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The Color Of The Inside Of My Mouth MAG
I wipe at my stupid eyes with the back of my hand, and it startles me for a second that my tears are gray. I dunno why it surprised me; I mean, I buy the s***ty mascara that’s $1.99 in the 20 Items or Less checkout lane. Why spend oodles of green on something I hardly ever use?
I just wanted to look nice, you know? Like those girls who’re just naturally fake pretty. The girls who can blend shades of eyeshadow like no one’s business, and match their lipstick to the exact color of their toenail polish or whatever. Seemingly effortless, yet impeccably coordinated.
This is good stuff, I should write for a living – solely on the subject of beauty queens with superiority complexes, of course.
I just want … God, what do I want? I want to feel the sun on my face and paint the clouds and hear the music in the trees and love myself and love someone else and just feel perpetually beautiful.
But that requires the $14.99 waterproof, fire-retardant, Grade-5-hurricane-resistant mascara, not the tube that’s two bucks in Lane 4.
My shoes are dirty and outdated, but that’s how I like them. I like these shoes. They’re comfortable. Why do I need new, expensive, fashionably appealing shoes in order for someone to say, “Hey dogg, you look nice today”?
And why is it that whenever I get deathly bored and slather cheap, pore-clogging makeup all over my face everyone suddenly says, “Wow, you look pretty!”? Since when is “pretty” about whale blubber and cocoa butter?
I’ll tell you one thing, though. I most definitely am not crying about some stupid XY.
Definitely not.
I’m crying for all the whales that have to give up their fatty insulation so that some fugly anorexic super bitch can paint herself pretty every freaking day, giving him something halfway decent to oggle all the time.
Seriously, I’m not leaking saltwater over a guy.
I just think it’s cruel and unfair that the fat-endowed marine life population doesn’t even get the slightest warning that they’ll soon be on a cosmetics endcap at K-Mart.
He could have at least broken it to me gently, you know? We’ve been friends since the George Bush/Al Gore debacle.
I mean come the Bette Midler on.
I spill my blood, guts, and viscera out to this guy and he throws down the “Let’s just be friends” card without a second thought?
It’s just … it’s common courtesy to ease someone into heartbreak, not smash it over their head like a whiffleball bat.
You know what? I’m going to take my $1.99 checkout Lane 4 mascara and chuck it right at her big, stupid square head.
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"Runaway" An excerpt
Darkness descended until the neon lights reflected elusive colors into the slick shadows of the wet street. Rain slid down my guant features, and I grinned wryly as I played with the strings of my acoustic guitar rhythmically. I tilted my face towards the polluted skies, and leaned the contours of my thin body against the brick wall. The city, empty and barren, shunned my existence.
People, clad in coats meant for the brittle cold, skirted past my hollow guitar case without a sympathetic glance. Figures beneath umbrellas hastened past without revealing their faces. I closed my eyes and wondered vaguely if people without hearts lacked faces.
"I need change," I whispered brokenly. The kind of change that would unmask the facade that people portrayed. The kind of change that would uncover the delusions people harbored. The kind of change that would grant actual change for food, shelter, warmth - without contempt.
My senses had become peculiarly aware since my wandering. I heard the resounding arrival of an enemy common to the nomad. I sighed, and fought the demonic urge to carve a wicked, ironic grin across my face.
My dark indigo irises mirrored sorrow to please the outraged police officer.
"Punk, get the hell off my streets!" He shouted, a pitiful vision of what is known as authority.
He snatched the traditional cardboard sign of the vagrant from the sidewalk, and ripped it until it represented nothing. Scrawled in unattractive black, my words had been, "Just because you look away doesn't mean I'm not here."
"Don't you come back, boy."
"Yes, sir." I snapped a salute, and knit my eyebrows sternly.
He reached for his gun, I suppose, to frighten me.
"I better not see you around here anymore. You got that, you dirty bum?"
"Of course, sir."
My rebellious nature flickered dangerously, and the sense of anarchy burned into my veins greedily. I turned away from the fuming man, and gathered all I had in the world: a ruined guitar case, a guitar, and three dollars.
"Hey!" He yelled as I was sauntering away,"Hey, scum. How the hell old are you?"
I straightened, and lifted my chin. I suppose that my ragged clothes, the dark circles beneath my eyes, the alabaster skin ravaged by the elements, the black hair plastered to my skull by the rain, and the lean state of my body implied that I could not possibly be human.
I growled, and he stumbled back as I hissed defiantly, "I'm seventeen."
He smiled, and leaned back like I had given him a reason to breathe. In a voice like the sewer dripping, he lolled, "That makes you a runaway, boy."
I smiled, my lips curling in a devious way.
"Yes, I suppose it does."
And I ran.
Keep writing! :]
It's an interesting way to write in your journal.
You are definitely going to be big one day.
I love it.
