The Heart Wants What It Wants

*This conversation takes place entirely over text.*

Saturday, Dec. 8, 1:14 am

Me: Hey girl. What’re you up to?

Her: Josh, it’s 1 in the morning.

Me: Yep. Batman is busy patrolling the streets right now. Ever vigilant.

Her: Go to bed. I’m sure your drunk.

Me: Nonsense. Sober like a fox. Haven’t misspelled a word yut. I have powdered alcohol. This stuff is great!

Her: Goodnight! (Emoticon that I will not bother to reproduce here because emoticons are, of course, tools of Socialist Satan.)

Me: Wait. Seriously, I have to tell you something.

Ten minutes go by…

Me: Hello?

Her: What?!

Me: Ninjas can be real assholes sometimes.

Her: Josh. It’s the middle of the night and your being stupid. Go to bed!

Me: For cereal though, I just wanted to talk to you. I’m so bored right now.

Her: Because it’s the middle of the night and sain people are asleep.

Me: “Sain”? Now who’s drunk? Can I come over?

Her: Why?

Me: I have a loose tooth I want to show you. Why doyou think?

Her: idk. Its really late and I’m tired.

Me: You know who else was tired? Debbie. But that didn’t stop her from doing all of Dallas.

Her: Wow

Me: I know, right?

Her: UR so romantic

Me: And a consistently good speller. Don’t forget that. Anyway what’s the deal?

Seven minutes pass…

Me: Come on! I’ll bring some wine. Actually, the rest of this bottle of rum. We’ll do shots. Shots of booze with powdered alcohol mixed in. We can watch a movie.

Her: I’m not doing shots and I’m not watching one of your bad movies. I’m not in the mood for Buckaroo Bonsai versus Hitler or whatever.

Me: Your words wound my tender heart. Buckaroo Bonsai fights the World Crime League, not Hitler. Everybody knows that. So what are you wearing?

Her: Pajamas. Sweatpants. Nothing sexy. Sorry (Frowny face emoticon. Seriously people, have we sunk to this level of communication? I should write a blog about it when the booze wears off.)

Me: I’m wearing a sock. I think.

Her: Just a sock?

Me: Not sure. I haven’t ventured a look down in awhile. If it is just a sock, that’d explain the pizza guy’s face earlier.

A minute later…

Just checked. I’m also wearing a shirt that advocates hitting pregnant women. Pants are AWOL. Damn I’m smooth.

Her: If you’re going to come over, just hurry up. We’re not in our 20’s anymore. Booty calls gotta stop.

Me: Ain’t gotta tell me twice! On my way.

After 22 minutes…

Me: Hello?

Her: Where are you? You close?

Me: Funny story and I’ll tell you all about it, but you’ll have to bail me out first. Unless Mr. Brooks can get here.

Her: WTF?! Your in jail?

Me: *You’re. Never an excuse for bad grammar. I’m not in jail yet. But things are kinda messy around here and the cops are on their way. I just want to get a leg up on things before they take my phone.

Her: What happened?

Me: I have strong objections to the rules about street parking in whatever neighborhood I’m currently in. People shouldn’t park in the street at all. They should park in driveways. Or, as I’m currently doing, in garages. Well, I’m not in a garage as much as I’d say it’s somebody’s living room. But you know what I mean.

Her: ?

Me: I’m sure the family who lives here will have a nice laugh about it in the morning. Right now they’re screaming at me and cussing a lot. Here come the police. I’ll talk to you later. Keep your bed warm and your legs closed until I get there.

Her: Your an idiot.

Me: The irony in that statement will keep me going through the long, cold, anally-penetrating nights in prison.

Just Like Warm Butter

 

Oh. So that’s what it feels like. This probably deserves an ouch.

“Ouch.”

I look down and see three things: the hilt of the knife peeking through her fingers, which are clenched in a fist so tight her knuckles are white; the place in my chest where the handle protrudes, like a morbid after-factory modification; and the blossoming pool of blood on my chest with lines of blood going down my stomach, like red rivulets of rain on a window. But more gross. And painful.

“Ouch.” I say again, with what I hope is a little more emotion to convey that being stabbed does indeed hurt.

I slide down the wall and land hard on my ass. Now my ass hurts. Where’s the justice in that? The stabbing isn’t enough? Still holding the knife, she collapses with me. Now we’re both just sitting, looking at each other. Except one of us has a knife sticking out of them and is tie-dying their shirt the hard way. Me. Have I mentioned the stabbing yet?

I look at her face. She seems shocked by her own actions, which she shouldn’t, because we are not even close to the kitchen and knives don’t magically appear out of nowhere. Her eyes are wide and they begin to tear up. Next thing I know she’s crying hysterically and babbling in confusion. I think I hear the occasional “I’m sorry,” but it’s hard to tell with all the crying and the rivers of snot. I can’t help but notice that she’s still holding the knife. Not cool.

Also, what am I supposed to do, accept her apology? I mean I am dying here. I don’t really think apologies matter anymore.

“It’s okay,” I say, feebly.

What’s the matter with me?! She didn’t accidentally step on my toes in the movie theater. She didn’t neglect to hold the door open at the grocery store. She stabbed me. I’m pretty sure I covered that with the two ouches.

Actually, now that I think about it, it doesn’t really matter, does it? Most of it didn’t really matter in the end. Being popular, religion dictating what I’m supposed to eat and who I’m supposed to hate, sitting in the front car of a roller coaster, what happens on Game of Thrones: meaningless. Yikes, I’m starting to wax philosophical, I must almost be kaput.

I’m still looking forward, but I don’t really see her anymore. It’s like somebody put a roll of wax paper in front of my eyes. Everything is hazy and gray. And then, like a movie projector being flipped on, there’s a click in my head and I’m starting to see stuff.

Hey, it’s the “life flashing before my eyes” thing I’ve heard so much about. Although, if it happens before death, then how do people who are alive know about it? Maybe ghosts. Maybe I can be a ghost! I can think of five people off the top of my head that I’d haunt. Give me an F on that algebra test in seventh grade, eh Mr. Brooks? Have I got a surprise for you.

I settle in to enjoy the documentary of my life. Let’s see. There’s me as a baby. Wow my head was abnormally large. There’s me learning to walk. I developed my trademark gangsta lean quite early. Good for me. Now there’s school. Hey, my first hand-traced Thanksgiving turkey! Who the hell invented that concept? God kids are idiots.

My first fight. Wow, that girl beat my ass. I’m sure such humiliation had no lasting effects on my psyche. There’s me playing soccer. I’m a natural. Annnnnd, more stuff of me growing up. Yeah, I get it, I used to be a kid, fast-forward to the good stuff!

Oooh. My first kiss. That’s what I’m talking about. Wait, what the hell? She was fatter than I remember. Hormones sure do make you forget about being picky. Yikes. And what am I doing with my hands? That’s not right. Wow, this is awkward. Next please.

First time having se… and I’m done. It’s a good thing I’m about to expire. That’s embarrassing. In fact, that’s put me off of watching the rest. College, jobs, Schnietz Marphis, Army, war, bullets, bombs, Roseus, I get it. I remember. No need to dwell on any of that stuff. Alright, enough of the highlight reel. Let’s do this thing!

I’m comfortable. My body feels light. Mostly weightless. Like I’m in the world’s most comfortable beanbag chair. Man, if I knew dying was this relaxing, I would have done it years ago! I don’t really even feel the six-inch, carbon steel blade in my chest. This body isn’t my problem anymore, let somebody else deal with this messy, smelly hunk of meat. I’m just gonna lay back and close my eyes. I feel sleepy. I think I’ll take a nap for a little…

*tic…tic…tic…*

I hit the alarm clock.