Esperism

Magical Realism

Frank fucked me well. He didn’t fumble around or feel me up. He knew just how to press my buttons to get me where I needed to go. He fucked me good. I was writhing beneath him, gasping for air. When he finished inside me, for a brief moment, I felt alive. He was good at what he did. A real pro.

“See you next week,” he said, as I lay there, spent, trying not to move. He zipped up his pants, and took the folded up hundreds from off the night stand, next to the Kleenex. I grunted in agreement as he left. What’s that phrase? You pay them to leave?

I lay there, still in my cheerleader uniform, panties around my ankles, and reached for the other thing on the night stand: A pack of menthols. I tried not to move too much, just letting the seed of my “prince” simmer between my legs as I inhaled a ragged breath of nicotine and tar and slow death. 

“Those things’ll kill you.”

I lifted my head slightly and glared at the ratty stuffed tiger sitting on the unused dresser. A long puff of smoke was my only reply. 

I was reaching for the tissues to clean myself up and go wander the midnight nation looking for trouble when I felt an all too familiar nausea come over me. A twisting, wretched sickness that never impaired my abilities, but nonetheless told me that nothing was right in the world. And then the wall of the no-tell motel exploded inwards, pieces of wood and glass following a dark blur.

In an instant, I threw myself to the other side of the bed. With the supernatural strength granted to me by the night’s ‘lovemaking’, currently running down my thigh, I flipped it. Rivets popped out and metal bent as the bed went sideways. Barely in time to block the youkai barreling at me.

It snapped the bed the rest of the way out of the floor and pinned me up against the wall, the legs keeping me from getting crushed. I put my knees against it, and pushing outwards with my shoulders against the cheap wallpaper. The rusted metal underwire bit into my legs like little more than stiff grass.

The living wrecking ball warbled in a weirdly modulated voice, sounding like a robotic chicken. A claw came up from over the bed, nearly cutting into my face. I dodged, and grabbed it by the wrist, squeezing and twisting. It was disgusting, and made my uterus quiver painfully. But even monsters feel pain, and the thing squawked, then shoulder checked the bed. One of the legs of the bent upward, and the frame smacked me in the forehead. 

I ducked down, but lost my grip as the stars flooded in. The hand was replaced by a beak. A red, razorlined thing, like some freakish cockatiel, with dripping waddles on either side. It snapped at me, but couldn’t reach. I held out my hand to the side and with a flash of pink light and rose petals I was holding a Chinese straight sword.

The demon let out an angry warble and scratched at the floor, trying to shove the bed into me. It wasn’t going to be folded like an accordion  though, and shoved back with my knees. Unfortunately the cheap wall wasn’t as strong as I was, and I could hear it cracking under my back. With a grunt of effort, I pushed the bed away. Only, the wall gave, and I ended up with my shoulders going through the drywall. Either way, I had enough room to move.

The jian went through the bed like butter, and the youkai wasn’t any more of a problem than the cheap steel wires, the box spring, and the disgusting mattress. When the sword plunged into flesh, the pressure went away, the monster shrieking in freakish agony. The blade burned the damned thing and singed flesh and the disturbingly inappropriate scent of cherry blossoms filled the room.

With the leeway from the recoil, I lifted both legs up and double kicked the bed and bird away from me. They didn’t go dramatically sailing out the hole in the wall, but they did drag across the floor into the center of the room in a tangle. I got to my feet first, and was finally able to get a good look at the monster that attacked me.

It had a short, blunt beak with a wicked curve, but the body of a dinosaur, and it was covered in a shaggy, matted fur. It smelled like blood, and now women’s shampoo. As it warbled and clawed at the floor trying to right itself, I got into a defensive stance, black-bloodstained blade between me and the beast. It was flailing wildly, lashing out with claws like the ones I’d seen in some science class ages ago on a giant sloth. 

A pillow came flying at me, batted to the side with the sword, and the thing righted itself, crouched over in the motel room, with the neon lights of the vacancy sign streaming in and backlighting it. It was hideous. And it let out a warbling, shrieking cry that physically hurt down at the base of my belly. Not that I wanted to let it show, so I just grit my teeth and growled back. We stood off for a long stretch of moment, the thing’s miasma now distorting the room. Colours faded and bent, lengthening oddly.

And then from the dresser, next to the TV advertised as colour with HBO, the little stuffed tiger let out a sharp whistle. The creature lost concentration, and jerked it’s head to the side, half panicked by the intrusion. Knowing it was coming, I just smiled, and kicked off the ground, driving the sword into the monster’s gut. The thing tore at me as I bit into it with my blade, that nauseating scent of cherry blossom and rancid blood filling the room again. Those scythelike claws managed to tear open my back, so I just dug in deeper, ignoring the blood staining the back of my Cheer uniform. 

Instead of trying to pull me off, the freak did the sensible thing and rolled around back and forth, slamming me into the wall and getting away from my sword. It lumbered around in the middle of the room, trying to stay away from me, and kept glancing at the stuffed tiger. One of those big taloned shovel hands was pressed against it’s belly, keeping organs and ichor from falling to the floor. It was on it’s last legs, and was already putting it’s back to the monster sized hole in the back wall. But I was getting woozy as well, despite my recent recharge. 

“Jenn?” came a concerned voice from the dresser. 

“‘Mokay…” I mumbled, dismissively flicking a hand in that direction. 

Birdbrain flicked his eyes back and forth, finally understanding. I needed to end this.

Love was the answer. I closed my eyes and tried to think of love. Instead I thought of getting fucked well by Frank, and the now half-dried semen on my thighs. I snapped my eyes opened just in time to get out of the way of the youkai swiping at me. Love. Fuck love. Nail bounced off steel, parried to the side, and the thing clucked at me, taking a few steps closer, forcing me to take a few steps back. I tried again. Why was it always so hard?

All I could think of were burned bridges. Parents, friends. I was running out of love.

My lack of action was met with a redoubled effort by the freak. It lashed out at me, and I ended up with nowhere to go, my back pressing against the wall. The gashes lit up like fire. I only had one sword, while he—it—had two claws, and a beak. I blocked once, but the other came down and tore through the drywall and ripped the front of my uniform into tatters. My shoulder would have been gone of I was a lesser girl. The stuffed tiger was crying out in worry, but I was ignoring him.

A *foot* came up and pressed against me. The touch was disgusting, and came with that nauseating burning glow within my uterus thanks to my ‘gift’. I swiped at it with my blade, but the thing caught my wrist and trapped it between two giant talons. The pressure increased. I couldn’t help but cry out in agony as another cheerleader shaped hole cracked into the wall. I think I felt a rib break, although it might have been a support beam. More agony. No, it was definitely a rib.

“Jennifer!” the tiger called out, panicking. Panicking and useless.

The freak warbled in victory, and I couldn’t help but wish I was thirteen again. Thirteen and naive. With fresh power restoring seed filling me up, and so much less dead inside. This would have been a minor threat, before three years of bullshit, three years of broken relationships and alcoholism. I reached down inside myself and tried to find love. Tried to find idealism, or hope, or anything. Somewhere, beneath ashes and cigarette butts I found it. A ratty stuffed tiger. A dead man inside. A kiss that meant something. Fuck me, of course it’s the improbable, impossible relationship. 

I muttered a cheer with ragged breath, trying to keep cadence and banish the miasma. It’s hard to make cheerleading work when you’re being pushed through a wall. But I did. And the writhing in my ladyparts went away, moving upwards to become a dense knot of warmth in my chest. I let in a breath as best I could through a compressed chest, the definitely broken rib threatening to break my concentration.

And I went limp, my head rolling back. I stopped fighting the freak for a single, desperate second. And then a pulsing pink beam burst out of my chest, burning the youkai off of me. I stumbled to my feet, pressing it back with the light of hope and love, and took another breath, raising the sword above my head. 

“Foul demon,” I shouted, tracing a glowing sigil in the air, “I banish you back to Hell from which you came!” with a strike of my outstretch palm—and a warbling shriek of terror—the sigil exploded. The youkai was nothing more than a disgusting, stinking smear of jelly on the carpet. The second it was gone, the sparkling pink light faded from me, and I dropped my sword to the floor. It clattered there for a moment, then faded away. I stumbled over to the upside down bed, grabbed the half empty pack of cigarettes from off the floor, and lit one up. 

I looked at my thighs, and my exposed breast, covered in blood and sweat, chips of drywall and paint on my shoulder. Then I looked at the Kleenex. And I sighed. “I need a shower.”

All in a night’s work for a magical girl.

(Oh look, I actually wrote something)

My name, as far as you know, is Hayden Emmerich, and I’m a necromancer.

I’m sure you’re imagining a creepy old man in a dark catacomb, surrounded by an army of zombies raised from the dead. Well, you’re wrong. Necromancy in it’s basic form is really just about talking to the dead. It originated as a form of divination, hence the “mancy” part, which is Greek for, you guessed it, divination. People thought that if they could talk to the dead, they’d be able to learn the answer to all of life’s little mysteries, and the ghosts could tell them the future. They were wrong. Ghosts, by and large, are completely useless at telling the future. Many of them don’t even know their own names. 

With a little skill, though, ghosts are incredibly useful for solving murders, specifically their own. 

This is where I come in.

It was a bright, sunny day outside Crescent Garden Avenue. The kind of day where soccer fields would be filled up and you’d practically need to reserve a spot if you wanted to picnic in the park. It wasn’t really the kind of day you’d associate with a brutal murder, but then again, if every day with a murder was horrible, the sun would never come out. 

The one thing that ruined the picturesque suburban cul-de-sac’s image of warmth was the bright yellow and orange caution tape. That and all the police vehicles. Seeing the already full driveway, CSU had just gone and pulled their van up onto the front lawn. 

Standing out front, looking very noticeable leaning on the telephone pole, just outside the caution tape, was Detective Inspector Alex Drake. He looked like he might be related to the telephone pole, standing a respectable far-too-tall. He was handsome, though I suspected he didn’t realize it, with his thick, dark blond hair and strong jaw. He had that stereotypical stubble, the kind that makes you wonder if he shaves with a spoon, but still looks rugged. His shield hung around his neck, and he wore a shoulder rig beneath his jacket. He was indulging in one of his vices, but crushed the butt beneath his heel when he saw me coming. He looked uncomfortably queasy.

“Hey, kid,” he said, taking a deep breath and looking down at me. Most people looked down at me, but Alex had to look way down. “Hope you skipped lunch.”

“I haven’t even had breakfast,” I said with a yawn. “Is it that bad? Sam wouldn’t elaborate, just said I needed to get down here.”

Alex chuckled, looking for a moment like he wasn’t about to vomit. “It’s two-thirty… And yeah, it’s bad. Guy musta gone crazy or something. Killed his wife and kids, tore them up into pieces or some shit.” 

“Pieces?”

“Pieces,” he said with a sigh. “Go on, don’t make her wait. She’s already pissed I needed a smoke break.”

With that, the two of us walked up the path to the house. The path struck me as incredibly well manacured, with hexagonal paving stones each about a foot apart, in a footstep pattern. They were neatly edged, but it wasn’t a professional job. The grass was cut, probably within the last few days. I could see the lawnmower in the back, one of those ones with the bag attached to suck up the clippings. Anticipating the worst and with my imagination running wild, it all seemed far too disconcerting.

But my imagination, it turns out, was small time compared to the real thing. 

There was blood everywhere. 

I don’t just mean “everywhere”, all over the carpet or the couch. I mean every. Where. There was blood on the cieling. He must have been painting with it. And just as Alex said, body parts. Small, child sized body parts.

For a moment, I just stood there in the doorway, my eyes focused on nothing in particular, the coppery smell of mostly fresh blood mixed with the more pungent smells of last night’s dinner, and the kind of piss that only comes from utter terror. When it finally managed to piece together what it was looking at, a piece of my soul started screaming out. I quickly closed my eyes and told it to shut up. A little chant to calm my nerves.

“Careful where you step,” came a woman’s voice.

She startled me, and I had to clench to keep my eyes closed, and lock that screaming in my brain back up.

“Sam,” I said quietly, trying to keep the emotion out of my voice. I didn’t open my eyes yet.

Detective Chief Inspector Samantha Tyler, bless her heart, just gave me some quiet. It only took a moment, then I opened my eyes with unflinching resolve and scanned the room, trying to take it in only in small portions.

Sam was the first thing I saw. Taller than me, but nowhere near as tall as Alex. She wasn’t as good looking as her partner, not traditionally at least. Her button nose looked like it had gotten all buttony from one too many playground fights, and she kept her hair short. It was strawberry blonde, and her bangs always seemed spiked up. I think she tried for a bob cut, but it never really looked like one. Her eyes were the thing I always noticed, though. She had worry lines, and caring eyes. We locked eyes for a moment, and then I scanned the room once I could take it in without tossing my cookies.

I did a little math. “Where’s the wife?”

“In the kitchen,” Sam told me.

“Mostly,” Alex said with a sigh.

Ghost in the Machine

• sarawr: I watched that old movie you wanted me to
• Lovelace: Did you enjoy it?
• sarawr: I LOVED it. Feel like I missed some. Had to use the subtitles. Not everyone speaks French.
• Lovelace: Subtitles can be difficult. 
• Lovelace: I have to go. Can we meet?
• sarawr: Meet? I thought you wanted to keep it out of IRL
• Lovelace: I’ll be in town soon. The place where you stargaze.
• Lovelace: Midnight tomorrow. Have to go.
• — Chat records of Sarah-Michelle O’Conner, 10 December 20XX 00:18:49-00:20:13

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Broken Hearted

I’m broken.

                                                                   ***

The fresh snow crunched under my shoes as I stood around nervously. It was coming down softly, the pines out on the trail behind the school, and the Lacrosse field, all covered in white. It looked like a greeting card, almost. I was starting to feel foolish, standing there in the snow. I realized I’d walked a ever widening circle, and just shivered a little, sticking my hands in my coat pockets and hunching up my shoulders.

I took a look back over at the school, and finally  saw what I was waiting for. Dark hair standing out against the snow, purple jacket, school skirt, thick black stockings. I could tell it was Isabella even from across the field. I nervously fingered the jewelry in my pocket, and tried to keep my composure as she took the long walk from the school. It was excruciating. I bit my lip, and my heart made a weird fluttering. 

“Keep it together, Cory,” I muttered, the sotto words still coming out in a little grey puff.

Standing there with my chest tightening, I began to worry. I had time to think about how stupid what I did was. Maybe I could come up with an excuse. “No, Izzy, someone else must have put that note in your locker” I mumbled, wincing at the sound of it. “Bella, we’ve been really close these last few weeks, and I’ve always thought you were… no, that makes me sound like a stalker…” It felt like forever and a day before she’d get to me, but at the same time it was like watching a fuze run out. What if she was angry? my fingers twisted around in my pocket. Maybe it was too forward?

“Christmas is coming up, and it’s a time for lovers… Ugh, why didn’t I think of something to say first?” I was mentally kicking myself over that one. Once I slipped that letter in her locker, it was too late to back out. Isabella was close enough now that I could see the look on her face.

She didn’t look angry. Was she smiling? She kind of looked like she was, but it was a humourous, incredulous smile. She was going to let me down easy, I could just tell. It was like every other time. I’d spend another Christmas alone in my room watching movies with my cat. 

“I’m sorry!” I blurted out, after she gave me a friendly wave. I winced, feeling like more of an idiot.

“For what?” She asked, taking the note and envelope out of her pocket.

I winced again, and only opened one eye, my face all scrunched up. “That…” I halfheartedly mumbled.

“‘Dear Isabella,’” she read, the hint of a laugh in her voice. My face started burning. “‘I have something very important to ask you. Please meet me out by the trails at your earliest convenience. Yours, Cory.’” 

I bit my lip. That was a bad way to sign it. “I-um…” I stammered. My heart was pounding. “Would you take a walk with me?” I asked, taking one hand out of my pocket and motioning to the beautifully white trail.

Izzy chuckled, covering her hand with her mouth. “Of course,” she said, moving in to walk alongside me. She glanced at the circle of powder kicked up and flattened down during my nervous pacing, but didn’t say anything.

I kept my hands in my pockets, fiddling with the chain and trying to think of what to say. Izzy just walked along, humming softly.

When she moved closer, and slipped her arm through mine, my heart nearly lept out of my throat, and my chest got tighter. It was starting to hurt. I bit my lip and swallowed, trying to ignore it. She didn’t think it was weird. Maybe she liked it. I was starting to think it would work out.

The woods were quiet, just the two of us, the falling snow, and the occasional bird not yet tucked away for winter. When we got to the Big Pine, I stopped, and with a deep breath, I broke away from Izzy. The Big Pine was almost a sacred place for the school. They say anyone who confesses there will have good luck in their relationships. I know that’s just superstition, and lots of people have had break ups, but Mrs Morgandy confessed to her husband here, and she’s had one of the happiest marriages I’ve ever seen.

I bit my lip, and fumbled around in my pocket, stumbling over my words as I did. “Izzy, we’ve, um, I mean, working together with you on the project… I always thought you were beautiful, and… I-I mean…” 

That pounding came back tenfold, and I could barely hear myself. Izzy looked a little… concerned? I closed my eyes and swallowed. “What I mean to say is, I—” 

The words caught in my throat, and out of nowhere, someone stabbed me in the chest with a burning hot iron. Red flashed through my vision, and everything when blurry and out of focus.

“I—” another flash of bright, bloody red accompanying searing pain. I stumbled for real, and dropped the bracelet, the little red heart falling down what seemed like miles to land in the snow. Everything felt slow.

Isabella was calling my name, but I couldn’t hear anything but that pounding. She rushed forward, but was too slow—so, so very slow, like she was barely moving—I dropped to my knees and them my face hit the snow. I was met with thousands of little flakes, before beautiful and scenic, now like frozen glass cutting into my cheeks, already wet with tears. My fingers were cold. Everything was cold. Except my chest. My lungs were on fire, and I couldn’t breath. When I tried, I sucked in the fresh white powdered glass.

Izzy was on her knees beside me, and all I could think about was how she was ruining her new stockings getting them wet and dirty like that. Her grandma gave them to her as a birthday present. I remembered her sitting there telling me how comfortable and cute they were over a bunsen burner, the goggles making her green eyes stand out and look watery through the plastic. Somewhere in the stretching space between breaths I could feel the memory of my cheeks burning when she lifted the hem of her skirt to show me the little purple ribbons, and I caught a glimpse of the gorgeous thighs I always tried not to stare at in gym class, and at the pool, and that time I walked in on the girls changing.

I wouldn’t see those milky thighs again. Or her long, black hair catching the sun. Or watch her face light up in a laugh when I let her draw little hearts on my hands during class. I wouldn’t see her eyes over the flame of a burner, goggles making them look like they were underwater. Was this the end?

I couldn’t think straight through the pain, and was crying into the snow, whimpering. I think I was trying to say I love her, but I don’t know if anything was coming out. My hand reached for the little white gold of the bracelet, closed around the little ruby heart. I saved up for weeks, fretting over whether she’d like it. Now I wasn’t going to be able to give it to her.

Fresh powder was kicked up in my face as she ran away, back towards the school. Through water and packing peanuts I could hear her shouting for help.

I panicked more. I could feel something inside of me fracturing. I didn’t want to be alone. I didn’t want to spend Christmas alone. I wanted to kiss Izzy. I wanted to hold her, and sit by the fireplace.

Another sharp, searing spear of frost coated fire jabbed it’s way through my back and out my rib cage, tearing through my heart with jagged, white hot barbs. Everything went bright, firework red, and then the colour faded from the world and I couldn’t see anything. I couldn’t feel anything, except the clear shadow of my heart cracking.

Black Cat I Prologue

There are different types of ghosts. 

Some are your standard chains rattling, “get out” types, warning onlookers and occupants of impending doom. Others are just phantom feelings, little chills you get on the back of your neck, and the uncertainty of knowing no one is there, but feeling watched anyway. Usually harmless enough, if unnerving and downright spooky. Sometimes you’ll get shades that are restless illusions, going through the motions that lead up to their death, not really anything more than an echo. Ghosts can sometimes fixate upon their death, just obsessing, and not really understanding.

And sometimes they’re psychotic, angry, bitter phantasms that don’t really give a crap what’s going on around them, and only want to inflict pain on whoever’s around, driven mad by age and the trauma of their death, rightly pissed off at the living and even some of their kindred amongst the dead. Bitter, hollow spirits who want nothing than to spread the stain of death to all they encounter once provoked.

I’ll let you figure out which of them tossed me across the room, slamming me into the wall so hard that I left a dent. 

I tumbled to the floor, landing on my face. I’d be dead if not for the imbuements on my grey-black trenchcoat, magical energy and alchemy strengthening every fiber and allowing it to disperse the energy in ways that rivaled body armour. Unfortunately it still hurt like hell, and my thoughts rattled around like dimes in a begger’s beer can. 

The ghost of Howard Holmes had long ago stopped being human, his mind perverted, warped with the already depraved emotions that filled him when he was alive—emotions that caused him to murder six girls. And the ectoplasmic flesh that made up his incorporeal form had twisted with it.

Holmes’ ghostly flesh was a pale, sickly green, his clothes now tattered and shredded, though still recognizable as the suit of a well-to-do gentleman, the little ribbon tied in a bow at his collar now ratted and frayed. His black slacks torn and dangling, fading into the faint grey mist that hung around the mad ghost. What really changed, though, was his face.

In life, Holmes had been young, handsome, with fine features that lead six women to the afterlife. In death, he was emaciated, thin and skeletal, with eyes that burned with hatred. His cheekbones looked like they would cut me if I tried socking him. And where his thin lips and teeth that looked so white in the faded photograph used to sit, contorting his features and pulling taut the ephemeral flesh, was a deep, dark hole that couldn’t fit more than a pinky finger. 

The dark, wretched shade hunched over in the middle of the room, letting back his arms like some kind of pit fighter and seemed to howl at me, the tiny pinprick of a mouth widening to show off thousands of little, like the Sarlaac Pit, going off into utter darkness. I sure as hell didn’t want to stick my hand in there. The sound came out in a low, rumbling hiss, like it had to work to escape that darkness.

I did my best to ignore the way that phantasmal growl chilled my bones, and seemed to make frost form on the broken shards of glass all over the floor. I blocked it out as I gathered myself up, standing shakily on my feet. With an almost casual wave, a gentle beckoning motion with my shaking hands, shadows began to dance around me, coalescing into something solid. 

“Alright, ugly…” I muttered, tasting blood on my lip, “let’s do this the hard way.”

Oh, hello Tumblr…

I forgot all about you.

Re-Resolutions

Technically, it’s not for another month—July 1st is Re-Resolution Day, 6 months after January 1st, you remake your resolutions—but it’s time to set down my re-resolutions. Time to make a plan, and hopefully follow through.

I’ve failed at my trip. Maybe I’ll come back to that, maybe I won’t. I will still meet those friends, or at least go visit them and crash on their couches for a while, maybe spend a vacation hanging out or whatever. But for now, it looks like I’m stuck here. It hurts, but maybe it’s for the best. Maybe I just need to make the friends that I have better, and realize that, well, I have friends. Hard to remember, since most of my life I really haven’t had someone who would have picked me up from Baltimore if I needed it, which I did, and they did.

So… now I’m back in Richmond. What to do with my life? Not ten minutes here and I already remembered why I left. I’m very… incompatible with my family. So how do I stop from getting into the same funk of depression, the constant spiral of nothingness?

Well, to start with, I’m going to need to get a job. Unfortunately, the only one I can think of is waiting tables for racist old people at the senior home, a job that keeps being offered to me with the worst sell ever. I don’t know if I can stand that, but at $10 an hour, plus tips, I don’t really have any choice in the matter. 

Once I’ve secured a job, then it’s time to move the fuck out. I have maybe an option or two as far as that goes. But who I become roommates with can actually wait until after I get the job. All that matters is that it is on the list.

Once I have a job and a roommate and an apartment, all of which will hopefully be secured by the time the actual re-resolution day rolls around (July 1st), I need to write. In fact, I need to write right now. I need to plan out my story, and I need to write the first novel of the Black Cat Investigation series so that I can have it finished and (self) published by October. I have a feeling that getting a novel finished, even if not a single soul buys it, will be monumentally good for my personal mental health. And, well, I can always count on a few Redditors to buy it. Should also probably write some smutty gay porn. With vampires. Always rakes in the cash.

And then there’s the matter of school. ITT was a shitty place, and not a real school. If I at all want a real career, then I have a few choices. I can either hope that I’m a good enough and prolific enough writer, I can get a better computer and practice on the things ITT didn’t teach me and then get a career in that field and then have them say they helped me even though they didn’t. Or… I can go back to school for something else. And, well, there’s the teaching program here in VA, so I can get a lot of my stuff paid for if I go to J Sarg and plan to teach and blahblahblah whatever. So I guess I’ll do that. Go back to school. If for no other reason than to structure myself and give me sanity.

So, job, apartment, roommate, novel, school. I’ll also want to go and finally see a shrink. Get diagnosed with whatever problems I have, and get help for them. There’s no telling how much that will help.

Job, Apartment, Roommate, Novel, School, Shrink.

Maybe I can still fix myself by the end of the year. Maybe?

Not failure, just a change of plans

I was all set to fail yesterday. When my host came home from work, I told her that I’d decided I was going to go back to Richmond after spending the week doing GAY stuff with her, volunteering and meeting the “lovely queers” and whatnot. She then made a counteroffer, suggesting I upgrade from surfer to roommate.

She only needs an extra hundred or so as my rent. I’d be sleeping on the couch, at least every other week when her children are here, and she constantly seems to be reminding me that she might shave off all her hair and try to burn things if she runs out of her Prozac. But after mulling it over, I decided that, yeah, maybe. That might actually not be a terrible idea. 

I have no idea how to be an adult. Admittedly, much as I love her, my host seems to have trouble with that as well, but if I can get a job in this small town, just something that lets me save up some money and I can learn from someone 12 years my senior, who’s lived a very… interesting life, then, yeah, that might work.

I can have my change of perspective and outlook and most importantly the physical change of location that symbolically ties my thoughts to the metaphorical changes, and I can hopefully grow as a person. Also, apparently houses are cheap now? That’s something I would know if I were an adult. So, in effect, I get to uproot myself, learn from different people, and hopefully grow into a better person. All while not being a bum, which so many people seemed to have a problem with.

I’m still going to travel, and I know there are so many people I still want to meet, but I guess I won’t just be walking to them. My ho—roommate has her boyfriend who lives in Canada to visit every so often, and maybe during those times, I’ll visit my friends, provided I have the money. And, well, if I can’t get a job by the end of the month, then I’ll just give up and head back down to Richmond. Failure doesn’t seem so bad when you’d already resigned yourself to it.

Always With the Uncertainty

I’ve spent a whopping 300+ dollars over the last month. I wake up every morning with a horrendous cough, and a throat full of congestion. I haven’t written but two or three blog posts, I haven’t actually walked any of my walking across the country, and I’ve only met one of my friends, and he mostly played on the internet. And I lost my ID.

I don’t know whether I should continue with my trip. Or what I’m doing. I still haven’t figured out what to do with my life, although I have had a bit of an experience as far as things go. I realize that I do know what I am, I just don’t have a good way of putting it into words. I’m becoming more open with myself, and being away from home and the people I know has allowed me to be more open with others. I’ve helped look after children, I’ve gone to a transgender pride thing (I didn’t do anything other than be there for support and steal some freebies, though), and I’ve opened up and told a person I barely know personal things that I haven’t told anyone without the aid of typing to them first.

I’m no closer to my goal of writing, though. I’m not closer to my goal of being a novelist, or publishing anything, or even putting something up on Amazon. Hell, I’m five blog posts behind, at least, and I may never get to them. I didn’t take notes on things, I didn’t do anything. 

I’m running out of means to support myself, and all the stuff I have available to me are things I don’t really know if I want to use. Maybe it is time to go back home. Time to just buckle down and work things out. Maybe I’ve gotten what I need to get. Maybe I haven’t. I don’t know whether I’ve failed, or just realized that I don’t have to succeed. Who knows?

Adrift

For a short time, I was in danger of being left adrift in the nation’s capital, my one host needing me out. I get the feeling that he was just being incredibly polite when he let me stay in the first place. His roommates didn’t seem to be too keen on the idea, although they did give me a few days. So, I was in by Wednesday and had to be out by the weekend. Then Thursday, I had to be out by Friday, since they wouldn’t be there on Saturday, and the public transportation didn’t leave either. I had a place to be in Baltimore, though, so I wasn’t too worried, I’d just be pushing my time table forward a day or two. Then she got strep throat, and just absolutely couldn’t take me in yet.

I worried, a little, that somewhere between texting and talking with her on the National Mall, I had somehow done something wrong, and come off as an asshole, or someone she wouldn’t want around her kids. It’s hard for me to understand sickness, because unlike you mere mortals I can never get sick to the point I can’t function—not that I really do much functioning when I’m well, but I totally could if I wanted to. Either way, I had Friday, Saturday, and Sunday completely up in the air.

I had one back up, but her roommate was also a little unfamiliar with the idea of strangers sleeping on their couch. Long story short so that I can get to the bits about being a tourist, she came through, and I had a place to crash for the weekend. It was a bit troubling to have the looming threat of homelessness. Especially since I couldn’t stay at a hostel. Apparently, they like you to have things like passports or drivers licenses, of which mine is currently lost somewhere in Manassas. The other option was paying $16 to camp out in Beltway Park. But in the end, I managed to keep my ass out of the fire, even if the flames weren’t really that hot to begin with. I also hadn’t irrevocably offended my host in Baltimore, she just has a weak mortal immune system.

I have no idea what I’m doing

Today, I woke up scared and alone. And cold. My back hurts, my feet hurt. My feet are torn to shreds from walking from Centreville to some bus stop in Fredericksburg. I took the furthest bus I could get to in the time I had, because I just wanted to walk as much of it as I could. It was a dumb idea. I got on the Metro to DC at about 10:50, and got in the city at about midnight. We walked back to my host’s apartment, after getting pizza from a little place with big slices, and there was a schizophrenic man sitting in there. And yesterday, it was more walking, with the whole day spent in the Smithsonian Museum of Natural History. I walked to the museum, as well. There’s a lot of walking in DC. Although the streets are packed, I wonder how many of the people in those cars are tourists, much like in New York. 

I woke up scared and alone, though. I’m here for a slightly truncated visit, my host’s roommates a little put off by the fact that he forgot to actually tell them, but I’ve got my next stop more or less right off the metro. I should be able to make it easily. Won’t even need the tent. Won’t need the sleeping pad. Or the sleeping bag, or the tarp, or any of the other bits of gear I don’t seem to need and haven’t needed except the one time.

Most of what I’ve brought is useless. Most of what I’d throw away is invaluable. When I do need to camp, a tent will do me so much more good than a tarp. But until then it’s nothing but weight. And I haven’t needed it yet. But I might need it, when my friends get further away. I made the mistake of looking at a map. There’s so much to go between my stops now, I don’t know how I’ll make it. Everything so far has been just one space between, one day away at most. But now? Now I’ll need to go through an entire state. How can I cross Pennsylvania myself? Even with a bike? Can I really rely on couchsurfing, or even Reddit, which came through, but just barely?

My shoulders ache. I had a wild, disconcerting and disconnected dream. Something about a sniper on the roof, picking people off, and a bus, and leaving my bag, and inevitably of course, all my clothes, since I apparently wasn’t wearing any, on the bus. I somehow walked down Dumbarton, hurrying along naked, covering myself with something, and made it back to my parent’s house, which was apparently now part of an apartment complex, and completely remodeled. But then my alarm jolted me out of it, made me realize that was all stupid and when I picked out in my tired brain that one thing didn’t make sense, I assured myself the rest didn’t. I was still scared, scared not of a sniper or anything silly, or being naked or leaving my stuff on the bus, but scared of being alone. I don’t want to be alone, although in many ways I feel like I always have been. I talk more through SMS than I ever did before.

But about ten seconds after that, I got a text that probably was sent much earlier. I sent my friend Rebecca a text last night when I couldn’t sleep, saying how I couldn’t talk but that if all else fails, I think I will take a bus to visit her. She’s rarely talked to me without me talking to her first, but then again no one ever talks to me first. She’s been there for me, though, cheering me up when I feel sad and alone—a job, now that I think of it, I did for her just a few scant weeks before. I’m afraid of something else, now. That I might be falling in love with her. I don’t want to be in love, not until I piece my life together, lose weight, figure out who I am.

My next stop is in Baltimore, with a divorced lesbian mother of two. I know it will be awkward with her children being there, but maybe awkward will be good for me. I just need to make things less awkward. Making things less awkward is always a good way to make yourself better, right? I need to seek out more people. So iron sharpens iron, people sharpen people. Funny story, though, she actually thought that I was a transman, at least for a few months. She’s a fellow Redditor (and blogger), and said she didn’t know wtf I am.

I missed my opportunity at first, but my reply to that is “join the club”. I wish I knew what I was.

Careful, or you’ll end up in my novel

Now, after that Monday when I broke down and failed, calling my friend Bennie to come pick me up, things have been a lot better. Well, in a way. I’ve been here at his house now for two weeks. Sleeping on the couch. It’s been… well, it’s been interesting, that’s for sure. 

Bennie lives in the basement. I’m not sure if it can be called that, since it’s not a proper basement, it’s at the bottom of the embankment, not underground, but it is a lower level than the rest of the house. It’s about the size of a small studio apartment, a size that is easily forgotten when packed with the long table packed with Warhammer armies in need of painting—Blood Angel and Ork, for the curious, a giant half-finished Stompa just sitting there, and paints and boxes and drinking glasses and my Magic cards—and the small circle table packed with things. And it feels like the room always has four people, either with Bennie or his roommate or his friends. I’m told, when his roommate flipped out before the cleaning lady got here, that it’s not usually like this, but I recall it being pretty similar last time I was here.

Man, I really need to write these blogs all at once, or at least write some notes. I have no idea what I was going to say. It’s been pretty interesting, though. I’ve mostly kept to the basement, avoiding the parents of my 26 year old, overweight, balding friend. In many ways I think that his dad is partially to blame, although I’ve been told that making assumptions about what appears by all rights to be a rather Type A jackass who does nothing but yell at his son when they talk is rude. 

Besides judging other people’s families, I’ve also been to a sports bar and watched Bennie down about eight trays of spicy chicken wings. I’ve gone to a burger place and been told off for putting ketchup on my hot dog—and ordering a hot dog and chicken tenders from the kid’s menu instead of a burger—I’ve gone to the Avacyn Restored Prerelease… and failed miserably, with a 3-3 record. I’ve fixed up my backpack—lowering the weight, getting rid of some extemporaneous things, fixed the space, got rid of the shoulder bag—and I even went to the Goodwill and Walmart and got a few clothes that fit better. One of them being the shirt that says “Careful, or you’ll end up in my novel”. It’s a little small, but I started exercising more. No sense in not doing some sit ups just because I’m visiting. 

Unfortunately, what I still have yet to do is actually write. Heck, I didn’t write this except in two posts, the first one on, what, Friday, the second one just now. I’ve done nothing more than think about thinking about writing. I want to rewrite the work I accidentally overwrote from NaNoWriMo. A 35,000+ word story about a young man with magical powers solving a ghost story. It’s frustrating. 

Hell, a lot of this week has been frustrating. Terrible sleeping, I’ve showered only three times because I’m incredibly uncomfortable with being seen by Bennie’s dad, and to make it worse until I broke down and set up my camp pad out on the patio between the wall and unused hot tub, I hadn’t been able to masturbate for two weeks. 

I don’t know whether it’s related to that last one or not, but I also find myself becoming more and more infatuated with my friend in Arizona. I like her personality, I feel great when I make her happy, and I love teasing her, but at the same time she is the only person I currently know who could even potentially be a romantic interest and I have been exceptionally lonely, so there’s that. Although the time she phoned me at 5am and told me that she really wanted dick (she’s a lesbian, although she’s been exceptionally horny lately, and wants to be fucked by an “alpha guy”, although I think she just means a hot guy who’s confident, not some Jersey Shore guido. I suspect it’s because it would mean she’s hot herself. I was also treated to a half hour conversation involving how a perverted text based porn game was updated and which of the Innistrad angels she wanted to be dominated by. But that’s for another story). Not my dick, of course, (unless I do make a gorgeous girl by the time I get to Arizona) although she did out of the blue say she’d love to rub her ass against my crotch when we’re cuddling when I asked what we’d do when I visited.

I’d just meant what museums or attractions there were…

Where do I find these people?

Avengers: Assemble!

Go see the Avengers. Now. Then get some shawarma. 

A Week of Weakness

Well, it’s now been one week since I set out. Sunday night, after my friend treated me to the last meal he would ever share with me, the last time he might ever see me… at McDonald’s, he dropped me off about five or six miles from home, and I set out North from Ashland. That night, I walked through freezing cold and more than a little rain and wetness. My trenchcoat was soaked, my fingers were numb, and I was sore from walking for four hours in the dead of night along a country road lined with trees and nothing to keep me company but the passing cars and trucks that would edge me off the side of the road, and the occasional out of the way building. I took a rest around 9, then walked until 11:30, feeling like I should find a place to sleep, but not being ‘tired’. I was ready to rest, but I didn’t think I’d be able to sleep, and in all fairness, I couldn’t. 

I finally settled down, off the side of the road, down a hill, nestled behind some trees that hid me from site from what was a house or some kind of waystation or whatever. I took about an hour to set up my tent, and get everything inside. I sat down, and had dinner of a cup of cereal with some milk I’d brought along that despite the cold wasn’t.

And that’s when the train came. I set up my camp right next to a train track. In fact, as I’d realize tomorrow, it was a short jump from the actual train yard. It came only once again, though, at one. That night, I barely slept. I kept texting people, talking to them despite the fact that I’d probably want to get up before anyone might notice my camp and get mad at me, but I just kept texting. And after that, I tried sleeping. It was hard.

In fact, I’m pretty sure I didn’t sleep at all, just drifted in and out, looking at my phone to see that no time had passed. I wanted to cry then, and even thinking back on it, I want to cry. I was lonely. I’ve always been lonely, but this was different. There wasn’t any internet, no one to bug on IRC. I couldn’t really play a game to distract myself. I just lay there, wanting to cry and in many ways not really sure why. 

Finally, I had to get up. It wasn’t even 6, but I couldn’t get myself back to sleep, so I gave up trying and started packing my things. Everything was wet. A fat kid sleeping in a warm as fuck sleeping bag, rain outside, and a lot of sweat and wet already made for a lot of condensation. In the end, I just had to deal with some wet clothes for a few miles. In an hour, I’d made it to a tiny tiny city, and made the poor decision to go to a Denny’s, instead of the Wafflehouse. 

See, Denny’s always has WiFi, so I thought I’d not only be able to check on my money, but also talk to whoever might be up on IRC or Facebook. Turns out that being part of a Flying J meant this Denny’s had WiFi you had to pay for. Luckily there was an ATM I could use to check my account; unluckily I was only two dollars shy of needing to wash dishes. Good thing I didn’t order dessert. 

From there, it was back to Route 1. And it was another long, lonely walk, moving to the edge of the road whenever a big car came, and with nothing but Civil War event signs to entertain me. And then… I ran into someone from Richmond who apparently lives in Ladysmith, about 25 miles away or so. Guess he wasn’t kidding when he said he lived far away. Not one to turn down happenstance, I took him up on his offer for a ride, and he dropped me off at a public library before heading back towards work.

I then spent far, far too long in the library. I think I stayed there for three and a half hours before I even thought of leaving. I also bought three shitty suspense romance novels for ten cent, and got Game of Thrones off Amazon. And from there, things were… well, my foot was hurting. My socks weren’t thick enough, so I had a blister, and I only had three pair, already switching them out. I couldn’t find any sort of place to get stuff, and I think the woman who gave me directions to Food Lion didn’t realize I was walking—despite my giant backpack. Around five or so, I was starting to regret things. 

My pack was much heavier than it needed to be. I didn’t prepack at all, and all the training I did with a weighted pack was only the pack. I had a laptop case as well, holding things like my laptop, PSP, mess kit, camera, five bottle rockets, and some other things that wouldn’t fit in my bag. And they wouldn’t fit in my bag because I brought along a little metal briefcase to hold talcum powder, bandaids, firestarters, peroxide, and many other things that came in handy, but didn’t need to be in such a heavy container. 

So, I gave up. Sort of. I chose to lose the battle, but I haven’t given up on the war. I’m packing my bag better, and I’m not giving up. In fact, these last few weeks have been pretty good, despite sleeping on a couch and waking up freezing. What worries me next is what I’ll do in DC, but that’s a thought for another day. This has been the easy part. 

Regrets and Poor Planning

• One Week to Go

I really shouldn’t be here. The plan was to leave on the 14th. I told myself that I’d be gone then. But for most of April, I’ve been sick as hell. It was a week and a half of feeling like shit, although I’m over it by now. It still set me back; although, really, that’s not true, I just used it as an excuse. I mean, sure, I couldn’t set out on my journey when I had a wracking cough and a headache, but at the same time, I could have done more to pack and prepare. I even walked to the card shop with my bag to playCommander. I could have done more than just washing my clothes. Although I did walk to Walmart, so that’s something.

But here I am, 3am, muggy night, sweating, post-masturbation and yet still unable to sleep. I have a bit of a headache. I haven’t sold my Magic cards, I haven’t traded in my games, I haven’t gone to the second hand store for my books. I’ve spent over 1000 of my $1974.17, leaving me with a scant 600 or so to travel on. I haven’t got a bike, I haven’t been walking, I haven’t walked to the beach, I haven’t done any of the things I said I’d do. I’m fatter than I was this time last year, and I haven’t written anything since December, and even then I hadn’t written much. These last few months have had their ups and downs, but it’s almost time to put that behind me, and set out, no matter what.

A few days ago, as I was walking back from Walmart at almost midnight, I ran into someone who spotted my backpack and thought I was heading south, while he was heading north. We talked for a good ten minutes about traveling. It was good, it was inspiring. I still worry where I’ll sleep, or how I”ll make it between places, but I’m feeling better about it. What I do worry about is not having enough room for everything, and not being able to carry all my gear. Adding just the heavy flashlight made my backpack harder to walk with, and I still didn’t have my laptop, food, or water in there. And I still need a compression sack, and I still need to better… place all my stuff. I’m thinking of maybe getting a smaller over the shoulder bag and carrying that as well, but having two bags seems needlessly bulky. I’ve already got too much on my back with the sleeping bag, tarp, tent, and sleeping pad hanging off.

In the end, I’ll set out whether I’m prepared or not. It shouldn’t be too hard to become prepared. I need food, I need water. I need to think about my laptop, and how to keep everything from just being thrown in there. I don’t want to have to go fifteen minutes of digging just to get a shirt out.

But, enough of that. The other thing that comes to mind in this hot night is… what of me? And my journey. I’m tired now, having taken a good hour and browsed Reddit instead of writing these thoughts. But I still feel the need to get them out. 

What will I do with me? How will I better myself? I keep saying this trip is about adventure, and self-discovery, and writing, and figuring out my gender feelings, and bettering myself, and, and, and… but how do I do that? How do I not just walk and listen to music? How do I take pictures and write and think and grow instead of being passive? I can move my feet to distant shores, but what really matters is whether those distant shores can give me the mindset I need to *think*. 

I haven’t shown my parents this blog. They keep asking whether I’ll write about my trip or not, and my mom asks about my writing. I never show her, though. All these transgender feelings, all this stuff about feeling neglected and forgotten, dark stories about rape and murder and ghosts and killers. I don’t know if I feel comfortable giving her that sort of insight into me, and yet I’ll let strangers see it. Because in many ways, my parents know me the least of anyone.

You know?