Every night I intend to go home, if only for appearances. I don't like when my dad wakes up and no one is home, even if the sun shines and birds chirp and he packed his lunch the night before. He's alone enough. En route behind the wheel of my old-man Malibu, I feel more alive than ever-- it's the ultimatum of my final destination and the confidence that I control the time and path I take there. The world's weight lifts a little as the pedal at my foot shakes. Gas seemingly flows through my toes, and I buzz, and I sing, and my vocal chords shudder with every chorus of "If I Ever Feel Better." I think of the movie I just watched, it usually ends ambiguously, which I crave much more than a happy ending. I'd rather live not knowing than settle for something too good to be true, or have to digest something too sad to bare. It allows me to believe that my conclusion is possible, no, probable, especially in the scripts that interest me enough to make me question and anticipate the entire film.
Every night that I actually make it home, I press my pointer nail to the wad of chewing gum in mouth, still usually fresh enough to keep mashing in my molars. I stick the schmaltz, pull the sling shot back for momentum, then flick, fling the tooth-molded gelatin flavor glob into oblivion... Or my unlamped street, more literally, since my gums' landing antecedent of flower bed ticks my dad off too much. It always has, since the old house in Indian Creek.
It's stupid that I spit it out anyway; its purpose is to cover the stale cig breath that lingers from my car ride home, though it doesn't help to mask the radiative effect emanating from my outfit. Tonight no one's awake though, so it doesn't matter... I can tell because no light shines through the windows that sandwich my door, and to get in I have to key myself. Straight to the kitchen, I place my travel mug on the counter--I've been making my own coffee before work. How grown up. Tonight I also resist the fridge's harrowing taunts. Oh, such maturity.
Every night I make it, I wake my dog as I hit the second floor landing, his collar jingles and I'm glad to be there, if only for a second. In the bathroom mirror, my last destination before a restless night in my empty queen size bed, my face looks old and worn, but zitty and weak. There is no wisdom behind those liner-smeared eyes and no clue under those light roots growing in a half inch too long, no hope for effortless beauty. I find encouragement in my profile, though; my waist's almost back to the size it was when I was smallest, except this time I'm not in the gym for two hours a day and my muscle not as toned.
It's always then when I find the scalding water spout over my finger's flesh, the burn neutralizes the itch of some skin shit, eczema or whatever, probably stress induced because I haven't had it for always, but still in the back of my mind blame the years of baking soda at pretzel palace for my defect. I hold the digits there until it hurts, rubbing both palms back and forth until I can't stand it any longer, and look into my eyes. Internally, my brain lets slip a banshie caliber holler, then caves to the scream. No thoughts occupy my mind, and it's blank. My hands are raw, my mind is numb, and it's time to start again. Or maybe better, anew. I walk down to the last bedroom of the hall, on the side of my house my brother almost burned down when he threw the chiminea ashes in the trash can some odd black Fridays ago.
Every night I lay in bed for hours is exhausting, especially when I'm this exhausted. The t.v.'s on to drown out my worries, but I'm not watching. Work in 8 hours, but gotta be up in at least seven. And that'll only tick lower and lower, 'til about four and a half, and I'll scratch my hands while the television's light flickers on, dim compared to my non-refreshable Twitter/Instagram/Facebook feeds. I'm not sure at this point my alarm will make me. Or rather, wake me. I'm not sure I'll schedule a job interview back at my Alma Mater for Thursday, or fax the request for my transcripts in time. I don't know if I'll make my lunch, or if I'll hear relieving news at my appointment after work. It's up in the air, I'm not positive. I'm capable, I just can't say what keeps me in the dark for sure. I crave the ambiguous, so this close to my every night is rather fitting. I'd rather live not knowing than settle for something too good to be true, or have to digest something too sad to bare. It allows me to believe that my ultimate conclusion is possible, no, probable, especially in a life that interests me enough to make me question and anticipate the entire time. I guess though now the only question I'm asking is
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