Pink Elephants

"Hey, do you remember that one TV show?" Rob asked me over coffee one morning.

   "Which TV show? There's a lot of them out there." I replied, silently cursing him for speaking to me before the sun had fully risen. 

   "You know. The one with those guys that have that job, and there's that girl. You know, the hot one!" 

   "Well, that narrows it down so much!" I spat sarcastically, " I'm sorry I had to ask!" 

   "Jesus, Jamie, why you don't try being just a little bit more of a bitch?" He scolded; apparently sarcasm was our forte. 

   Rob left for work without saying another word to me. Without even a kiss on the forehead, he left me to find solace in laundry and homework. I had been taking classes at the local community college and waitressing four days a week. I fell perfectly into the category of 'starving artist.' I was studying Film&Theatre, the only thing, besides Rob, that I had ever been passionate about. When I was little I always had this big dream of being the person in charge of all the TV shows and movies. I never wanted to be the pre-madonna actress prancing around in front of the 

camera, but the person telling her the words to say, how to say them, and how to move and emote. I wanted to paint the canvas of the movie screen with the right colors, faces, and light. I wanted people to hear my name and be flooded with thoughts of beauty in motion.

   As I attempted to sketch out the story board of my first short film I gazed around the apartment that Rob and I had shared for the past two years. Even at a glance, you could tell that I had done the decorating. There were little touches and Jamie-isms everywhere. From the green crepe-paper covered living room walls, to the pink ceramic elephants I had been using as book-ends, and the bright blue painted kitchen floor, I had over taken the whole of the apartment with rampant artistic expression. For the past few months I had been begging Rob to agree to let me paint a giant Oak tree in our bedroom. I wanted to feel as if I were making love in a forest every night. However, Rob didn't exactly share my artistic views. In fact, most of the time he 

found my affinity for bright colors and unique objects to be obnoxious. He told me once that if I kept adding things, and painting, and decorating, and changing that I'd come home one day to find everything painted grey. I remember him making me cry when her ripped down my hand tie-dyed curtains after a particularly vicious fight. Never the less, I loved him. And most people called me crazy for it. Told me I 'tried to hard to please him,' but I knew they didn't understand. Other people couldn't understand what we shared. That evening, however, everything about our relationship would change. 

Spark Ave.

You left the party and I followed you the quarter of a mile down Spark Avenue and sat next to you on a broken down park bench. You pressed your face into the palms of your hands and began to cry as the rain came. The weather was cold and unforgiving.  I gave you my jacket and wrapped my arms around you because I was afraid that you might get sick. Then I carried you home. I carried you back down Spark Avenue and out onto the highway and then down towards the ocean. You lived a block from the shore and already the streets were flooded. I kept looking down, half expecting to see a school of fish swim past my ankles, but they never did. I took you upstairs and laid you down onto your bed and for a few quiet moments you, the rain, and I were the only things in existence. I watched your eyelids flutter and felt your slow, steady pulse as you slept. As suddenly as you had gone to sleep, you were awake again. Your eyes flew open and stared straight back into mine. A smile crept across your lips and in those upturned inner corners I could see the truth. You were, in fact, stone cold drunk. You were plastered. You were gone. I saw this strange mix of emotion come over your eyes. You looked at me with a mixture of lust and disgust and, still, you kissed me on the mouth. You wrapped your arms around my waist and took me down onto the bed with you. For a moment, I resisted. I told you we should save this. Save it for some other night, some other time, some other place. But you said no and that everything would be alright. Still, I ran. I ran scared. I ran back towards the "dry side" of town and back down Spark Avenue and back to that bench. I wanted to run all the way back in time. I wanted to take you back to that bench and back to when you were crying so I could tell you everything would be OK. I wanted to tell you that I loved you before you kissed me and before you were drunk and before it wouldn't matter anymore. So, as the rain began to dissipate, I pressed my face into the palms of my hands and I cried of that bench in the middle of Spark Avenue wishing I could turn back time. 

Tomorrow is no place...

There once was a man. He sat at the table directly caddy-corner from mine, night after night, and watched me eat potato chips. As he watched, he wrote. As he wrote, he whistled. As he whistled, a song formed. This song was about me. I never knew this. Night after night we would lock eyes and I would smile and he would frown. Then, on an average Saturday evening, the man was conspicuously absent. No eyes, no writing, no whistling, no song. I was alone. This man was the Devil. This man was God. This man was my father, and my mother, and my home, and my heart. This man was the world. This man was an angel. This man. 

Uhm, Hi. Fuck you =]

I'm sort of going to stop vying for your attention. Honestly, it's not really worth it. I mean, being ignored is fine. I can deal. I'm sure she's more interesting than me anyway. I really only need you for one thing anyway. Not that I couldn't find someone else in about 10 seconds. I've got a whole roster, really. You just happen to be at the top of it right now. I could bump you down a few spaces. Or I could just bump you off. Take your pick. You seem to be bumping me down on yours as we speak. Good luck finding another me. [There aren't any more of me, just so you know. You'll be searching forever and find nothing like me. Good luck. Goodnight.] I couldn't care less about her hair color or eye color or breast size or height. We check out girls together all the time. That's fine. I fully understand this dynamic. But when something grabs your attention more than I do, I admit I get a little bit offended. Alright, actually, I'm completely offended. You're out with me. Fucking get over this girl. She's not yours anymore and I doubt she wants to be. She's teasing you, baby. I know she is. We all know she is. Your vying for her attention the same way I'm usually vying for yours. Just don't lose yourself in an hopeless endeavor. Oh wait. Too late. Sucks for you. Good luck. Goodnight. 

As yet, Untitled

Take it easy, sugar

You're going to fast

Put out that cigar

And let's have a blast

As you spin rapidly

And speak so vapidly 

About your past

I promise to outlast

Your silly dreams

And let out screams

Of joy for you 

I'll never break your heart

We'll never be apart

And baby count on me

I'll be your hug

You be my tree

Let's road trip

and we'll sip

on delicacies

of the alcoholic variety

And you let out a sigh

As we let life pass us by

And stare at passers by

On this train ride

We try to abide

By their laws of 

Disobedience 

Oh baby baby

Tell me how you feel

Oh sugar sugar

I'm signed and sealed

Oh honey honey

Let's make a deal

Oh baby baby

Tell me how you feel

Take it easy, sugar

You're going oh so fast

Drop that cigar

And let's have a blast 

You keep strumming

and I'll keep humming

This simple chorus

Oh baby baby

Tell me how you feel

Oh sugar sugar

I'm signed and sealed

Oh honey honey

Let's make a deal

Oh baby baby

Tell me how you feel

Poor bunny.

Bunny bunny bunny bunny bunny bunny bunnybunnybunny...oh shit. I think we hit it. Did we? No? Yes? Maybe? [get out. check the tire. replay the moments in your head] Yea. I think we did. Dude! You killed a bunny! I know! But, it was a stupid bunny. Well...yea. C'mon, it WAS stupid. Yea. Right. Stupid bunny. Mhmm... 

Stream of Conciousness [if there ever was one]

I will not think about it. I will not think about it. I will not think about it. I will not think about giving you a blow job. I will not think about nudity. I will not think about sexuality. I will not think about the apartment. I will not think about my car. I will not think about YOUR car. I will not think about p'diddle. I will not. I will not. I won't. I shouldn't....I did. 

These thoughts are uncontrollable, as are the urges that go along with them. 

I will not think about it. I will not think about it. I will not think about you. I will not think about your anatomy. I will not think about MY anatomy. I will not think about my anatomy and your anatomy being intwined. I will not think about rug burn. I will not think about my personal difficulty with belts. I will not think about how I despise clothing in general. I will not think about how badly I want to be naked right now. I will not think about it. I will not. I will not. I won't...I did.