In love with a lesbian, and without guidance.A Chapter by Kenny Pomaski
Happened tonight. I'm drunk, and depressed. No literary talent here.
Here I am, buzzed, slightly innebriated, and hardly capable of concentrating on any literary practice I have taught myself over the years. And yet, I told myself I would write at least one story a day. This is more of a journal piece, and doesn't belong here, but it as least gives a taste of whom I am and whose stories you've been reading.
I would like to add that I would most likely not be typing this should I be able to play video games right now. Sadly, there are two drunk kids asleep on my couches beside my T.V. right now so I am, mostly by subjectivity and not will, writing this right now.
This story does not have any account of the party I was just at or the intoxication I have so plastically enjoyed for the past few hours. It takes place an hour before my arrival, while I was both sober and aware.
There's a dunkin' donuts by me that I am more frequent with then others. Sadly, most D&D's know my coffee (Medium Black). I had told, after months of doubt and mass confustion, the only girl I ever loved, to meet me there. I don't know why, but after a night of sneaking out of work to smoke cigarettes and listen to smooth jazz in my car, I had decided to call her after her weeks of her trying to get in touch with me.
It was a mistake, I suppose.
We pulled two chairs down (Seeing as I am a regular, they let me pull chairs down after they close, which I find horribly depressing for some reason) and sat, sipping our coffees and talking about when we used to hang out, avoiding the conflicting topic of us kissing and the near time we had sex. After about an hour, with our coffees extinguised and near dry, she brought up the taboo we both invocally agreed upon.
"Why did you tell me to stop talking to you," she asked, her eyes still kind and direct.
"I guess because I couldn't stand seeing you only once a week," I replied, my monotone voice without quiver or fault, "and also because you never showed up on that single day."
Her and I had met when I worked at a job two states away. I would come home around twelve or so after a work week, and fall right asleep. I really had only one full day home, then the next morning we would be back in the truck headed away. If there was anything I desired about home on those weekends, it was the sight of her face.
And, unlike Burger King, sometimes you really can't have it your way.
'I didn't know it mattered so much," she replied, cool and unconcerned.
"I told you it did," I said.
"I wasn't sure you really cared."
"I told you I did."
She looked at me then, and her eyes had changed. They were not so elegant now. They were puddle-like, as if she were staring at a deer with a broken leg.
"What if I wanted to try again," she said finally.
To be honest with you all, before her, I had two serious relationships and a handful of one night stands. I do not stand proud or idol-like at this statement, but not once, in any of these relationships, did I ever feel anything of them like I did for her, whom I had known for two months only while my most serious relationship lasted for four years.
"I would have to decline," I said, my tone unchanged but my mind racing kites in a windless field.
Another slab of honesty; not a day has gone by that I have not thought of her. I'm not over her, and it has been eight months. I am a mess.
"Why," she said.
"Because I love you, and the only thing I noticed with love is the uncertainty I feel around you. You make me happy, and there is no person I would rather spend my time with you then you, but I just can't. I don't know what to expect from you, and it honestly frightens me. With everybody else, I expect the timed explosion, and I feed off of it.
"To be honest, I would rather a life of feeling empty and lonely then uncertain."
"You're a mess."
"So be it."
Then I left.
I don't think there is anything to be learned from this night, but it made me feel both horrible and intelligent. With her, I was happy. With her, nothing mattered, including the years of study I put into figuring out international configurations and the various ways people have tried to help the world. What can I do? put myself first and be happy, or continue to lead the dream of global harmony, through peace or bloodshed? Whichever is more noble, I feel like hell. And I want to go play a video game, and yet, there are still two drunk kids passed out on my couch.
Empty, and alone. Feeling the stress of lonely and depressed. Don't know what's right anymore.
© 2009 Kenny Pomaski
Added on March 1, 2009
365 Stories of No Purpose
AboutI'm a writer who wants nothing more then to be a writer. Name is Kenny Pomaski. I'm 20, and have been writing seriously for nearly five years (Though I've been writing stories my whole life). The b.. more..