There’s no reason I should be hearing a crash against the door of the empty room where I had seen a hopping too-big-and-oval-to-be-a-spider creature. Good thing I put a sign that says George W. Bones (real guy! Maybe even a good guy!) against the door, so nothing can get out of the bottom crack. None of this is mine. This is my friend’s living room, and serves as a place for me to politely do certain things, some concerning Twitter, each tinged with the personal and social thoughts and experience after being broken up with. The middle is always the perfect place to find yourself. In taste, for the sake of your stomach and/or brain (Though some have a threshold for certain extremes, feeling at home saying, “Wow! That was Scary!” then “I can’t go to sleep or look at women without imagine an anvil coming down!” or “My God! So sweet and creamy!” then “I feel like I pissed semen in my belly; my belly feels like it is a fetus!”, water and a Pixar movie can really just improve your day, and have just enough resonance to create those good feelings), and in reactions to a 2-year-relationship, and its otherwise unforeseen conclusion. I’ve tried to talk to people about it, and some will say “2 years! Wow! It’s been a week, and I’ve already been cheated on.” or they’ll get back to talking about the end of their 3-year relationship. It’s not that long; whenever anybody even thinks about rushing into marriage, I hear the rhetorical, “Can’t you just wait 5 or 10 years?”.
I can’t help but be hyperbolic. I wish tears through me as I stare at the colors in the distance when I’ve given up on writing a Tweet or a bit or a letter or a facebook message or a text. On the bright side, those imagined tears were reactions to the hypothetical of how M would respond. Well, I’m off to avoid sleep, as that is the closest I’ll ever get to a super-power, which I probably use just as much as anyone else. I’m afraid.  I can say that the not-a-spider kept me up when Chris and David ask me why I’m jittery, but I just want to write what I’ve been thinking for the past month.

“M” is how I’ll refer to the girl who was my girlfriend and my best friend, because I’m running out of acceptable ways to keep the identity of that human being respectably distanced from non-diaries non-friends, and she may not be “best (female) friend” forever (hopefully I’ve jinxed the relationship in our favor – as words lead to greater life-impact than impromptu hook-ups, right?). I haven’t really referred to her as any qualification of (the word) friend, as I always called her by her first name, or some endearment, and now “M”. Her name… – well – that doesn’t matter as much as the letter and phoneme, “M”.
Any sexual prospect I watch out for has a haunt to her. It starts with family; it starts with mother. And, that’s how we are made; we are made to say mommy. We begin language with simple consonant bilabial communication, or just acknowledging life with closed lips, as “yum” or a tasteful “mmmm” has no reason to matter to a newborn. This humming continues to express good to bad feelings, and I’ve taken it on heavily. I’ve also slipped “Mom” into even the most civil conversation with M. Since M, and into recent affairs with girls, I’ve been told to shut that off, from the yummy noises to the expression of sympathy and obligatory pity. Everyone expects a middle-ground of involvement from you though, as moderation is best in showing happiness or sadness, if you want any good conversation to go on, and continue to make you proud of your current choices. My mother convinced me that I’m an actor, and I never felt it for myself, but now I’m getting it. I want to be involved with everything as much as possible. It has been said that “Kevin vibes with everything”. By a barely-friend, presenting a contradictory expectation of me than that of these girls. In order to pacify them, to stop sounding like I’m using a pacifier, I will remove “M” from my speech. Were M’s name to be Moonshine, I would call her Oonshine, and Mom would be happy. I mean, Oonshine and all the other Ms would be happy.

The night is a hard place to be when away from the hermitical nocturnal comfort of home. I’m a firefly caught in a jar, and I’m looking around me if I can use my x-ray vision to read biology books about what I’m supposed to do to sustain myself. I’m horny in the middle of what I’ve designated to be a new day, marked by the beginnings of others’ dreams, and that’s normal, if a legitimate new day. My external environment, beyond my elected barrier, is scarier and stranger and the scary side of a fun house, colored by the after-midnight-light. And, I saw that not-a-spider. In the bathroom. My greatest bathroom fears have been realized: My father’s unlocked the door from the outside, and walked in on me pooping – my greatest state of vulnerability. And, in a recent instance, I could not escape a bug. It was there. I had to spring up in defense as if someone was knocking on the front door. I tried to box it in. I couldn’t stomp on it, because I imagine fangs would pop out, converted from the blackness. I couldn’t even chase it; without the same biology book that firefly-me needs, I’m certain if human-me antagonizes any bug of menace, they will spew eggs out of shock, and signal all their buds. I was told later that this is a Giant House Cricket. Even if I saw it in a bug’s natural habitat, I would be scared, because it’s not making the same peaceful sounds of it’s relatives. This is not any vagrant skittering about in a search for sustenance, while it’s left its violin at home with its family, but a raw villain constructed to offer only fear, and I can’t even try to comfort myself, and neither can the internet.


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