Codesmith

Life, Or Something Like It
2005-12-09 14:54:29 (UTC)

Drug Dealing

It's 1209, Friday. 858am. Windy. Light snow.

I keep thinking there's something wrong today. Something,
not quite right. I was re-reading Katie's journal again,
and I re-read her last entry. I think, maybe there is
something lurking inside of me. But at the same time, I
keep thinking there's something lurking inside of her as
well. Something, not quite calm within her.

My only reaction is this feeling of being over protective.
I just want to keep her safe, calm her, reassure her, that
everything is alright. That things will be fine. That the
things she thinks aren't o.k, will be fine if not already.

I think, she might be upset about what had happened
earlier. Well, I don’t think. I know. Namely, she felt
like she wasn’t enough. Or wasn’t good enough for … him.
The various female insecurities made their way, I imagine,
to her and she couldn’t help but give into the pain. I
wish I could have held her and tell her that she’s so
very, very beautiful. That, any guy would be lucky to be
with her. That she’s wonderful, so very wonderful. Cup
her face, kiss her hard, and just brush back her hair.
Tell her every little thing beautiful about her. Every
little thing I love about her. From her freckles to the
way she smiles.

… She has such beautiful eyes.

I miss her now actually, and I wonder how she’s doing at
the moment. I still feel overly protective right now, and
I wonder, if she still feels … the same as she did
yesterday before we talked on the phone. I really wish
she’d email me, but I can imagine she’s busy with work and
such. I only wish class would start early, so that I could
have something to get my mind off of … things. Whichever,
those might be. At the moment the mesh of mess and ideas,
thoughts, and impressions swirl about my mind like some
tornado having ripped its way past a particularly junk
ridden neighborhood, whose inhabitants have accrued vast
plastic goods over the years.

… Not even real good plastic stuff either.

A curious thought just now. Suppose writing is therapeutic
for the one who writes. Well, what happens when the writer
has writer’s block? I find the thought such a curiously
humorous one.

December is coming upon me soon and I have to prepare.
Well, actually, it’s already here according to my time
stamp. It’s been here for the past nine days. I cant seem
to stop saying that. That, “I can’t wait for December.”
But, to me, it’s like some magical day at some far away
time. Like I was telling Katie earlier, my mind works …
curiously.

I guess, for lack of other things to talk about … I could
talk about my drug dealing parents. I’d talk about Katie
some more and how I feel … but what is there more to say?
Other than I want to hold her, hug her, and keep her safe.
Reassure her and just … stroke her hair. Chase away the
monsters, if there be any.

… Maybe this will help pass the time.

I don’t remember how old I was before I started wondering
why on earth my parents would put … things into these
plastic bags. The bags were opaque with a dark tinting
grey upon them. They were always wrapped the same way
using these red rubber bands which came in great bulk
bags. I remember, as a child, that the plastic bags were
wrapped in such a way that they’d form these blocks.
Blocks … of something. Something I didn’t know what
exactly. I recall that during my childhood years, I had
observed that the blocks were useful for one thing and one
thing only. Stacking. I could stack them pretty high
without them toppling over. So, while my parents weren’t
watching me, I’d take an armful of the blocks and stack
them up in the living room. Seeing how far I could stack
them before they tumbled over. Well, they did tumble
eventually. The curious noises, I imagine, stirred my
parents to investigate me and my actions. For, surely, I
was the mischievous one in my family. Or so my mother
adamantly denies.

I remember this other time when I was young, that Fred
came over to visit. It was unprecedented that a friend
would come so late in the evening. When I saw him, I
realized it wasn’t his doing but rather his mother’s
doing. As, you know, she was standing right behind him and
all. Him and his brother, William. My mother ushered us
all into my small, little cramped room. I can’t recall
where my sister was. Maybe, she was elsewhere. Or, maybe,
she was in the room with us. Anyway, we’d always be shoved
into my bedroom and I always remembered how it was because
something was happening in the living room. Something,
that they didn’t want us to see obviously.

I was truly baffled as to what that ONE thing they didn’t
want us to see was. Until, one day, I left the room early
without my mother’s permission and wandered into the
living room. I immediately noticed that something was
slightly amiss. For one, there was an I-V drip hanging
from the entertainment center, and there was a pillow at
the foot of the entertainment center. At the end of the
drip was this … plastic thing. Now, I had seen many a
hospital drama shows before. Plus with my recent visit to
the hospital, I was quite familiar with what these things
were. They were for, of course, some kind of I-V thing.
Someone had been injected with something. Something that
was allowed to dilute into their blood stream over a long
period of time.

I never figured out what exactly this stuff was. But on
more than one occasion I remember looking at the white box
for some particular substance, and finally one day it
occurred to me that whatever was being dripped into the I-
V was from inside the white box. However, having the less
than fifth grade education that I possessed at the time, I
was no more closer to figuring out what exactly it was
than either Fred or William.

In fact, now that I recall … my mother ASKED me to go grab
the white box prior to someone’s visit. So that’s how I
knew that after I handed in the white box I’d be sent to
my room for some … duration.

There are a lot more stories like this, but at the moment
… I feel utterly exhausted. I need to get up and move
around, so I think I’ll end this here and head to the
other lab for a moment. At the very least, that one is
closer of my first class of the day.

I’ll write later.




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