightclub before anyway. Should be fun.” 

     “Good,” Rolanda said. “Thank you, Hugh. It’s going to be a good thing to have a new face amongst my bandmates. It’ll be a nice distraction from the tension.” 

     “What tension?” Ronald asked. “You guys seemed happy last night.” 

     “I kicked Max out of the band,” Rolanda informed. 

     “Then what makes you think he’ll be there?” 

     “Because we’ve all been waiting to get into The Quill since it opened, and I know Max well enough to know he wouldn’t even let a loss in his family to keep him from going.” 

     “Damn, must be the best nightclub in Los Angeles,” Ronald said. “I sure do feel lucky now that you’ve said that.” 

     Inside, he did not.

     “It’s just the newest,” Rolanda said. “If it closes down by the end of the year, I wouldn’t be surprised.” 

     “Only the Hollywood sign seems permanent in this town,” Ronald commented. 

     “Give me your phone number so I’ll text you my address,” Rolanda said, taking her cellphone out of the holder on her arm. 

     “What?” Ronald blurted, unconvinced his brain was receiving information correctly. 

     If he were drinking water at that moment, he would have spit it out. Hopefully getting Rolanda all wet, causing her to say, Um, nevermind, then just take off jogging down the path to Ronald’s relief. 

     “You need to know my address so you can pick me up later, and drive me to where the Stoner Class Podcast people live,” she said, tapping the touchscreen on her phone. 

     “I am?” 

     “Look, my bike was stolen last night, and I don’t feel like wasting my gas. Since I’ve invited you to the most hip nightclub in LA — VIP, mind you — you can do me this favor, and give me a ride to the damn podcast.” 

     “Since you put it that way,” Ronald said, “I’ll be happy to. You’re welcome.” 

     “You can hang out in the room during the podcast,” Rolanda suggested. “You smoke weed, right?” 

     “No, I don’t actually.” 

     “Well, I’m sure they got beer. I know you drink, at least.” 

     “Yes, yes, I drink,” Ronald said. 

     He gave her his phone number, and she sent him a text immediately with the address he had already known.