Some freestyle writing I did before falling asleep with my face on the laptop, like a nerd. Nothing special, I was just messing around. Eh, Rubbish.
@ THE BUS STOP
That particular night was just like any other in the Adams Morgan area of Washington, DC. The bro’s and hoes were out partying in the streets, and the live bands played in the background to the active bars and restaurants as the beer and liquor flowed endlessly.
I looked down one minute and swallowed over a dozen shots, only to look up the next to see how late the night had become. Two in the morning was as late as I’ve ever stayed out. Despite being a delinquent teenager in my mother’s eyes, I was still never comfortable with staying out so late.
Upon noticing the time, I stood to my feet and staggered out of the bar in direction to the nearest bus stop on Columbia Road. The area was quiet and the bench area was empty, which was a surprise on a Friday night. I waited for some drunk ditsy blonde to come staggering up the street, but I did that already.
While seated at the bus stop, I did what any bored woman my age would do: go through my smart phone and find someone interesting to text. Either that or mess around on Facebook until my bus arrived. My attention was instantly taken off of my phone’s bright display screen to observe the man who arrived to join me in the wait for the bus.
He was a tall black guy with a muscular build and in dire need of a shave and haircut. He was dressed in the standard delinquent attire for black men: white v-neck tee shirt and blue jeans with a pair of clean Jordan brand sneakers. I never was attracted to black men, let alone their horrible choice of clothing. I could never understand why they choose to wear that style set, knowing police often identify criminals to that description.
His appearance and presence set me on edge a bit, so I crossed my legs and tucked the top of my dress in between my thighs, praying to god this guy wasn’t some sicko rapist. I’d rather be robbed than raped. Continue Reading
The voices in my head were telling me to not go through with what I had set out to do that Thursday mid-morning. I couldn’t look at myself in the mirror without seeing Felicia in my reflection. I loved her so much that she somehow become a part of me. It’s hard to explain how I can hear her voice without her being present. I could hear her warning me of the consequences if I were to do what I planned on doing in the room.
“This is where the two of you sleep?” Kendra inquired, running her fingers across the bed sheets before sitting on my girlfriend’s side of the bed. Her presence in the bedroom was the first step of me tarnishing the relationship that Felicia and I had spent two and a half years building. She would never do anything that low, but she wasn’t innocent, and it was that fact which led to me bringing Kendra into my home and bedroom.
“This is where we do everything.” I replied as she bit onto her bottom lip, imagining the things Felicia and I had done in that room. The thought of being so deep into the privacy of my relationship turned her on. Continue Reading
The rumbling of the speeding train knocked over one of the black Versace shoes that sat on the floor, as a pair of bare feet rested over-top a set of crumbled argyle dress socks, belonging to a well dressed male, somewhere in his late forties, as he tapped his feet to the sound of music playing in his head. His focus was on a set of documents inside of a thick black folder. He read through these documents as the homes, mountains and desserts rapidly passed by outside of his train cart window.
Joining him in the cart was a young woman, dressed in a woman’s power suit, as if she were boarding the train for an important business meeting. She had a light caramel tone and beautiful blue eyes for a woman of Caucasian and African-American descent. She sat on the opposite side of the cart, smiling while observing the quick movement of her roommate’s eyes. He read through the documents as if it were a novel he’d read countless times before. She sat back and slowly blinked her eyes while donning her most seductive facial expression.
“Any questions?” she asked the mate, as he rose his head at the sound of her voice.
“I think Joe made everything clear here on paper,” he replied while reaching for his glass of scotch, “But I still don’t understand why you’re here. Does your guy not trust me to do the job?”
“Joe has no doubt that you will do the job.” she said while resting her hands on her lap. “I’m just here to answer any questions you might have, and see to it that you have a safe and comfortable trip to California, that’s all.”
The two had a long quiet stare-down, as if they were either trying to read each other through body language, or to see who would blink first. The woman laughed while slapping her hand on her thigh.
“Relax, John,” she said in between laughter. “I’m not here to do you any harm. My name is Leah, and as I said already, I’m just making sure you get there safe. No problems.” Continue Reading
I promised myself this would be the very last time I ever mention or think about my ex-girlfriend and our relationship. This is necessary if I plan to move on and continue my life’s journey. She has her way of dealing with it, and I have come up with my own method of moving on and closing the book on that period of my life. This story will act as the bookend to the last year of my life.
Sitting on the dining room table was a cell phone and heavily taped cardboard box, addressed to Josef Crowman, that would be I, standing over the contents, debating which of the two should I use first. My right hand hesitantly hovered over top of the items as I imagined both a pleasant and unpleasant ending to the situation.
I reached for the phone first, dialing the first number atop the Favorites list of my Contacts application. My breathing became heavy as I began to sweat profusely while awaiting the receiver of the call to answer. To my surprise, the call switched over to voice mail, causing me to believe she no longer wanted to speak to me. I tried again, hoping she felt as I did, sad, lonely and incomplete.
My heart—what little remained after the breakup—needed her more than it did it’s next beat. The night does to me, bringing on the memories that my mind refuses to let go of, crippling me as I would sit around reminiscing over her. I had finally reached the endgame of it all, and those two items that were on the table would be a forked road, and I stood in-between, awaiting a sign from each side as to where I was meant to go. Continue Reading
I can’t speak for these other guys out here, but I could never handle breakups well. Some people can move on to the next person within a week’s time, and some spend several weeks locked in their room, crying until they can’t do it anymore. I’ll shed some light on the most popular solution.
LETS PLAY PRETEND
I hate this part.
The relationship we spent so much time building together is over, and so comes the part where I’m supposed to become something completely different than who I am.
My Facebook marital status has to change from “In A Relationship” to “Single” and back to “In A Relationship.” to give people the impression that I have committed myself to another relationship, all within a week’s time.
Next, I should tell friends of my social network page “I’m Loving Life,” to act as if I have found some incredible form of happiness just after a failed relationship. Either that, or to make it seem as if what we had together was so god-awful, it’s closure freed me, bringing me back to a happiness before you.
I’m supposed to go to the night clubs and pretend to enjoy dancing with strange women, as they grind themselves against me, one after another. Continue Reading
The mornings are fine, but it’s the nights that are difficult to deal with. You not being on the other side of the bed, as I lay here, alone, convincing myself that the heavy knitted blanket is your arm resting over me as we sleep peacefully through the tranquil night.
Sometimes I stop what I’m doing to think of what you could be doing at that very moment. I wonder if you think about me as much as I do you. I honestly don’t think I can go a day without doing so. I wonder if you miss me more than I do you. I’m not even sure if you have those feelings for me anymore.
Sure, I can repeatedly tell myself the relationship between her and I is very much over, yet it does not seem to fully register in my brain. My mind refuses to believe it, and also believes that there is still a chance to make things right.
I face facts like I do myself in the mirror. We were both to blame for the things that happened. We both have our own personal issues, and I’m facing mine now. I don’t know if there is a future for us, or maybe you’ll continue to hold onto the man trapped in your black box.
I don’t want anything, really. I just want you to know that I miss you, no matter what your feelings are toward me.