I’m starting an advice video thing. Send all your burning questions to firstname.lastname@example.org. Everything is anonymous.
love letter(s) for you
I don’t know how to love you differently than the way I do. I love you with my whole heart, soul and mind, I recklessly and naively place my entire entity in your hands, I surrender to you and the adulation you make me feel. We feel things deeply, you and I, with our whole souls, not just on the surface like most people. When you are like this you have to select your lover carefully, someone who understands that you never take half-measures, that it is all or nothing.
I feel like you’re the only person I’ve ever been with who understands how surprisingly painful love can be, and not during the times you’re sad, but during the times you’re happy. It’s the pain of feeling so much love that you cannot bear it, it overwhelms you, it is bigger than you. It feels like you’re filled to the brim, water sloshing over the side, swollen and tender, a balloon about to burst. You’re so full and fat with love you don’t know if you’re going to rip open or if it will all suddenly turn to air and you’ll float off into the sky like a balloon. Sometimes you get relief without spontaneous rupture, and instead all that love that has been building crashes like a wave in front of you, the foamy lip licking the beach and your toes, and then the tide draws a deep breath in and you feel like the thousands of pebbles and stones the ocean has momentarily laid bare as you are caressed by the hot sunlight before the ocean eats you up again.
I want to tell you I love you over and over until the words melt on my lips and echo around us forever. I want to feel you close to me, inside me, I want to shrink down to an inch high and live in your pocket and go everywhere with you. I want to love you in ways they have invented yet, in ways that words don’t exist for, the human language that can be so beautiful and yet so limiting sometimes. I feel you, do you feel me? I feel you always inside me, deep, scar tissue in the wound where you cut me open and put your love inside me, and you will live there for as long as I love you, which will be lifetimes. When I look into your eyes I see a universe inside them. I want to explore the galaxies of your soul. Will you let me, oh lover?
Let’s go to the beach this summer. I want to lie down in the waves with you.
I stole my sister’s boyfriend it was all whirlwind, heat, and flash. Within a week we killed my parents and hit the road.
blog-anglophonic asked: Oh, Avery. I'm just trying to sell T-shirts.
Am I preventing this somehow?
State of the Union
Just a quick update, this blog isn’t abandoned, I just haven’t had a working computer in months & find it hard to write on a iPhone. However I’m working on a lot a writing, and should be back soon with a flood of new stuff. Don’t count me out yet!
It’s my birthday & I’ll cry if I want to
As of today, I am 25. Someone asked me if my life has turned out the way I thought it would, & I realized I’ve spent so much of my life just trying to make it to the next week, the next month, that I had never actually thought about my life in the future.I want more from life than to just survive, I want to thrive.
So here’s to thriving, here’s to recklessly and romantically betting on the future, here’s to doing more than just making it, but to really learning to enjoy life instead of going through the motions. Here’s to making peace with the weirdo I am. From now on, I will allow myself to believe that I can change, that I can get more from life, to stop measuring my life in external factors of supposed success (friends, work, money) and measure it in unadulterated joy. Every year I get older, I seem to know less about the world than I thought (or at least have more questions) and more about myself than I knew. Another year has rolled by - wish me luck in my next one.
Jamie, Part One.
(This is a very rough version of an experiment I’m working on. Bear with me)
He pressed the needle into his favorite spot in his right arm, above his elbow and slightly to the left. It took some force, he had developed scar tissue there, but eventually it went through and the blood shot up into the syringe, strawberry red. It was his favorite spot to shoot. He tried not to overuse it, but when he couldn’t find a vein he knew he could rely on it. He had discovered it after his last OD, the nurse in the hospital had used the spot to put in his IV. He never knew he even had a good vein there, usually relying on sight of the blue strings alone, but this vein, hidden beneath the pale skin of his arm, always came through for him. He pressed the plunger down and felt the warmth spread over his body, leaning back while removing the tourniquet and needle from his arm. He thought of Amy. He thought of her breasts, soft, warm and lilly white, almost pink, and how he used to lie with his head between them after the two of them had finished having sex, his wet cock resting on her thigh. He then remembered how much he wanted to touch her breasts when she was lying in her coffin, how wrong that urge had felt, how itchy her tits must be in the high necked wool dress her mother had picked out for the funeral. He had wanted to kiss Amy’s lips so bad, to roll up the sleeves of her dress and kiss the track marks that dotted her arms. Jamie shook his head back and forth, grabbing at his hair, as if physically trying to shake the memories from his brain. He wanted to claw out his eyeballs, to reach into his brain and extract the memory with his fingers. The heroin was coming on stronger now. He crawled from the bathroom onto the dirty mattress lying on the floor and pulled his uncovered comforter around him, stained with blood and food. It’d been a week since Amy died, and even though he promised her, holding her limp blue body against him, that he would never use again, in a way it felt like the only way he could be close to her still, to indulge in that feeling they both shared, loved, loathed. He felt the nod coming on and let that lead him into sleep, and prayed he didn’t dream.
He woke up to what he thought at first was the sound of fountain, till he opened his eyes and saw his roommate Juan pissing in the corner of his room. “Goddammit Juan!” He screamed, pulling himself upright. Juan stared at him, eyes bloodshot and glassy, still pissing. He was drunk, probably coked out or on god knows what. Juan finally finished and swayed as he walked to the door, his dick still dangling limp outside his fly. Whenever Juan got drunk he thought that Jamie’s room was the bathroom. Jamie watched him go, the rancid smell of piss beginning to fill the room. He sorted through the old bags of chips and half eaten boxes of donuts before he found his phone. 3pm. Juan was pissing-in-his-room drunk at 3pm. Jamie pulled on the pants that were lying on the edge of the bed, and headed to the bathroom, not even bothering to deal with the puddle of urine soaking into his carpet. He made his morning shot while he brushed his teeth. He made it strong, knowing that hitting the runway would be hard today. The runway, that was what all the junkie kids and tranny freaks called the stretch of concrete under the overpass, where young hustlers and old washed up prostitutes peddled their trade. The irony of its name was not lost on Jamie. For him, it was a means to a end, a way to maintain the life that he had created for himself. He did some math in his head. His rent was $300, but he already paid this months and next months, thanks to a rich trick who had paid him $800 to eat & ride his ass in a shitty hotel room for an hour. Jamie remembered how when he had come out the bathroom the trick was crying, his head in a pillow, mumbling something about a wife and kids. Jamie watched him for a moment, then walked over to the man and slowly leaned his head down and whispered into the man’s ear, his voice ruffling the man’s gray and brown ear hairs - “You’re going to hell.” He then walked out the room, slamming the door loudly on his way out.
Jamie was the most beautiful of the boys on the runway, with long black hair down to his shoulders, thick lips, and long curled lashes. “Butterfly kisses!” Amy used to exclaim, and Jamie would flutter his eyelashes against her cheek while she giggled. While the other boys tried to get themselves regulars, repeat customers, Jamie always was on the hunt for fresh meat. He hated repeats, and would turn them away, unless they promised twice his usual price. He wasn’t looking to establish a relationship with anyone, business or personal. And besides, he thought, exiting his apartment and beginning the walk to the runway, there was something a little gay about seeing the same customers over and over again, and he wasn’t gay, no matter how much he had taken it in the ass. He thought of his job as something he did for money & didn’t like to do, no different from a janitor or garbageman. Besides, didn’t all working people take it in the ass somehow, even if it was just metaphorically? Jamie reached the runway and began to survey who was working today. He saw the huddled group of girls who he knew belonged to Carlos. He hated Carlos, huge and greasy, a cigarette always tucked between his fat lips, even when he spoke. Jamie had rescued Amy from Carlos, who had fought hard to keep from letting a girl so beautiful go, but eventually relented when Jamie “bought” her freedom. Jamie could picture Carlos’s thick fingers counting Jamie’s money, his gold bracelets shining on his wrists, laughing at him, telling him the little junkie girl was his problem now. Jamie didn’t want Amy working the runway. She was too young, too beautiful, not old and hard like him. He kept her at home, painting. But he couldn’t stop her from doing smack. Already far into his addiction himself, he just dragged her deeper, and no matter how much it hurt to see her sick, skin and bones, he knew she wouldn’t kick until he did, and he knew he never could.
(To Be Continued….)
Ain’t no cure for the summertime blues (Taken with Instagram)
A note to remember
I’d like to reiterate that this blog should be considered a work of fiction. Though I use my real name, and some of the experiences are my own or close to my own, it is a different version of myself, a alter ego, a person who has done things I haven’t, seen things I haven’t, slept with people I haven’t, done drugs I do not do. Its a popular device for writers (See Bukowski) and not an unusual one. Please do not consider this as a record of my life. Also, in the future, I’m going to be posting more short stories and less alter-ego based prose. There is only so much you can say about “yourself”.
However, I don’t disavow the things I write about, as these subjects are close to my heart. There is a risk any time you make your writing public that people will use your work as a source for malicious gossip and try to hurt you by throwing it back at you. In the end, It doesn’t matter. It’s part of the process. And in the end, I write for myself, and no matter what people say about it, they can never tarnish the joy that comes with creating something for yourself.