To the Unknown
I miss you.
In your entirety.
Who you are and,
Who you will be.
I miss the adventure,
It feels so close to me.
The danger and the luxe,
I can feel myself breathe.
You are not too far from me.
Intuition speaks volumes,
If one only knows how to read.
I want to get to you,
You are just out of reach.
Every time I climb up,
You achieve a new peak.
A mystery left unsolved,
A plot to be redeemed.
A secret that’s well kept,
A shadow not yet seen.
You are my upper lip,
And you’re behind my teeth.
I do not know you yet,
But I shall not seethe.
Musings of a Mermaid
1. Mer-Made
In an attempt to differentiate myself from mainstream trends I’ve created this blog to speak through the eyes of a true mermaid. Not to be confused as a hipster with an agenda (although, I’d make a damned cute one). I am not a human and wouldn’t openly associate myself with such an inferior. Although, when on land, I do acquire a nice set of legs.
The posts to follow are an assembly of thoughts and events that have occurred during my expedition on land. As it currently stands, mermaids are portrayed as ‘basic’. If you’re not familiar with today’s lingo, urban dictionary will soon become your best friend. Currently, the term “basic” is
“1. Used to describe someone devoid of defining characteristics that might make a person interesting, extraordinary, or just simply worth devoting time or attention to.
2. Lacking intelligence and unable to socialize on even an elementary level.
3. Annoyingly frustrating because of the above”
(courtesy of UrbanDictionary.com).
Also, another adjective associated with the term was “unsophisticated”. So you see the setback on the reputation of a mermaid? What is the cause of this undesirable misconception? I haven’t lined up any proven solutions just yet, although, I can’t help but to point fingers at the plethora of cheesy kids’ movies found on G-Rated channels, the omnipotent coffee franchise who so kindly chose a mermaid as her poster child (for those who believe it’s a siren, I dare you to try me), or maybe it’s because of the laughable amount of basic girls who wear mermaid tail blankets and claim to be the beautiful sea-dwelling beings, themselves. Just a hunch. Now, I’m covertly observing the human race, and using my everyday experiences to slowly clear the name of the mermaids for good (or at least for a century or so).
-Sea smooches, P
2. Dark Roast till Dawn
Humans are excruciating beings. Why are they so freaking terrible? I’m sure this question will resurface in my writing almost every day for the rest of the year because it has almost become a habit now. But, why?
Why do they appear to be so caring and sweet and inviting and harmless? Yet, my optimistic mind is always let down by their undeniably self-motivated or negligent behavior… Let me dive further into this (swimming pun-intended). An evening ago, I was attempting to indulge in a blueberry scone at a stellar café when my calm peace and quiet was intruded upon by…yes, humans. I had only a couple of bites of the delicacy, focusing my attention on positioning all of the crumbs in the center of my napkin, when my concentration was broken by a pack of teens. Yes. A pack. I feel that it is actually a compliment to even call them humans since they were really behaving like coyotes; acting as if they were big and bad when, in reality, they were just small-town kids trying to look cool. Except, they had posed a valid threat to my evening in solitude. A day full of humans and I can’t even claim nighttime for myself.
Seeing as how I was the only customer in the café at half-past ten, I knew that my cozy retreat would be closing shortly. The teens’ laughter thundered against the towering book shelves and obscure art (if that’s what you want to call it anyway) as they strolled to the counter. Immediately, they hassled the barista to concoct all of these drinks with extensive recipes… I was quite annoyed for him, actually. Who has time to remember this crap? He finished each drink one at a time, when the second kid received hers she spat it over the counter {insert eye roll here}. “This shit sucks! What even is this? I asked for a soy latte. Like, how hard is that to get?” The barista immediately halted his operation and ordered the pack out of the store. I sensed a dramatic scene about to unfold before me, but the appall was no match for my piquing interest {insert amused smirk here}.
The scene did erupt as I had suspected it would, but not to the extent that I’d thought… Both hands in his pockets, a husky guy threatened the barista, “We’ll leave when we want. She asked for a soy latte. We ain’t leaving till then.” He had a strong accent that said ‘I grew up in the ghettos of L.A.,’ but his prep school hoodie and Beats by Dre spoke for themselves about his true roots. His whiney, ‘I get what I want’ attitude devoid me of any and all present or future sympathy toward the crew. I remained silent, but internally I scoffed, “Chill out, Mac Miller.”
The self-absorbed group was too involved to have even noticed my presence, so I slipped on the other side of a bookshelf, hidden from view. As it turns out, this was a smart move. The shopkeeper rang out one last threat that he was going to call the cops, with intensifying anger visible in his uncanny eyes. Thirty seconds later, gunshots belted out followed by adolescent laughter and carefree footsteps filing through the door. They hadn’t bothered to so much as even dust the counter off with their fingerprints. “Punks,” I said aloud in my perceived loneliness.
Peeking toward the crime scene, I found that there was no blood anywhere… I stalked around the counter and checked the barista’s pulse. There was nothing but a cold, dead body lying on the ground. Dead indeed, but not from the cause that I’d thought. Stark laughter erupted from the eerie silence, “dumb ass kids couldn’t even hit me fatally.” Okay, this is where I was lost for a second, too. I forgot that I’m not the only outsider in these parts. “Besides, they’d need a silver bullet to kill a cold one,” he retorted with a grin that’d send shiver down a human’s spine. Letting out a giggle I offered a hand to the bloodsucker. He got up and chuckled, returning to his work. “Since when have vampires started getting involved in food business?” I sneer, raising an eyebrow. He smiles back, “We don’t have to taste the food to lure in humans.” We exchange a knowing grin. No wonder his coffee sucks.
-Smirking, P
Why so serious?
Why so serious?
Road-trips left us in the dust.
Why so serious?
An inattentive shoulder.
Why so serious?
Careful not to care fully.
Why so serious?
No evidence of happy.
Why so serious?
Disregard and disdain.
Why so serious?
Discarded from an old deck.
Why so serious?
Is it that bad to be friends with me?
Chapter 1
Nonchalantly shaking my eyeliner, I notice the sunrise peeking through the window, cheery streaks molesting my hand. Glancing at the mirror I notice it’s also touching my cheeks. I stalk over to the window and close the blinds tightly. I don’t feel like being irritated this morning. The ebony liner glistens on the applicator as I unscrewed the tube. Brushing it on both my upper and lower lids in four exquisitely thick strokes, I admire my work, then reach for the mascara. Initially debating on whether or not to use eye shadow, I decide that less will be more on such a morbid day. “You’re ravishing, my friend,” I flirt with the reflection.
My jet black combat boots comforted themselves in the cushy, wet grass. At least it was beginning to drizzle outside; maybe it won’t be such a bad day after all. I know that this is likely just wishful thinking, but a little bit of rain has always been a good omen in one form or another. Heh, or maybe it’s just my twisted thought process that seems to believe so.
As I walked across my yard to the garage, my boots sinking into the grass reminded me of the dumb memory foam mattresses everyone raves about. The only people that actually have the money to blow on that shit (and also lack a life to talk about) take pleasure in filling a void with overpriced merchandise like that. I roll my eyes to myself. Chill out, you haven't even left the premises and you’re already in the mood to beat someone’s ass. Slipping the key out of the lock, I lift the rusty garage door then patiently lower into my beaux. “I may have a shanty, little house with an unkempt yard, and I may not have your fancy ass mattress, but I do have a nice ride,” I say, as if any of those losers can actually hear me.
The sweet engine thundered and I instantly felt myself smiling throughout my body. I eased the mint Chevelle out of the drive. Finally reaching the main road, I let it wide open. I crank my window down and invite the moist wind to parade through my hair. The radio even seems to be playing my jam this morning. All is right in the world, except for the world itself. Not a single soul to be seen meandering in their yards or near the road, which only pleases me more. I guess people don’t get up before seven on a Saturday anymore.
I knew I’d have a taxing day so I decided to exit my retreat of a home a bit earlier this weekend and enjoy some coffee I didn’t have to brew myself. Pulling up to a chic, hipster coffee chain, I sit in my car for a moment letting my quirky music come to a stopping point. Watching the few people bustling around the vicinity of the coffee shop, my eye is caught by a particularly interesting spectacle.
A pompous, overweight woman carrying a Pomeranian in an oversized designer handbag, walked tiredly to the door spewing loud profanities on her phone. She wore the most hideous, floral top. I mean I’m not one for floral prints anyway so maybe I’m just being harsh, but it seemed far from flattering. That and her ragged jeans didn’t seem to go with her expensive persona she clearly wanted to put off. Which was easily detected based on her loud conversation that I could hear even after I’d already rolled my window up. It was evident that she enjoys the finer things because she was screaming at a poor soul on the other end for not delivering her monogrammed, vacuum-sealed, insulated cup in time for her daughter’s trip to Universal Studios. “Ha. The coffee can wait a bit,” I turn the knob of the radio up. My morning has been swell, I’m not about to squander it with this memory foam bitch.
Once the coast was clear, I strolled into the coffee shop and ordered the least polluted coffee I could find. Additional pumps of caramel and a spoonful of sugar are for the weak. If you can’t drink coffee without that junk, then you don’t really like it. “What’s the name?” asked barista boy cheerily. “Does it matter? I’m the only one in here,” I look at him with a slightly raised eyebrow and a side smirk. Clearly uncomfortable, he tries once more. “I don’t come here to take pictures of a paper cup, with a mythical creature and my misspelled name on it, for all of my nonexistent Twitter followers to see,” I say in a playfully aggressive tone.
I laugh aloud, strolling toward a table and slide into a chair with unused napkins littered all over the table. Patting all of my jacket pockets, I find a cheap, old pen from when I flew out-of-state last winter. Then I began stroking the napkin with the point of the pen; connecting shapes and lines, I was entirely entranced. Eventually I hear the skittish barista boy chirp the name of my drink, and I raise myself up still staring at the image I’d scrawled in only a few minutes. It’s unsatisfactory at best. I need to touch up a few things on the left of its head. Eh, plus, it looks disproportionate, somehow. Standing at the table, I add a few more details to the hopeless picture. I can’t let go of my pen as I feel it testing the grains of the napkin; I feel addicted to the struggle. It’s bittersweet torture as I walk away from my work to snatch up the coffee.
After many gulps of caffeine and intense concentration, the giant squid challenges me to a stare-down. Its threatening eye seems to glare right back at me from the tabletop. I like it. I’ll be adding this to the portfolio as soon as I get home tonight. I pick up the new piece of art and examine it between my fingers. I toss the paper cup in the trash bin with my non-dominant hand and slowly make my way to the black Chevy farthest from the entrance. Placing my drawing on the bench seat, I lower into the driver’s side with a devastated sigh. Now to the dreaded deed. I put the car in reverse as if I’m hesitantly loading a rifle, about to trudge into a war zone.
Strange Specimen of Mine
Not one to give in to conformity - and ogling some guy seemed to fall into that category - I felt betrayed by my own mind. I couldn't peal myself from him, one glance and I wanted more. He had copper skin and flowing, black hair; shiny and full, it covered a good portion of his face. He sported ebony combat boots and a grey heavy-metal tee, which seemed like overkill, but I was definitely not against it. Curiosity drew me in. The boy socialized with everyone, clearly a hit among his peers; they watched him, faces painted with giddiness as he performed a self-deprecating joke. They're laughter filled him for a moment, and then he moved on, wandering the room to find another group to talk to. His face seemingly hopeful, ambitious, as if he was looking for something in these encounters. I witnessed him as he went through the same humiliation with yet another set of acquaintances. He remained somehow unfazed. An eccentric soldier in a battlefield of insecurities, he clung to his dignity in spite of any awkward pauses or harsh responses. In fact, he actually appeared to be enjoying himself.
I watched the boy every day after that, as I waited in between classes. He became my own personal specimen. Analyzing his behavior daily, I became increasingly wondrous about his life. My specimen was a complex one; never letting down his friends, but never actually having any true friends at the same time. One day, I took a closer look at the boy; his mouth claimed one thing, but his body another. His eyes sparkled with innocence as he spoke. Once he was alone, though, a certain fog seemed to linger inside his head. Many people attempt to shove away feelings they don't want to own, but you can't delete your history in life; sometimes the darkest emotions come from the seemingly happiest people. I felt attached and intrigued. I knew I was becoming too involved, but I had to know more about his life.
The very next day, the boy came up missing. He hadn't missed a single day of school since I'd began my creepy lurking from afar. I was slightly concerned for the boy whom I had never actually met. I scanned the area, looking everywhere, and finally came to the realization that there must be something really wrong. Until I heard a voice that made me stop in my tracks; "It's nice to be the observer and not the observed for a change." A genuine grin flashed across his face. My heart jolted nearly out of my chest as I stared at him, in a daze. Movements and senses had been abandoned at the first hint of his voice, so I stared back at him dopily, caught up in the early stages of shock.
