Straight Boys

Straight Line

Although everything was becoming alright, I still incredulously had no real concept of time any whatsoever. Minutes could turn into hours, hours into days, days into months and months to years, and I still wouldn't know how I had suddenly gotten into my room even though my car keys limply were held in my hands. I wouldn't know how. Because one frozen second in time I'm with Lola, then it melts and I'm planning her party; and now it's a week later and I'm in my room back from school on a Friday afternoon, sitting on my bed, somewhat in a daze, a dreamlike state. 'Time was an illusion,' and somehow I believed those words from Eistein himself.

Because everything was alright, I shouldn't care that I'm still going with the motions, right? But that's just it. Not everything was alright. This may be the pessimist that festered inside of my chest because I lacked the want to talk about what's happened, what's been going on, about what will go on and happen. But I just didn't want to talk about it, yet I knew I should because it's bad to hold things in and oh boy, I was known for holding shit so far down in me that it created a metropolis with skyscrapers of anxiety and cars of anger and sadness that drove on these streets of negative thoughts. These kindling thoughts and feelings were beginning to build, and I should talk about them, yet part of me still couldn't believe what the fuck happened to me.

It was like the upcoming birthday party had the capacity to ruin my soul for forever. It was the thought of spending my little sister's ninth birthday in a hospital that was making me move through waves of blackouts and mindless trotting. Mom wouldn't be there because she was still in her colorless sleep, and that all the more made it so much worse.

Although everything seemed alright, it wasn't because some way, some form or shape, I was suddenly remembering everything I've done in my past seventeen years.

All the models of rocket ships I've made, and putting up the glow in the dark stars because I was and still admittedly am obsessed with outer space.

The football career I'd never pursue because I hated feeling like shit after every practice and being the leader I was never really meant to be.

The interest in Psychology and Sociology that only seemed to be a back up career because I was too chicken to go for what I really wanted.

The many girls I've casually slept with since freshman year, mainly the girl I lost my virginity to, the girls I've taken their viginities from and the girls that just didn't give a fuck about me. I remember them, all of them and I can still count them on both hands. I could still figure out their faces, their voices, the feel of their skin against my skin, and then I remembered. I remembered how they were all I was looking for, yet not enough. There was something missing.

And that's where I stopped my trek down memory lane.

That's where the face of all my hatred and happiness appeared. Zachary Rogers.

When I was still with Lola last Saturday, Zachary was there too. He'd been with me for the whole God damn day. It was when the Nurse, Marie, and a guy nurse I faintly remembered kicked us out for Lola's tests that I finally had the chance to get to know him like planned. This was right before Lunch now.

I got to know him, as we sat in the plastic chairs outside of Lola's room, playing the stupid game of twenty questions. I knew him a lot more after that. I knew a lot.

He liked all kinds of food, no discrimination, which was why he loved to cook.

He actually had a place in his heart for early 2000s pop singers, most of which included girl groups and singers. His favorite all time band, however, would always be the Artic Monkeys.

He hated thick headed people with shallow chests, people like Corbett Connors.

His mom's name was Lauren Rogers.