and in these moments,
of feeling lost enough,
i find myself turning to the tones that narrate my adolescence,
the ones I know every small shade to.

the way the tongue dipped to form those kiwi sounds,
brings on peace like childhood nostalgia,
dripping in rich indigo and sparkling lavender.

i crawl inside of them,
rewatching the story a thousand times over,
feeling the anticipation of the tide's rise and fall,
deep down in my soul.

As whispers of aristocracy,
teenage anarchy,
broken lovers,
and reeling nights,

take me home to my heart,
and I feel known.

They're such shiny chemicals:
Dopamine, Norepinephrine, Phenylethylamine.
Life shimmers,
and each day is painted with purpose
When dosed with such potency.

I would like to believe that love,
The long-lasting kind,
The one you're supposed to want,
The one that settles you,
Where you grow old and spend Wednesday evenings answering emails and rewatching some old baking show in ***** sweats
Is enough to keep life interesting.
But chemistry doesn't always work that way.

My path might dictate some other measure of wholeness,
And more than one type of love,
And more than a couched lookalike storybook ending.
My path may require
Risk, Adventure, Longing,
Questioning, Exploration, Pain,
Brilliant platonic wildfires,
Intellectual dalliances,
And unrequited amorosity.
In short, my path may require some trailblazing.

But this precious neural spark
In my body
That keeps me in love with love
Is mine to keep
For as long as it continues to shine.

It was a Monday afternoon...

4th period, first semester 10th grade. Drafting class.

You hated the class. And I... didn't.

But we had fun anyway. I had a headphone splitter and while we worked we watched YouTube videos together. You introduced me to Panic! At The Disco, My Chemical Romance, All Time Low, Bring Me The Horizon, Black Veil Brides, And Jon Cozart.

And I showed you FadeIntoCase, Dodie Clark, and whatever YouTube had to offer that interested me.

Our friendship was good. We never had to worry about boyfriends or girlfriends, we were just kids. But I guess looking back, I can say that we were definitely better people than most.

I feel bad about that one day you were rewatching the Deadpool trailer over and over. You asked me what Deadpool video we should watch next.

And I told you I thought you should calm down.

You pulled the headphone splitter out your computer and chucked it my way. A sudden disconnect. I immediately apologized and when I realized you didn't want to hear it, I stopped trying to get your attention.

I know that's a stupid memory, but I still feel bad about it for some reason.

But I also remember that Monday afternoon that would test our friendship. We were in class and you were... not there, mentally I mean.

You were crying and I felt like something needed to be done. So I went and asked the teacher to let you go... and he did. As soon as I told you, you left.

And I felt bad. I knew I did the right thing, but I felt bad because I was going out of my way to make life better for someone I truly care about. It was overwhelming but I did it anyway.

I took your bag and waited for you outside the classroom. But you didn't show up. I found another friend and began crying in her arms, telling her how I couldn't do it anymore. Eventually you did find me, you took your bag and left.

I felt bad because I felt like my efforts went unappreciated time and time again. But they weren't.

I went home to write the song "At what cost?", which I performed the next day. You asked me why you hadn't heard the song before. I told you I wrote it after what happened. And I promised to send you every song I'd write from then on. And I did.

I still do.

I wrote you letters and cigarettes, I meant everything I wrote. And now where are we?

During the musical, I made and effort to wish you good luck before your big song, every single show. Every show...

You baked me cupcakes for my birthday.

The last time we FaceTimed was a Monday night. We listened to Disney music while you worked on art. You offered to FaceTime... I felt lucky that you would want to hang out with someone like me.

I would give you a hug everyday before leaving school at the end of the day...

In the last cigarette you gave me for my birthday you wrote "I couldn't ask for a better person to go to France with."

And I believed you.

So while we were in France. I can only remember watching a part of an episode of Riverdale with you and thinking to myself, "she still cares... we're okay".

We played games of 31 and that felt normal. But then we played cards in a different crowd and suddenly I didn't feel safe around them. I felt judged, by them, by you.

I don't even know if the locks mattered to you. You gave the letters back as if they didn't matter... I don't know how to fix this.

I remember walking slower to get the attention of a guy. And you saw me walking by myself and tried starting a conversation with me. I told you I was in the middle of another conversation. So you left me to try and talk to him.

You even said, "It's been awhile since we've talked." AND YOU WERE RIGHT!!

I should've stayed back and talked to you.

I wish I did.

I still care about you. So much so that I'm willing to leave you if it'll make you happy. I'm sorry.

How much I remember makes me cry because I will never be able to take back everything I did wrong. And now it's too late.

When I asked you if you thought we'd still be friends after high school, you said you didn't know.

And I believed you. But I still hold out the smallest bit of hope. Everyday, that you'll tell me it's gonna be okay, and that our friendship didn't just...

Pass by...

That I was somebody to you.

On your birthday, at the stroke of midnight, I texted you saying happy birthday the same way I did the year before. And you just said, "Thank you".

So I guess...

Thank you for being there. Thank you for existing. Thank you for being my friend. And if, in the future, I do make things right and we become close again, than maybe I can drop this guilt and shame for what I did.

Because I need too know...

If I'm worth your friendship all over again.

I'm sorry I ******* up. And if I could do it all over again, I would. And I would make all the right choices, making our lives better.

And if this really is the end. I just hope that you listen to my songs once in a while and remember me as someone who wrote a couple good songs for you.

Because "Rush" is still my best piece of work. And it's yours.

Your golden frame which I once held so dear
Trickled between my fingers like the unlucky prospectors
Me, cursing the wind, never saw it coming
For days I could barely breath,
Ive been trying to bring myself to the arms of another
But every time I get close enough I’m reminded of you
A scent carried, or a crack in their smiles,
What a fever this is, this thing called love
Hopefully the right prescription will do the trick,
Enough liquor to drown an ocean,
and rewatching Barbarella for the 10th time
is just what the doctor ordered.

My mom once told me there were four parts of a movie.

I asked her, is it the beginning, the body, the ******, and then the conclusion?

She shakes her head, no she said. It's the play, the pause, the rewind

That's only three I thought. I leaned closer as she explains to my eight year old brain what it meant.

The play is when the excitement first builds. It's the thickness of air around you, but still you run out of breath. She says. It's the beginning of the adventure, the beginning of everything.

She takes a breath. She presses the cigarette **** against her lips. She takes a sip from her wine glass.

The pause is where you reevaluate things a little. She begins. It's where something takes you away from your track, and it leaves you baffled, so you stop a little, digesting what went wrong.

She takes another drag from the cigarette.

The third one is the rewind. Her eyes turn a little glassy. It's deciding that the movie was good enough, that it's worth rewatching. That somehow, you can overlook the bad parts and rewind again, replay again, because to you it was that good.

Mom and I stayed silent for a long time. She kept sipping from her wine glass.

I swallow. You said there were four parts, I say.

She looks at me, and her eyes were filled with sorrow, pain. Anger.

The last part, she spits out, is the stop. It's deciding halfway through the replay that it simply won't work anymore. That it needs to end. That the bad things will always be present and cant be overlooked. That the excitement isn't worth it anymore.

She takes a deep breath. She stands and ruffles my hair. She kisses me goodnight. I close my eyes and listen to her heavy breathing fade through the lonely halls of our home.

Later that night, while I was in bed, I get the distinct notion that she wasn't talking about movies and their parts at all.

“Should we wrap it up?”



“No… **** them.”



And so she held it open and I shoved the contents in, a navy blue national geographic mug with a gold globe and majestic lettering, suggesting prestige and class, and a worn paper copy of ‘Ender’s Game’. My stomach churned for a moment as I feared that I perhaps forgot to remove the bookmark, but the pages held nothing but themselves, and the words of Orson Scott Card, not me.
“You’re not going to write him anything, are you?”



Why did she ask that? She had a right, but didn’t she trust me? I did write him something. I used the bookmark, in reality a half-piece of paper folded twice, and wrote



“Thank you for letting me

read this

it took a while to

get back to you but

I see why you like it.”



I suspected he wasn’t as dense as his misogyny and drug use suggested, and in my form he could find an alternative meaning, the kind I provided him with, the kind when he said he wondered what I meant sometimes.



I reread my penciled note, my last farewell, and considered writing “good luck with everything”. What would he think if he read it, if they read it? They already laughed so it’d be nothing new. I decided against it. It would be a response to his arrogant, empty text, where he triumphantly, probably drunk, sent a blank text. Did you have to tell me you had nothing tell me? She was furious. I never did respond, and handwriting was too personal.



“I have nothing to say to him. I just want to give their **** back and get it out of my life.”



I didn’t check the price of the over-sized, padded envelope I was about to purchase, but I appreciated the convenience of the post office for making my task an easy one. There was something freeing about being passive and sending mail, rather than making the three hour drive for no reason other than to experience another awkward situation, and perhaps worse, another yelling altercation.



I was worried the glass would break in transit, for the fear they would open the package and see it as deliberate, and I imagined their conversation: mocking our relationship, calling us *******, suggested we did it on purpose, saying anything malicious to assert their manliness and inflate their egos.



“Should we send them separately?”

“Don’t waste your money on those ******.”



So I sealed it. The small, bulky package contained things to return seemed heavier than needed. I imagined their faces when they saw who sent it, their outward responses to one another, and their immediate reactions once opening it.



“This will shut him the **** up. I can’t believe he thought I stole it.. I thought it was yours when I packed it.”



“You don’t need to say anything,” she demanded. “He’ll get it back, you don’t need to explain.”



She was obviously more annoyed at the two than I, although I was immensely annoyed. He thought I stole his mug. Well, I am so kindly sending it back. Perhaps this would be enough to get a response regarding subleasing.



“I really don’t want to pay $300 a month for a place I’m not living,” I pleaded.



“If they don’t respond then we’ll put locks on our doors. I don’t want them using our rooms and letting their friends sleep there.. they’d probably let people live there and pocket the money for themselves.”



The line in front of us gave us enough time to contemplate the situation, the whole situation, and it reminded me to check if he said anything. Message read, Tuesday 10:10 p.m. No response. I didn’t dare write the other. Neither would she.



“Six-thousand one, Autumn Avenue,” I said out loud as I wrote the address. A strangeness filled me, as I looked at the names I’d just written and the address of my former college residence. We don’t live here anymore. I was glad of it. I was glad to be standing there with her, running a necessary errand of alleviating ourselves of the burden of owing them anything. No longer would we need to endure video games, constant presence of the boy who slept on the couch every single night, despite his room, rewatching Gordon Ramsey’s ‘Kitchen Nightmares’ over and over until he memorized them, nor did we need to deal with hearing the door slam at 3:00 a.m. and an alarming “I’m home, *******!” from a drunkard. No more cleaning up beer bottles and bowls with cigarette ashes, no more listening to hockey or male-dominated conversations lacking substance. No longer would I feel trapped, as if Giovanni’s room, in the upstairs loft, tension rising up the stairs and filling up the whole house, the way burnt Ramen would smell when he forget to monitor it. The “he”’s would be out of our lives, as soon as they signed the lease. We stood there at the table before the checkout, patiently, thinking of the same thing probably, except I imagined her wondering if I liked when he ****** me.



She took the pen from me and hovered it over the package, pretending to inscribe “Love, the girls” with a heart next to it. She laughed, and I did too. I could imagine them opening the package, the one retrieving his mug, undoubtedly making a snarky comment, and the other ******* about the bottom left corner of the cover of his book being bent. I wondered if he’d wonder whether I read the whole thing through.



I hoped the cup wasn’t broken. There was a crack on the bottom of the handle, and I imagined him sitting on the sofa drinking coffee and having it snap and spill all over his lap.



“Next,” the woman called us and we stepped to send it off. “Would you be interested in the priority tracking shipping? It’ll cost— ”



“No thanks, we’re not in a real rush to get it there.”



“It’ll be the same price as without it, $5.79.”



“Then sure.”



I paid in quarters, retrieved my change and we left.



“Hopefully now that he has his ******* cup back he’ll sign the lease.” We were both worried.



“Do you want to get some wine?” And so we drove. Up the street, left turn, on the main road, right turn through the drive through.



“Hello,” I said to the man in the turban. She gave me her license and her card. “Could we have a double-bottle of Yellow Tail’s Cabernet Sauvignon?”



“Big bottle?”



“Yes sir.”



“I wonder how much those Backwoods cigars are.. sir, could you tell me how much for the 5-pack?” He reached for the pack on the left. “$7.49.”



“Oh no. Do you have Black and Mild’s?



“Apple, wood-tip, wine—”



“Could we have a wood-tipped wine one?”



“It’s better than cigarettes.”



“I haven’t smoked tobacco since Christmas Eve so I’m okay with it. I need it after today.”



He handed me the goods, I gave him her card, we waited, I smiled at her and she smiled back, her pale face and sweet, soft features, like a little pet, and he reached down to give me the clipboard to sign her name.



“Thanks, have a good night.” And I drove off.

When you left, it was like my favorite library went down in monstrous flames
like my affiliate soccer club losing by a
very close margin the decisive games
it was like a great storm pouring on your first visit to the beach
yet you saved a lifetime, and journeyed a 1000 miles to get there
and you doubt you'll ever make it to the Lake side again
It was like taking a bullet close to the heart that didn't **** you instantly
it choked you, but left you to gasp for breath and deal with the pain
knowing you'll eventually succumb to the throb and the ooze
like that split second after you kick the bucket that you dread the noose
but there's no turning back, no way to survive even with a million clues
It was like being caught in the open by an unanticipated hurricane
fully aware you're either going by being blown by a giant cyclone
or freeze to a human marble before the force is come
It was like a catchy novel ending with a melancholic twist
you wish you never started reading in the first place
like, at the eleventh hour, your Dobby burning the wedding dress
leaving you an angry bride and a whole other mess
that would live after you like your shadow at dawn for the rest of your life
It was like rewatching your favorite childhood film
and realizing it wasn't as good as you always thought
and wondering why you went turning over the rocks of the past
like finding out your best friend is boyfriend to your secret crush
It was like losing a close person to a plane crush or an inferno
you receive bits and pieces, you bury the ashes
yet the hopes survive, yet nothing haunts like when such hopes are alive
you live after the belief that someday they'll fly out
oblivion like a phoenix and hug you tight if only for just one more time
it was like finding a free verse that beats all rhyme
in a collection so tattered that most of it can't be read
so you're left dying of curiosity and dread
Losing you was like saying goodbye to your friends at graduation
conscious it could be the end to a great season of your existence
but trying so hard to resist asking the obvious question
or one that wouldn't hatch answers but unfortunate tension
it was worse, it was agreeing to meet after a year and being the only one that showed up at the rendezvous
it was believing the folk stories and growing up to the realization that none of it was true
It made my childhood roses and chocolate
but what do I have now that Santa won't bring an avalanche of
breathtaking kisses to my lips on Christmas Eve?
Losing you changed me, if anything, for worse
it was like watching my soul burn when you left
like a wild fire that I doubt even time knows when it will stop
that's how big a difference you made in my life
and I don't care whether you believe me or not
after all I don't even believe I let you in that deep.
I was stupid to open all the doors and windows
and think only the rays of good intentions would sip in.
You were my everything and guess what?
when you left, there was nothing left!
Not even me...

You moved on so fast
While I’m still stuck in love
With you.
And I’m listening to all the songs
We used to sing
And I’m still rewatching
All the videos that you used to send
And I know, that I’ve got to let go
But for just a little longer
I want to bask in all the memories
That you left me with.

Sometimes someone special
Just comes then goes
Never really know the ending
Until that time comes to pass
Yeah, your heart is broken
Just laying in the dark
You were the one I’d chosen
But your love started to drain
And so you decided you could not stay
Now you’re just the girl that got away.

I made a bunch of mistakes
Decision I regret that I made
I’m the only one here to blame
Hope you are somewhere out there
Finding your happiness
Hope you are somewhere out there
giving love another chance
Even though I miss
Seeing your name
light up my phone
I hope you’ll always know
You’re forever locked
deep within my heart
Sometimes we just need a fresh start.

Sometimes someone special
Just comes then goes
Never really know the ending
Until that time comes to pass
Yeah, your heart is broken
Just laying in the dark
You were the one I’d chosen
But your love started to drain
And so you decided you could not stay
Now you’re just the girl that got away.

There is no hard feelings
I’m really not mad
That thing’s ended the way they did
In many ways I deserved it
And even though I’m hurting
I am learning, still glad we met
I’ll cherish the times together
That we spent,
and I’m still singing
Can’t help falling in love
Those times will be defined
When I almost found the one

Sometimes someone special
Just comes then goes
Never really know the ending
Until that time comes to pass
Yeah, your heart is broken
Just laying in the dark
You were the one I’d chosen
But your love started to drain
And so you decided you could not stay
Now you’re just the girl that got away.

©2023 Written By Benji James

I hate having to constantly do this, but I have no other choice.
There are things I need to get done, and this is the only way for me to do them.
I’m very serious about my Japanese, my WWE Raw and Smackdown Live Live Reactions, etc.
The etc. is for the reviews on do my Tumblr  before and after WWE Pay Per Views.
Right now, I’m rewatching the latest Pay Per View, so I can get my Tumblr review done.
I’m literally watching it again at a cubby, and writing down everything, to type it later.
You know, type it once I’m done writing everything down.
I’m doing this, because if I type it up while watching at home, I’ll get distracted.
This is just the easiest way for me to do it.
However, that’s taking more time than I thought.
Also, I need to have this done by next Thursday, so I can get my pre WWE Evolution post up.
And tomorrow, I’m going to WWE Live Show in Portland, so I can come here again.
Also, I’m going to work on my Japanese in my room on Sunday, so I’ll have to stop till Monday.
That means, until I get this done, I have to limit what I do w/ my online time here at the library.
So, I have to save some time to go upstairs and practice my Japanese, as that’s important to me.
I’m set on learning this language, and I’m getting good at recognizing different characters.
However, that means I have to stop going on here until I’m done.
I know, many people don’t even read my posts that I do on here, but maybe one person does.
Anyway, I mainly do this for me, because I love to write, and get my thoughts out.
I just can’t do that, at least, not until WWE Evolution is done.
So, I won’t be back on for 20 minutes on Monday.
I probably won’t be back on here until week after next, probably.
However, I’ll have plenty of thoughts in my head when I get back, and I’ll write them all.
Also, I’m writing this on my phone, because someone was using the 20 minute guest one.
So, until I can get back on here.
I’ll see you later, bye!

Sometimes I feel sad. I used to be able to write. I used to be able hold on to that sadness and feel it all the way through. A song. A smell. A memory. Just a way to feel the things that I have forgotten in my infinite state of bliss. My infinite state of lies. I’m lost and wandering inside my own thoughts unsure of where to go. These dark places. These dark corners of my mind they tempt me to be more than what I am and I no longer want to play but these spinning teacups never stop or delay. I can’t jump.  I need a love that makes me feel like I do in all these sad songs or am I wishing upon a forgotten star? Rewatching all these blurry scenes from a tragedy that is my life I wonder why I glorified all these people who were honest in who they pretended to be. A real phoney. So why? Why feel so sad in a life so full?

My head is filled with only memories,
When you took my heart
Wish you took them too.
Rewatching our stories
Like a film on the old screen,
Not letting me rest.
Thought I might have changed your mind,
But you have secrets
We are not meant to know.
Years later still unanswered questions
Years later high off memories we once shared.

Loving after you is like rewatching a stand up special. I feel obligated to laugh because the room is, but the jokes no longer feel funny.

Loving after you is like rereading a book. I already know all the good parts. I reread the lines but they do not bring the same feeling. Only the memory of how I felt the first time they leaped off the page.

Loving after you is like Wholefood’s peach cobbler. A ghostly whisper of another thing. A should be delight immediately compared to a better memory in my grandma’s kitchen. Making me miss the creaking wood floors and her presence even more as I wonder if it’s worth the calories.

my roommate’s father lives in a skipped year rewatching a tv show about what poor people film with a puking man I call future

LA to Tel Aviv - 13 hours 45 minutes

Boarding: Why did I have to bring Avi’s Bar Mitzvah presents? It’s not fair.

Hour 1: I have no leg room and have to squeeze by two strangers to use the restroom. When will food be served?

Hour 2: What? No food, only a tiny bag of pretzels; mom the discount flyer strikes again.

Hour 3: Ok, settling in with my iPad. Rewatching “Stranger Things”

Hour 4: The lady next to me asked if I could watch something different. Apparently she finds “Stranger Things” disturbing.

Hour 5: The lady complained to the flight attendant. She found “Blackhawk Down” more disturbing than “Stranger Things”.

Hour 6: I get into the overhead bin and take out the bag of American candy that I was going to give to Avi. I’ll repackage what’s left into a Ziplock- he’ll be fine.

Hour 7: ***, WTH??? The woman dozed off and has the worst gas- I CAN’T BREATHE!!!

Hour 8: I motion to my sister to trade seats. She flips me off behind her iPad (so that Mom can’t see) and smiles.

Hour 9: Drink service, “Yes I’ll have a double ***** martini.”
“Sorry, you’re twelve.”

Hour 10: I take out a Sharpie and begin a game. I look up “Help Me” on my language app and write it in 26 languages in the in-flight magazine.

Hour 11: The pilot said that Turkey is below us. Are we still allies?

Hour 12: The bag of candy is nearly empty. I feel sick.

Hour 13: I spent the last 45 minutes apologizing to the lady for throwing up on her.

Hour 13:45: Finally here. Let the party begin.

Okay, let's start from the beginning and see what happens.
uh, I was born January 31st, 2000. That makes me an iGen or Gen Z.
What that has to do with who I am, I have no idea.
I've been told that my spirit animal is a Magpie.
It's unknown to me how that defines my personality
as I have never really let anyone enter into the threshold of my life,
for when I let them, they are there just to wipe their feet on my welcome mat and hurry off to someplace more important.

My list of hobbies include oversleeping, drinking more than eating, having philosophical existential conversations with the voices in my head, stargazing on the ground, and always reminding myself that I have overstayed my welcome. I love music when I cannot play an instrument, rewatching the same shows and animes because I know the endings and can skip to my favorite parts.

I love smoothies, blueberries, pomegranates, and black licorice. Like, a lot. I can't stand the existence of styrofoam, embarrassing comedy, and  country and rap music that has no meaning. I hate when media that portrays light of serious topics, the fact I will never fully believe in myself, and that bad things happen to the best of people, and I hate that I can't trust others.

I'm scared of four things: heights, medicine, myself -especially behind closed doors-, and being happy. I've learned not to be afraid of the unknown, because life without uncertainty, is also uncertain so why try to avoid it? Being afraid is wanting to travel the galaxy but never leaving your doorstep.

I'd say I’m a hopeless romantic that doesn't know how to be romantic. Moreover, I am waiting to fall in love. I am not exactly waiting to be in love as that comes with hardships, disagreements, breakups, the heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, but that's just me being pessimistic, knowing that no one will want to love me in that way.  

I genuinely believe I will never find love as I fear happiness. I fear the other shoe dropping, the plot twist that comes with my series of unfortunate events, and I suppose that is why I ruin every  relationship I've been in. I sabotage every possibility by not saying enough, by lying about myself, taking actions too far and turning myself into my inner demons in order to avoid the pity and shame by being the scapegoat.

But I’m waiting for the fall, the moment I look into a girl's eyes and be completely vulnerable, knowing that she is the person I want to spend the rest of my life with. To understand the secret of happiness on a park bench with Sean Maguire.

I suppose that's why I am terrified of heights, but still wish to go skydiving. Not for reasons most people do it. But for the Fate of it, to see the world from a distance and for that moment to relinquish all my inhibitions and just... live, per chance to be. That's why its called falling I suppose, because when you fall, everything you are thinking of vanishes and it is just that moment of falling with nothing you can do. To have the die cast. No scrambling for any purchase or refuge to save you. Or that's how I imagine it.

I'd say I'm a sucker for a girl with a cute smile, curly hair, and a laugh that makes me weak-kneed. I don't know what love is exactly but would love to give it a shot, to end up loving something more than myself, which with all things being, it’s not that much to begin with. I am oblivious to any kind of flirtation that doesn't have the specific words "I'm into you" in it, and I have no clue how to ask a girl out on a date because the girls I have crushes on don't even know I exist.

I'm an audiophile, meaning I like sounds, like a nice breeze though a grove, the roar of a waterfall and even silence, but I can't handle the sound of people. I'm a self-diagnosed sociopath because I've watched death walk away without shedding a tear. I am broken beyond fragments and avoid therapists with my life. I believe I will never find love because you first have to love yourself enough.

I am nobody's "person". I'm the student at the back of the class with the only time their name is spoken of is roll call. I get surprised by notifications, compliments, and the sound of my name telegraphing through the air. For this, I have trust issues, because hearing my name on the top of another's tongue is a symbol of necessity, a god-like power of convenience. And I know that if I disappeared tomorrow, very few to none would miss me as I explore into the unknown and I know I would then have more friends there than I do now.

I have the number 1-800-273-8255 imprinted on my hippocampus and the constant urge to explore sky at terminal velocity. I'm a botched suicide attempt wrapped in scars of doubt, insecurity and self hate, crippled from speaking by a nation who raised me by the terms equal to that of "grow a pair", "get over it", and "men don't cry"

I have a fear of being healthy from medicine, from the memory of a handful of pills, the euphoria to have all pain stripped away, the memory of being the ghost in just another machine, the definition of the words "Let Go." said by 7 demons canonized as opioids, being found by the man in black I met at the cross roads of rock bottom and a 17 story ledge asking where my father's hydrocodone went. And I, wanting to, with every tear stained fault lines, with every choked cry, with every false answer to the question "Are you okay?", to tell the truth rather than blaming my brother's drug addict friends needing their high.

I have a mentality fueled by spite and because of it, a versatile perspective. I know the moment I feel happy, the other shoe will drop. Just let me show you the collar choking my neck and the leash carried by hope, hanging me in a tree in front of a lynch mob of flowers bouquets and second dates. I never wish upon others of the things I've seen for they would lack the tolerance void of compassion and happenstance, to know how to try your best always, yet never be good enough in their own eyes.  

Hi. My name is Jon, not spelled with a H.
I love listening windows down to loud music, exploring odd thrift shops, laughing until my lungs hurt, and watching sunsets.
I don't talk about myself as much as I should and I don't like my own smile. I lie without knowing the truth and have light speed thoughts, but never enough courage to voice 'em.
I like being alone, but I don't like being lonely.
I believe that there is a God out there and I know he/she/they/it is rooting for me because nobody is going to live my life for me, so I might as well live it for myself.

Popcorn
Pizza rolls
Ice tea
Kleenex
***** about to get real
Party of one
15 seasons
Rewatching it unfold
Netflix no chill
Just sad and lonely
With my homie
Special Agent Gibbs

He held his life into his hands
rewatching the memories of his life
he knew how to be happy once
and so he searched
in the mist of grey

underneath he found a flower
withering away in a dust of poison
gasp! that must be his happiness!
so he nurtured his weak pedals
till it is strong and grown

When Alan Barker look in the mirror
he not longer see a sorrowful man
with an easy slip of a finger he threw away the flower
it was not his happiness
he just needed to know something would live for him.

When I first heard about D&D, I think I was around some friends. I don’t remember giving it much thought at the time--whether someone showed it to me or I stumbled across it on my own is a little fuzzy now.

But that’s not the important part, is it?

What I do remember is a video series by a YouTube creator named JoCat. The series? A Crap Guide to D&D.
It was funny, chaotic, and unexpectedly insightful. The way each class was broken down with such ridiculous energy sparked something in me. I found myself rewatching those videos over and over again, absorbing the quirks and archetypes of each class, and eventually they helped me make a decision on my very first character. Maybe not the most traditional way to get into D&D, but then again, no two journeys are ever the same.

Someone who had been encouraging me to try new hobbies mentioned there were D&D groups on social media, and I should join a game. So, I did.

I was welcomed with open arms. One of the players in my group even hand-painted a miniature for me and gave me my very first set of dice.
It didn’t feel like I was stepping into something new--it felt like I was returning to something I had known in another life. Like I wasn’t a stranger, but an old friend, visiting after a long time away.

The game was short-lived, mostly due to scheduling conflicts (a classic D&D struggle), but I thoroughly enjoyed every moment. Not just the game itself, but the people I shared it with.