Rough Draft

A Simple White Line.

I have lost all independence. I live in a world of critics and sinister smiles. A world where
stupidity is cool. A world where brains are overrated. I live in a world of dependence to
words, actions, thoughts, and images. A world of absent feelings.

"Get in here, Sam, it’s cold out," Vince called to me as I waited outside of my busted,
puke green, ’96 Lumina for the awkwardness to fade just a little more. I wasn’t positive
which house was Vince’s, so I was feeling a bit more comfortable now. I walked through
the long grass in his front yard to the side door. The door was rusted and broken and
looked as if it had never been closed from the way the small fingerprints on the glass
were positioned. The first thing I thought of when I walked through the door was how
repulsive the sticky beer stains on the family room carpet were. I followed Vince into the
kitchen where everyone was playing poker. Vince, Allen, and Landon were crowding
around the table as I stumbled in, and they stared making fun of my favorite band as they
always do while I’m around.

"Dave Matthews is the worst," Landon said to me. "And your face is red as hell."

"Thanks for noticing; so are all of yours," I replied. I took a small glass from the table and
wasted it. I grabbed another one. Allen offered me the seat right next to him and I
stumbled onto it as it kept rolling away from me across the tile.

"Hi Allen," I said seductively, but sarcastically. I wasted the glass.

"Hey, Sam. You know I love Dave. Want to listen to him with me downstairs? I have a
lot of his music," Allen attempted, ready to jump out of his seat.

As I answered Allen’s subtly hinting question with a no, Vince’s mom walks in the room
with a cigarette in her left hand and her child on her right hip.

"This is my last cigarette, Vince; please give me one. I’ll buy you more later," she
whined. Her hair was long, blonde, dirty, and faded. Her mascara had circled around the
circles already on her eyes and she seemed to be leaning to the left more than what looked
normal.

Vince and his mom shared a cigarette as Landon showed himself downstairs. Allen and I
followed Landon into the darkness of the basement. The walls leading down the once
white tile stairs were yellow and there were old plastic bottles and tin foil all over the
floor and on every table. "Might as well recycle, right?" Landon suggested.

"Obviously. What else would we do?" I said as I gestured to the lighter on the floor that
Allen had been looking for. Vince slowly walked down the stairs to his room and sat on
his bed, facing me. Allen lit a cigarette as Landon picked up the recycling from the floor
and got it ready to go. I must have dosed off for a minute, because the next thing I knew,
the fire from the recycling was being pushed into my mouth. I didn’t hesitate.

"You okay there, Sam?" Landon and Allen laughed as they knelt next to the side of the
bed. I didn’t sit up on the bed as I kept inhaling; I stayed lying down.

Within an hour, I saw the room spinning, but I couldn’t concentrate on it. The walls were
changing shapes and sizes from tiny circles to huge triangles, but I couldn’t concentrate
on those either. I couldn’t remember how much recycling I had done today or how many
glasses I had put to waste. I kept telling myself, ‘This is what feeling good feels like.’

Vince laid next to me on top of the covers of his king size bed, and again, I didn’t
hesitate.

"Sam, come here," Allen said to me, not moving, from the couch on the other side of the
basement. I sat up, feeling dizzy and unorganized, and staggered over to Allen. I crouched
down by his feet and sat down. Landon followed.

"What’s up? I asked Allen, switching my eyesight from Allen to Landon.

"How are you feeling, Sam?" Landon asked, smirking at Allen.

"Fine. Why?" I asked.

"Have you ever watched Snow White?"

"What?" I asked.

"No. Have you ever been in a completely white-lit room?" Allen asks.

Landon laughs. There’s a pause.

"I’m not into that." I reply, backing away a little.

"No, really, Sam. It’s not even bad."

"It’s really smooth."

"It doesn’t even hurt your nose."

I was getting bombarded with all of these bullshit reasons. I couldn’t understand why they
would need to pressure and persuade me to do something if they truly believe its ‘not
even bad’. I started to feel dizzy. I felt a fever coming on and I was getting extremely
sweaty. My hands started sticking to the dusty pavement and my eyes began to narrow.
The room was spinning at 123 miles per hour and I could feel the chunks of food rising
up my throat to the back of my mouth. My mouth widened and my whole head bobbed
like a chicken as I was about to let it all out. I ran up the stairs, holding my mouth as if it
were the cure for an overdose. Into the bathroom, onto the floor, and into the toilet water I
went. My whole face dove in the cold water and I saw everything I had eaten from the
past couple days once again. I fell asleep hugging my new best friend.

Loud, obnoxious snoring and Lie in Our Graves by Dave Matthews Band were the first
things I heard when I woke up. It was 9 A.M. and I was in Vince’s bed, smushed between
him and Allen. I crept out of the bed, trying my hardest not to wake anyone up, and
stumbled over the old plastic bottles and tin foil. I sneaked up the stained stairs, passed
the yellow walls, and busted out the rusty door. I got into my beautiful car and I danced
away.

The only thing I lost was a couple people who were not worth a second of my time. My
morbid, morose, melancholy, moon of once absent feelings has now morphed into a
sincere, sensuous, simplistic sun. In the end, I gained independence.

On that February 12, 2010 Note.

I miss my dad. I've been thinking about him more than usual since I've moved here to Western. I wish he was there to see me graduate, help me move in, and help me with my homework. I miss sitting in Leon's, drawing history maps and diagrams on napkins, while borrowing our waitress' pen. I still have all those napkins. He was loved by everyone, and felt comfort everywhere he went. He always helped me with my homework. There was this one essay in high school that I was assigned on The War in Iraq, in my Political and Economic Systems class, that my dad helped me through every word. He didn't do it for me at all, but instead, taught me everything I needed to know about the subject. He was my online, book, magazine, newspaper, and adult resource. I thought this would get easier, but it doesn't. It's gotten much harder. Since February 12, 2010, John Berry has been missed.

"Lucky"

This story was absolutely repulsive, but I don't think I need to say that since everyone who reads this has read the story. I was very turned-off by how I felt toward the rapist after he was done raping her. I almost sympathized for him in a way. Not how you think, though! I just believe that any person that has such a terrible problem, just like pedophiles and murderers, need help. They know it's wrong, but there is something in their brain pushing them to do it. Don't get me wrong; blame the rapist. It just threw me off guard when he was being so sympathetic to Alice after he raped her. It was creepy and I don't understand why she would put that in her memoir. This story is extremely detailed, and that's why I think it was so gruesome to read. I had to take a break from it the first time I read it. It's intense.

We trade liquor for blood in an attempt to tip the scales.

There's this tattoo that I would like to get. I'd like to get a few, actually, but I think this shall be my next one. I want a large balance scale in a burnt orange, dark brown, and black. I want the scale in the center of my back, about in between my shoulder blades. Underneath the scale, I want the words "An Attempt to Tip The Scales" in cursive and I want those words to curve around the bottom of the scale. This tattoo has been on my mind for a long time now, and I think I'm finally ready to get it. An Attempt to Tip the Scales is a Bright Eyes lyric, and it has its own meaning to me. I don't like to share the meaning of my tattoos to many people, so let's leave it at that. Meaningful, thought out tattoos are beautiful.

September 15 Frustration

Today in class I realized how ridiculously stressed I am. Our class was handed about 4 or 5 different assignments today that are due Monday. None of these assignments are extremely hard or too lengthy, but I already have so much to do. So far, I love everything we have been assigned in this class, but I don't work too well while I'm stressed.
We talked about the pros and cons of texting today in class, and it was a really interesting topic. I think texting is too impersonal and it is ruining intimacy. I also think texting is very convenient when you are in a really quiet place where talking on the phone is inappropriate or a loud place, like a concert, when you need to say something to someone quickly.

My Beautiful Space Sharer

Michelle Letang is a beautiful, intelligent, fun person. Michelle and I went to the same middle school but didn't talk or acknowledge eachother at all. Neither of us know why, but we can't remember anything about eachother pre-high school. We met through our mutual friend, Michelle Armer, whom just recently moved to New Mexico for college. We both miss her very much, but we should be visiting Michelle in New Mexico some time this year. My beautiful space sharer, Michelle, and I get along perfectly. We go out and have fun together, share music interests, movie interests, and we help eachother through eachother's problems. I am so fortunate to have Michelle as my space sharer.