That's Not True!
A place for the stuff I make up.Tuesday, August 08, 2006
Sleepless
I watch the cigarette drift lazily to the water's surface. Everything is dark and quiet, my favorite time of night. It's too late for most people to be out anymore, too early for alarms to ring. It's the perfect time for introspection, so I light another cigarette. I'm not supposed to be smoking. I told everyone I'd quit. It's ok, I tell myself. This bridge, this night, is for me, and I'll smoke this whole pack before I go back home. No one will know. Fuck it if they do. I like smoking. I rest my elbows on the rails and take a nice long drag. What else should I do when I'm wide awake in the middle of the night?
Sleep isn't my friend anymore. No longer a refuge after a long, hard day. My bed taunts me now, and rather than struggle, I walk. I pace the quiet streets, chasing dreams that won't come. Often I'll walk for hours, trying to make myself so tired I can't help but fall asleep. Usually, I end up on this bridge watching the dark waters swirl.
Idly, I wonder if it would hurt were I to throw myself over the edge. Would I die on impact, or would I drown, broken and bruised?
I laugh lightly to myself. I feel like the teenagers I talk to everyday. Wanting to die because their parents didn't understand them. Girls who fuck any boy that looks their way because daddy didn't love them enough. Boys who fight, steal and lie. Was it because mommy wasn't there for them? Maybe she breast fed too long, or not long enough.
I'm supposed to tell them to embrace these years. After all, this is the best time of their lives. They're teenagers! They get to figure out who they are and where they're going. They get to be obnoxious and self-centered with no real consequences. I don't have the heart to tell them it's all downhill from there. Just one let-down after another. They'll work day in and day out for people they hate. Someone will rip their heart out and stomp all over it. They'll realize this life isn't what it was made out to be. Not what they were promised. And they'll cry. They'll rage. They'll suffer. Maybe they'll find solace in a bottle, or in the beds of strangers.
I light another one. I draw the smoke in deeply, savoring the harsh, bitter taste. I close my eyes and exhale slowly through my nose. It burns a little, making my eyes water. The rest pours out of my slightly parted lips, the smokey waterfall. It smells sharp. And hot. Wet ashtrays and sour clothes. Safe. Everytime I smoke now, I hear my mother. You really should stop smoking! Her voice and all the commercials urging me to quit, "today!" They can help! I don't understand why everyone gives such a fuck. Who am I hurting besides myself? Aren't I my own to hurt if I want to? And besides, I like smoking! It calms, comforts and inspires. My smokes are my best friend. I know that's the junkie in me talking. Supposedly, nicotine addiction is much like heroin addiction. All addicts know the junkie handbook, excuse after justification after defense. We pretend we don't, but we all do. We all have our little junkie thoughts, like how much we enjoy our chosen drug. Even though we know it's tearing us down from the inside out. Even though we know addictions don't end well when left unchecked. Fuck it, I like being high.
People need vices. Everyone has one. Or maybe that's just what I tell myself to justify my weakness. I am the supreme hypocrite. Smoking, and telling teenagers not to. Telling them drugs are bad, and it's unhealthy to get drunk. Drinking should be done in moderation! I get drunk. I'll hit a joint if it's passed my way. I have a Just Say No bumpersticker on my car. That's much cooler than DARE. I'll get a MADD sticker if I ever breed. I mean, people shouldn't drive drunk. Especially mothers! It's not like it matters, anyway. These kids come to me because their folks make them, their schools force them. They go home and drink and fuck, just like me. They know it's all bullshit, but we're trying to convince them it's true. Even though we know it's bullshit, too. Sometimes it's nice to get fucked up. Sometimes it's the only thing that feels right. Hey, Mr. Junkhead, how ya doin'?
When I was in high school, Mr. Cohen let us have a question and answer session on the last day of class. He told us we could ask him whatever we wanted to. Jack Shaeffer asked if he thought marijuana should be legalized. Jack was a latter-day hippie, extolling the virtues of pot and condeming the man. Mr. Cohen said he thought that it should be legalized, but only for medicinal purposes. Jack whispered to me that he was so disappointed. Later he explained his realization that no matter how cool they seemed, all adults were the same. He said he realized that from then on, life would all be a huge let down. He said he'd fight it the best way he knew how; he'd always be cool. Jack thought he'd had a little epiphany. I thought Jack was being silly. He gleaned all that from a teacher saying marijuana is only good for cataracts? It's not like Mr. Cohen could just say, "Pot is awesome! It should totally be legal!"
I had missed the point. Growing up, we had adults we filed away into cool and not cool categories. We knew which grown ups we wanted to emulate. We shook our heads at the stupid ones. We'll never be like that! Jack had just realized that it was all bullshit. Everyone plays the game. No matter what your personal beliefs were, you had to play by the rules. Say the right thing, project the right image. Command respect. Make everyone like you. It doesn't matter if that costume doesn't fit right, if it's uncomfortable. You have to wear it, and when you're old enough, you'll help younger people into theirs.
That's what I do. I'm a wardrobe manager for the stage of life. I convince kids that these masks look fantastic. This outfit will help you glide through life, happy and worry free. I tell them it's much easier for everyone involved if they'd do this without fuss. Come on, some nice pastels, and everyone will love you! With this on, no one will look at you too long. No one will stare and make you uncomfortable. You'll blend right in. It's what everyone does. It's safe. Who wants to stick out? Who wants to be the odd man out? Crazy people, that's who. You're not crazy, are you?
I don't tell them the mask will chafe. The costume will constrict. They'll figure that out soon enough. And they'll figure out ways to deal. Drugs. Alcohol. Sex. Maybe some will embrace it, find a way to make it work to their advantage. These are those well versed in theatre. Politicians. Actors. Salesmen. Some will shrug and accept it, effortlessly playing the part, and letting it go just as easily. They're the lucky ones, they know it's a game, and there's nothing to be done. So they play. The not so lucky ones, who can't play, they get lost. They can't make themselves fit, so they retreat to the play in their mind. At least that one is understandable. Some will try to refuse and replace it with tattoos and colorful hair. They don't realize that's just a different sort of costume. You're not an individual when you look just like millions of other people.
They make me laugh, the punks and goths. So full of angst, the only place to go is the mall. Where else can one stand in defiance wearing slashed up jeans and fishnet shirts? Where else would it make sense to paint black swirls on your face, and feign indignation at people staring? They sit in silence together, glowering over their Nachos Bell Grande. I want to watch them. I like watching people hanging about, living their lives. I can't watch these kids though. They're on the lookout for stares, so they can meet your eye and demand to know why you're staring. They rarely let that guard down, so I'm forced to accept that they're miserable, sensitive creatures. Nothing will bring them joy. I know this is bullshit, but they've got the act down. Check them out sometime. They constantly scan their surroundings. One will tug another's sleeve, "Look, that guy is staring at you!" Crafting the perfect display of disgust and offense, they'll glare back, begging for confrontation. Desperate for confirmation of their outcast status, but hating us for ostrasizing them.
I light a new cigarette off of the butt of my last. I flick it up and out over the water. I exhale my sigh as the water absorbs the ember. This time I cough a bit. How many have I smoked? I flip the top of my pack open and see I've got one left. That explains the ache in my chest. I take another deep pull, grimacing past the rawness of my throat. Trying to reign in my cough, I exhale slowly, steadily through my nose. I'm ok until I take a deep breath of the fresh outside air. It burns through my throat and sets my lungs aflame. My body takes over, and tries to violently expel the poison I've consumed. I'm gasping in painful breaths, and forcing them out before they can take hold. Before I've recovered from one cough, I'm thrown into another, with no real time in between to breathe. I'm drowning. My hands shake as I uncap my bottle of water. Good thing I brought it with me. The cool water calms the burning, and slows my breathing. I brace myself against the rails and shake the dizziness from my head. One last cough, thick heavy spit, and I'm good. My next drag is more shallow. I nearly set off another coughing fit, and flick the cigarette out into the river.
Well, the horizon is brightening, and I decide to head home. I stifle a yawn that burns my lungs. The breeze is damp and cool. I love this weather, the first stirrings of fall when you can almost smell the snow way off in the distance. Maybe I can throw my windows open and let the fresh clean air lull me to sleep. I hear a jogger's footsteps rapidly approaching. I'm always a little bemused and a little envious of joggers. I should jog. I will jog! Eventually. Now, however, I light my last cigarette, and cough a little. I smile at the jogger.
"Hey, how's it goin'?"
"Good. You?"
"Good. Thanks!"
We both know it's bullshit.
Sleep isn't my friend anymore. No longer a refuge after a long, hard day. My bed taunts me now, and rather than struggle, I walk. I pace the quiet streets, chasing dreams that won't come. Often I'll walk for hours, trying to make myself so tired I can't help but fall asleep. Usually, I end up on this bridge watching the dark waters swirl.
Idly, I wonder if it would hurt were I to throw myself over the edge. Would I die on impact, or would I drown, broken and bruised?
I laugh lightly to myself. I feel like the teenagers I talk to everyday. Wanting to die because their parents didn't understand them. Girls who fuck any boy that looks their way because daddy didn't love them enough. Boys who fight, steal and lie. Was it because mommy wasn't there for them? Maybe she breast fed too long, or not long enough.
I'm supposed to tell them to embrace these years. After all, this is the best time of their lives. They're teenagers! They get to figure out who they are and where they're going. They get to be obnoxious and self-centered with no real consequences. I don't have the heart to tell them it's all downhill from there. Just one let-down after another. They'll work day in and day out for people they hate. Someone will rip their heart out and stomp all over it. They'll realize this life isn't what it was made out to be. Not what they were promised. And they'll cry. They'll rage. They'll suffer. Maybe they'll find solace in a bottle, or in the beds of strangers.
I light another one. I draw the smoke in deeply, savoring the harsh, bitter taste. I close my eyes and exhale slowly through my nose. It burns a little, making my eyes water. The rest pours out of my slightly parted lips, the smokey waterfall. It smells sharp. And hot. Wet ashtrays and sour clothes. Safe. Everytime I smoke now, I hear my mother. You really should stop smoking! Her voice and all the commercials urging me to quit, "today!" They can help! I don't understand why everyone gives such a fuck. Who am I hurting besides myself? Aren't I my own to hurt if I want to? And besides, I like smoking! It calms, comforts and inspires. My smokes are my best friend. I know that's the junkie in me talking. Supposedly, nicotine addiction is much like heroin addiction. All addicts know the junkie handbook, excuse after justification after defense. We pretend we don't, but we all do. We all have our little junkie thoughts, like how much we enjoy our chosen drug. Even though we know it's tearing us down from the inside out. Even though we know addictions don't end well when left unchecked. Fuck it, I like being high.
People need vices. Everyone has one. Or maybe that's just what I tell myself to justify my weakness. I am the supreme hypocrite. Smoking, and telling teenagers not to. Telling them drugs are bad, and it's unhealthy to get drunk. Drinking should be done in moderation! I get drunk. I'll hit a joint if it's passed my way. I have a Just Say No bumpersticker on my car. That's much cooler than DARE. I'll get a MADD sticker if I ever breed. I mean, people shouldn't drive drunk. Especially mothers! It's not like it matters, anyway. These kids come to me because their folks make them, their schools force them. They go home and drink and fuck, just like me. They know it's all bullshit, but we're trying to convince them it's true. Even though we know it's bullshit, too. Sometimes it's nice to get fucked up. Sometimes it's the only thing that feels right. Hey, Mr. Junkhead, how ya doin'?
When I was in high school, Mr. Cohen let us have a question and answer session on the last day of class. He told us we could ask him whatever we wanted to. Jack Shaeffer asked if he thought marijuana should be legalized. Jack was a latter-day hippie, extolling the virtues of pot and condeming the man. Mr. Cohen said he thought that it should be legalized, but only for medicinal purposes. Jack whispered to me that he was so disappointed. Later he explained his realization that no matter how cool they seemed, all adults were the same. He said he realized that from then on, life would all be a huge let down. He said he'd fight it the best way he knew how; he'd always be cool. Jack thought he'd had a little epiphany. I thought Jack was being silly. He gleaned all that from a teacher saying marijuana is only good for cataracts? It's not like Mr. Cohen could just say, "Pot is awesome! It should totally be legal!"
I had missed the point. Growing up, we had adults we filed away into cool and not cool categories. We knew which grown ups we wanted to emulate. We shook our heads at the stupid ones. We'll never be like that! Jack had just realized that it was all bullshit. Everyone plays the game. No matter what your personal beliefs were, you had to play by the rules. Say the right thing, project the right image. Command respect. Make everyone like you. It doesn't matter if that costume doesn't fit right, if it's uncomfortable. You have to wear it, and when you're old enough, you'll help younger people into theirs.
That's what I do. I'm a wardrobe manager for the stage of life. I convince kids that these masks look fantastic. This outfit will help you glide through life, happy and worry free. I tell them it's much easier for everyone involved if they'd do this without fuss. Come on, some nice pastels, and everyone will love you! With this on, no one will look at you too long. No one will stare and make you uncomfortable. You'll blend right in. It's what everyone does. It's safe. Who wants to stick out? Who wants to be the odd man out? Crazy people, that's who. You're not crazy, are you?
I don't tell them the mask will chafe. The costume will constrict. They'll figure that out soon enough. And they'll figure out ways to deal. Drugs. Alcohol. Sex. Maybe some will embrace it, find a way to make it work to their advantage. These are those well versed in theatre. Politicians. Actors. Salesmen. Some will shrug and accept it, effortlessly playing the part, and letting it go just as easily. They're the lucky ones, they know it's a game, and there's nothing to be done. So they play. The not so lucky ones, who can't play, they get lost. They can't make themselves fit, so they retreat to the play in their mind. At least that one is understandable. Some will try to refuse and replace it with tattoos and colorful hair. They don't realize that's just a different sort of costume. You're not an individual when you look just like millions of other people.
They make me laugh, the punks and goths. So full of angst, the only place to go is the mall. Where else can one stand in defiance wearing slashed up jeans and fishnet shirts? Where else would it make sense to paint black swirls on your face, and feign indignation at people staring? They sit in silence together, glowering over their Nachos Bell Grande. I want to watch them. I like watching people hanging about, living their lives. I can't watch these kids though. They're on the lookout for stares, so they can meet your eye and demand to know why you're staring. They rarely let that guard down, so I'm forced to accept that they're miserable, sensitive creatures. Nothing will bring them joy. I know this is bullshit, but they've got the act down. Check them out sometime. They constantly scan their surroundings. One will tug another's sleeve, "Look, that guy is staring at you!" Crafting the perfect display of disgust and offense, they'll glare back, begging for confrontation. Desperate for confirmation of their outcast status, but hating us for ostrasizing them.
I light a new cigarette off of the butt of my last. I flick it up and out over the water. I exhale my sigh as the water absorbs the ember. This time I cough a bit. How many have I smoked? I flip the top of my pack open and see I've got one left. That explains the ache in my chest. I take another deep pull, grimacing past the rawness of my throat. Trying to reign in my cough, I exhale slowly, steadily through my nose. I'm ok until I take a deep breath of the fresh outside air. It burns through my throat and sets my lungs aflame. My body takes over, and tries to violently expel the poison I've consumed. I'm gasping in painful breaths, and forcing them out before they can take hold. Before I've recovered from one cough, I'm thrown into another, with no real time in between to breathe. I'm drowning. My hands shake as I uncap my bottle of water. Good thing I brought it with me. The cool water calms the burning, and slows my breathing. I brace myself against the rails and shake the dizziness from my head. One last cough, thick heavy spit, and I'm good. My next drag is more shallow. I nearly set off another coughing fit, and flick the cigarette out into the river.
Well, the horizon is brightening, and I decide to head home. I stifle a yawn that burns my lungs. The breeze is damp and cool. I love this weather, the first stirrings of fall when you can almost smell the snow way off in the distance. Maybe I can throw my windows open and let the fresh clean air lull me to sleep. I hear a jogger's footsteps rapidly approaching. I'm always a little bemused and a little envious of joggers. I should jog. I will jog! Eventually. Now, however, I light my last cigarette, and cough a little. I smile at the jogger.
"Hey, how's it goin'?"
"Good. You?"
"Good. Thanks!"
We both know it's bullshit.
posted by jess # 12:36 AM 
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This one hits close to home. It's usually those with family issues of their own that are best qualified to deal with the results of severely bad parenting. We may not wholly believe that "everything will be alright", but every glimmer of hope is one more rope for them to hold on to. I don't think that's hypocritical in the least.
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# posted by 
: 9:37 PM
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