Here's to the blur of the past,

And the words I never asked.

The confusion of today,

And the thoughts I'd never relay.

And to the clarity of tomorrow,

To the next day I wish it towed. 

And she tried. Again and again, she attempted love, trying to find her way through the abstract hills of an emotion that didn't exist in her realm. But suddenly the word "impossible" made a little more sense. It was impossible to love. For how can a girl who can't love herself, love someone else?

RISE AND SHINE, MISFITS. My average greeting for an average day. Only today isn't an average day. Today is the day you find out about me. So, in that manner, it's a very special day. Or a dreadful day. However you want to see it. It's not like I can see it now. After all, I don't exist in your mortal realm anymore. How could i? I'm dead. Not that you'd care, most people don't. Not a sob story. How could it be? My story is amusing if not mindblowingly hilarious. It's a pretentious little story. Not majorly on my part, but in general. Is it surreal? Hearing my voice after i'm i'm dead? Well, first off, did you even know I died? That I took my life? Did you hear it? Any of you? Oh, that's right. This message is to many people. Don't be so self centered, you aren't the only one who was so unworthy of my story that you heard it after my death. I know what some of you must be thinking? "How are we unworthy if you took out the time to do this for us?" Oh, trust me. I'm not doing this FOR all of you, I'm doing this TO all of you. This "story" that I speak of is going to play over and over in your head, hopefully keeping you all to ask yourself why I'm including you in my audience to this tale. Well you'll find out soon enough. And though some of you are particularly stubborn, maybe I can drill this into your head, all the way to your pathetic little graves. just maybe. 

Misconceptions. 14 letters of hell. They're present every single minute of the fucking day without us even knowing it. And when one does realize that their past truths are today's misconceptions, it's not erased. Hell, it's not even corrected. It's simply rewritten for another to come by it and for them to rewrite it again. and the cycle continues...over and over and over, so many things changing so quickly that we don't even remember what it was supposed to be in the first place. Culture, traditions, the answers to the math question, even the color of that ice cream you're eating. We see things the way we are required to see them, by the deranged view of our body's controlling government, with freedom for the people being lost in the process. But then again, that could be a misconception.

I kissed your lips and whispered to your soul. It was an echo of sorts, the way it resonated, loud and lingering, going nowhere except straight to your head. Your head that tried to push the thought away, tried to forget that I had uttered those words. Because those words were painful, to finally hear the truth caused the death of your bliss and awakened the world of deceit that you now had to bear. Lucky me, huh? The power of destroying your world you could have given to anybody and you chose me. Me. The person who wanted the power the least but desired your pain the most. I didn’t have to lift a hand, I haven’t had to strike your face. I never needed to use insults that would cause yourself to be displaced. I just had to caress your arm, brush your cheek, hold your neck. I just had to murmur lies of your beauty in your ear, softly, no louder than a breath of air you know was never good for you in the first place. All I had to do, was fix you from being broken. Just so that I could break you a second time. Except now, you were never going to be fixed again. I had broken that too. Your trust for someone else to fix you was now gone too, gone forever. I would say I’m sorry but those five words had already said enough. I kissed your lips and whispered to your soul, “I don’t really love you.”

My third grade teacher was a bitch. Her husband was a scientist for NASA and she absolutely loved to use her "superior" knowledge of the universe to ruin the few good things that I had left in my life. When I was four and was scared of the dark, my grandfather told me that the darkness was the shadow of the spirits of the people who had loved me. While it may sound creepy to everyone else, it gave me a sense of comfort, comfort that was taken away from me three years later. Because apparently darkness wasn't my mom, dad and sister looking after me, giving me a sense of comfort I never had ever since their passing. No, darkness, according to Ms. Fleming with her damn rocket scientist of a husband, was simply the absence of light.

"Darkness," she said, "doesn't exist, and don't let your fools of parents tell you otherwise."

Well, my parents can't tell me anyway, and even if they tried in their state of nonexistence, apparently they're not watching over me anymore, so don't worry about that Ms. Fleming, you can ruin my life all you want without consequences.

So why was I thinking about this the night before my death by euthanasia? Because it was dark. Every time, all my life when it get's dark, that is all I think about. My third grade teacher ruining the only good thing I had going for me at age eight. I still found darkness comforting of course, still pretending like the blue eyes of my family was piercing the black and looking after me, keeping me safe. Childish? Yes. Foolish? Yes. Too hopeful for words? Absolutely. But at this point, it was too late for me to care.

Of course, that wasn't the only reason I was thinking about Ms. Fleming. It was her fault I was in this mess in the first place. She had the nerve to name me as one of the criminals that murdered that poor girl. And with my lack of legal representation, the judge and jury had no choice but to convict me guilty. With my death, the true murderer walked free. Lucky them.

I laughed, the chuckle echoing in the lone cell. It was ironic really. I had committed thirteen murders in my life of people guilty of crimes worse than mine, and I was going to jail for the murder of an innocent person, a murder I didn't even commit? After fulfilling my goal of eliminating the people responsible for my family's death, all I get is a death sentence myself. I laughed again, the sound ringing in the darkness. It’s truly funny how Fleming thinks she’s getting the better of me. I've finally avenged the passing of my loved ones, and I knew that while you could repent for your sins you can't  repent for your revenge. So I guess Ms. Fleming wasn't the only bitch here, apparently karma was right there beside her. 

I was looking forward to it, joining my family, to be there together once again. Hovering over our friends and family, becoming shadows to look after them. Because she got it wrong. It's light that doesn't exist. It is simply an absence of dark. 

"Beer before liquor, never been sicker; liquor before beer, you're in the clear." 

Whoever came up with this has obviously never gotten drunk before. I can imagine some talentless airhead trying to become famous by coming up with this bullshit. Because this night started off with the usual hard stuff, vodka, tequila, a little whisky here and there, slowly moving on to the cheap beers and I could already feel the hangover and nausea coming. Or maybe it's just Jenny Michealson's shitty alcohol at her crappy house party. Though I guess it's not so crappy with me in it. Arrogant, I know. But drunk me is arrogant, so deal with it. Because I am way too hammered to have a care in the world. While I'm not staggering around the rooms and slurring my words, I'm not in entire control of my body or words either. 

So maybe that's how I ended up against the wall making out with some guy I didn't know. His name? Who knows. What he looks like? Who. The. Fuck. Cares. Right now all I could think about was the fact that his lips were on my neck and my hands were in his hair. And then he picks me up, his hands around my thighs as we continue what we are doing, down the hall, up the stairs and through the door to the attic. What was this Guy #3? #7? At this point I'm so wasted I can't even remember which guy I was about to fuck. Because that was what I did. Guy after guy I end up in the same position. Me, pressed up against a wall with some boy with his lips crashing into mine, him carrying me up the stairs, careful not to stop what we were doing, ending up in the attic where the deed was done. And then, farewell. 

I never really remembered these guys. Even if I wasn't drunk, the sight of their faces escaped my memory as soon as they started to lean in. And if by some off chance I did remember them, it was irrelevant. Because I don't do seconds, I don't want a relationship right now and even if I could have gotten a friend out of it, I'm just not a sociable person. And so it continued. The mindless sex minus the mind games. It wasn't perfect, because perfection is unattainable, but it was crazy and it worked. 

As soon as I get my t-shirt back on, I'm out the door and down the stairs. I'm going to take a break. The better part of the night has started now, with the right kind of music and the not so crappy, not so expensive drinks. I grab a beer and head towards Ace, a familiar acquaintance of mine whom I often hang out with at these parties when I'm in need of a breather. He was on the dance floor with a bunch of guys I didn't recognize, right in the center of the mosh pit. One of the guys navigated his way out and started heading towards the backyard, cigarette box in his hand. Damn, I'm in need of a smoke. So what did I do? I followed.

He was leaning agains the side of the house, cigarette in one hand, his other playing with a lighter. I stretch out my hand and he wordlessly places another cancer stick in it. I light it with my own lighter. We stand there, side by side, smoking our lives away. And then he looks towards me. And his eyes stare at mine. They're intriguing, his eyes. One grey and one a dark, dark blue. I've seen heterochromia before but there's something about the contrast of his light grey and dark blue that's drawing me in and pushing me away at the same time. He drops his cigarette and crushes it with his shoe. I copy his movements, my eyes settling on the ocean in the distance, but his eyes don't move. I look back at him, my eyes drinking in the sight of his multicolored eyes. Then he leans in. And this time I don't forget. 

We do the usual, the hallway, the stairs, the attic. Tumbling down onto the bed, falling into a sweaty mess of arms and legs and lips running wild against each others necks. And then it's over and we redress ourselves. We go down, one after the other, him rejoining his friends on the dance floor and me heading towards my truck. It's parked in a clearing in the woods near Michealson's house. I get into the back, curl myself into a thick blanket and let the scent of the trees and distant sound of music rock me to sleep. 

And then suddenly I wake up. It's 5:30 am, the sun just rising. I sit up and watch the sunrise, trying to remember the previous night. Just like every other time, my mind is blank, from the type of beer I drank to the number of guys I slept with to the songs that were playing. But then at the back of my mind a flash of grey and blue come into focus. They're eyes I think. Whose eyes I don't know but I do know that they're the most beautiful eyes I've ever seen. And that I better hold onto it because I don't see many beautiful things in life. My life is just a mix of make-outs, mindlessness and muchness. Make of that what you will.