My Conscience: Talking to Itself

There is much on my mind today.

I'm extremely happy as of late and I owe that to Ivana. Days and Nights spent with her are wonderful and intense and full of vigor and life and I discover something new about her every day. She is a book that I've become so enthralled in, it is impossible for me to put her down. Nor do I wish to. I've been waking up for weeks now, longing to see her each time, even if she lies next to me. Her eyes and her smile give me a warmth like no other. My flawed attempt at conveying to her how I feel was pointless. I can't put it into words, at least not ones that do the rush of feelings justice. I've tried wholeheartedly and failed with each attempt. I also fail when telling her that this is like nothing I've experienced before. Certainly, those very words have I uttered. Yet, I don't think they get my true message across. I've no idea how to say it. I've no idea how to write, even now in the confines of my solitude.

Yesterday the topic of annoyance was brought up, but not in the way that I have been previously exposed to. Ivana expressed that she didn't want to get to that point and feel annoyed at all. Preemptive, indeed. This too, is not something I'm accustomed to. Usually the word (or some from therein) 'annoying' comes at the worst possible times and is so brash and blunt as to cause me to fall from the high of the silver cloud I walk on. Whether it be a friendship or a relationship, it always brings me back to reality.

I've never meant to be. I'm sure that somewhere out there exists souls who's intention is to be annoying for one reason or another. But that isn't me. In this very different case, I have expressed feelings that I am always wanting and willing to spend time with her and see her. Yes, I am well aware that such a thing isn't possible. She has things to do and so do I, but regardless it is how I feel and I thought it best to express it at least. I leave it up to her to say 'yay' or 'nay' to time spent together...
... And I suppose I do so with the hopes that such a set up will steer the two of us clear of the 'annoyance zone' that people tend to enter with me. I'm not sure what it is: something I do, say, perhaps the way I act, maybe I want to spend too much time together. I'm not sure. No one has ever said. They just say "You're being annoying." "I'm getting annoyed with you." "Spending time with you is getting to be an annoyance."

I think that is what hurts the most. Not the fact that they say or feel that way; they are human after all and they've every right to their opinions and feelings, vocalized or not. I think the lack of an explanation as to why or suggestions on how I can make it better are what hurt. Looking back, the lack of such things should have been a dead giveaway to me; the relationship was never worth the time to begin with. Ultimately, I became so 'annoying' every time to warrant them cheating on me.

Now, I certainly don't think Ivana would do this.
No, really. I don't at all. Call me crazy for throwing caution to the wind if you want, but I'll bet every penny I will ever make from this day forward that she would never do such a thing. I'll bet my life on it. That's no joke.... This girl is different in a million ways and I've already taken notice of it. Its why I feel so strongly for her, or at least part of the reason. Its part of why I am able to say that this is an entirely new experience.

She was preemptive in telling me that she didn't want to go into the annoyance stage, and that was fine and dandy and though I didn't tell her this, I really appreciated it.

But inevitably, it called to my mind the thoughts of past times when I was called annoying. No fault of Ivana's, these thoughts simply came because of the subject matter and that is something even I can't help. Whatever it is I did, I wish I could recognize. I keep going back over those instances, wondering what I should  have done differently in the hopes that I will then be sure to avoid it this time around.

You don't understand, I want to put every bit of effort into this; Into Ivana and I. I want it to be different. I want to let this bloom and grow the way it should do such. I want to do absolutely nothing to ruin it or hurt her. I'm not perfect though, I never will be. That is impossible. But I want to try to avoid anything I can that will hinder us. That want is deep and powerful and it blends right in with my other thoughts and feelings for her, adding to the complicated way that I feel for her; making it harder to put my exact feelings into words. And maybe that is a good thing, because maybe if I never define it, then there won't be limitations. Maybe I'll just keep growing with her until the end? Who knows, I certainly don't. But the thought is there.

Hahaha....
In a small instance I let her know that the title of 'Doctor' (in the PhD sense) was attractive:
"Dr. Armstrong. Mmmmmmm."

I wasn't lying. Not one bit.

She surprised me, putting something together that I had honestly been thinking... but for some reason I didn't fit the puzzle together for a good ten minutes afterwards.

"Dr. Webster sounds better."
Hahahaha, being the idiot that I am I thought she meant me. Such idiocy. How could I have been so blind? She meant herself.
Taking my name, in marriage and I think when I realized it, when I put two and two together she was embarassed and assumed I was freaked out.

That was most certainly not the case.

Imagine a swell of butterflies feeding in a meadow, peaceful and quiet. Next, a herd of deer bounding through the meadow with great speed, just to feel the wind on the faces, the grass at the legs. The swell of butterflies rises up as one unit: a cloud of blues, purples, golds, and blacks. The swell surges forward and continues to rise into the morning sky. The sweet smell of rain is on the horizon and you can't help but wish for that moment to never fade.

When I figured out what she meant by "Dr. Webster sounds better," I felt just like the scene I described.

That's right, you aren't laughing at yourself now because you felt it too.
We felt it. We, the whole of me, my Conscience.
We felt that way.
I felt that way.

Just as I now feel as if I should do my best to keep from pushing Ivana into that 'annoyance' stage.

I certainly don't want this to take a turn down that road at all.

I'm not sure what to do other than to respect when she needs time to herself and keep aware of my asking to spend time together. I must make sure to operate on the same format so that I know she is okay with things if and when we do them. Maybe that's going overboard...

Maybe, once, I should just let things go and let them play out as they will?

I certainly don't want to lose her though.


Loss....

I told Ivana the story of Ruth a week ago. It inevitably made me think of her again.
That ridiculous, old woman.
Such a frail old lady.
Such a kind heart.
A fulfilled spirit if I'd ever seen one.

Ruth was something else entirely. I felt sorry for her; among all the ones that didn't belong in that dreadful place, among all the ones that were far worse off in their condition, I felt sorry and took pity on this tiny old woman more so than any other. For I knew she HAD to be in that place. There was no other choice. She had next to no one. Only one family member did I ever see cross her threshold. Just one. And not often at that. She was there, don't get me wrong, and she spent more than just a few moments with Ruth. Yet, that was all.... I enjoyed sitting there on her bed, talking to her: letting her tell me stories of her past life, listening to her rant about the day, tell a bad joke, or mention the weather. Her smile was sweet and even though she had been placed in the most dreadful place imaginable, she hadn't let it get to her. She was far from rot, aggressiveness, and her spirit was not mean.

I can't say much more really, without being redundant and getting emotional.

I walked into work one morning and she wasn't there. I just assumed she was in the dining room, yet when I went to look I was surprised to find that she most certainly was not present among the others. It made no sense, she usually wasn't up at 6 AM anyways. She should have still be in bed. It hadn't been her shower day, and most certainly not her time to take one. The RNs, unbeknownst to me, watched me carefully as I walked back and forth across the wing, checking each hall. I knew better than to check the other wings. She didn't like going to them. The Lead Wing RN even watched me, not saying a word, and Deana was a bitch. I got along with her unlike most people, I knew to stay on her good side, but even I had to admit that she wasn't one for sympathy; she'd been hardened by such things for years. My assigned hall RN for the day was, as usual, April.

It wasn't until I returned to that first room, right across from the Nurse's station that April approached me. It wasn't until I took another good, hard look in that room that I began to put the pieces together.
It wasn't until I saw what little belongings she had, packed away in a box, that I realized my search was futile.

April didn't even say a word, but I knew she stood very close behind me. I entered the room and sat down on the bed and didn't move for 2 hours. Looking back I'm surprised Deana let me do that. I'd have ripped her head off had she tried to get me to do otherwise, in all honesty. But she let me be.

Ruth was old... very old. Well past her prime and she had outlived many a soul. It was time. And I knew it couldn't be helped but I cried so hard that evening after work. I was used to coming home and going right to bed after a shower, but my water bill went up that month. I was in the shower for two hours at least, in the end I stood in cold water and bawled like a small child who's favorite toy had broken. I cried as if my own parent had passed away.

My tears were the screams of anguished slaves.
My tears were the gnashing of teeth.
My tears were the roars of a ferocious lion.
My tears tore my walls asunder and I broke.

I was done shortly after that. I would never step back in that nursing home. I couldn't.

It is haunting. Loss...

It's ridiculous.

I'm not even sure where I was going with this. I just know that I don't want to work in such an environment ever again.
I just know that I will kill myself before being placed in such a dreadful environment.
Better yet, I'll do what I can to stay healthy, mobile, and sturdy in old age so that I can support myself.

When science finds away to beat the aging process in terms of degradation, you can count on me being the first to volunteer for it.I'm not asking for immortality in that sense, I've already got that with Jesus. But I don't want to grow old. Everyone forgets you. You become nothing. I don't want to go before or after my spouse; I want to go with them.

I want to be young until my end.

That's all.

Azure

Azure eyes of mirrored lake,
Pierce the tempered steel of my heart,
Casting their gaze upon the once stark black labyrinth. 

Like a wildfire! Fierce, raging storm of flames!
Devouring the parched land of my swelling emotions,
My soul is set ablaze.

With a savage longing I reach
For the tousled curls of your voluptuous hair.
With such ardor do I hope to look upon you.

Your Azure eyes of mirrored lake,
Once more into which I hope to gaze.

With vehemence do I dream,
In a color of such resplendent, pulchritude!
I dream in the light, purplish shade of blue.

Azure eyes of mirrored lake,
Pierce the tempered steel of my heart,
And to the wind I throw caution and reservation and doubt.
Swept away, they no longer hold me back.

I am assured by the roaring flames in my heart,
The fervor of my proclivity for you,
Most certainly is reflected in your Azure eyes.

Imaginative Rant #2

It rained enough to quench the thirst of the land today. I was rather content watching it come down in sheets, waves, ounces, inches, blankets. It drew me into myself so much so that I hurtled out into it, running with not a care. Pelting my face and skin, drenching my clothes, soaking my feet, covering my body.

Now long after my run, I sit in a dark room at the top of a dark tower and the sky echoes the lack of light in this room. The grey that covers it hides the moon from my view. But I'm not complaining. Tonight I'd rather see the blanket of grey, black, and what some might call 'dreary'. For you see, fuck those people.

With the rain falling like the nourishment that it is, I realize that immortality must be found there! In the water! The falling rain holds the key to what every man longs for. God  has given it to us already, but we were too blind to see. I stand up instantly upon this realization. I have found something out and rather than write about it or shout it at the top of my lungs, all I can think of is seizing this opportunity! Without hesitation I throw myself out of the only window that the room possesses. The sensation of falling overtakes me, threatening to envelope my innards as they fold in on themselves; gravity sucking and pulling on my body without mercy. There is no regret though for I know what comes next...
... some of you think you do as well, but you are not in my mind and gravity is a filthy pigfucker. Here in my mind, even it takes a back seat.

I melt.
I blend.
I become.
I transform.
I mesh.
I flow.
I fall.
I crash.
I mend.
I splatter.
I am one.
I am all.
I am myself.

No sooner than gravity had sought to reel me in, had I become the rain. I fell, hard and fast, crashing into the muddy puddles below. But I was not defeated. I was not destroyed. I was alive.

I assimilated with the puddle, became the water. A liquid entity with no mobility, no way to make communication, no movement was possible. But I was no longer me. I was everyone and everything that had come before and after. The water of us all, the water of everything, we are one. You see, here is the key to immortality as one never would have even guessed. In the rain can we find what we all long for in some manner. The greatest society is the rain! A mobile, thriving, living, nourishing, city of trillions of souls. No! Not trillions!

An unfathomable number that spans the reach of time and space and I was in it! At the very heart of it, as was every soul before me. And with time, we evaporated. The puddle dried up and we again resided in the clouds, in the sky. A working community bent on becoming one yet again. Divided in the sky I felt alone and yet there was a deep longing and I suddenly knew what would come next as my own cloud grew heavy and grey with the amassing of souls...

In an inevitable downpour I saw it!

THERE IT IS! THIS IS IT! THIS IS US!, I wanted to cry but no longer possessing a way to vocalize my very real thoughts I felt lost. But I realized that at this point words meant nothing and there were no words fit to describe the scene. Rain doesn't use words because it has no need of them.

We each fell together, but separate. Beside me, above me, below me, other drops... other souls. All around me were the people of the past, long forgotten, or long remembered, or never known. And when we crashed to the ground once again we became one and I understood everything.

A thunderstorm signals that which we as humans seek, whether we are conscious of this quest or not.
In the rain we can find solace, knowing that it is indeed the key to immortality. I had found it and the pure bliss upon that final realization was something that I can never hope to put into words.

Imaginative Rant #1

I ascended a mountain, with all the ferociousness of some tiger-bear hybrid. Let's be clear though, on the fact that such a description doesn't give my endeavor enough justice. This mountain was nigh unclimbable, for fuck's sake! Literally, my mind constructed this majestic beauty with all the whacked out geometry that one might attribute to a bombed out building. Only, this was a fucking mountain!
Chiseled, worn, aged, beaten by mother nature for eons! 

But in my mind I'm a man among men, a dashing brute with an intellect to boot, and turning back would have cost me more booze than I cared to throw away.

So I mustered up whatever imaginary sense of courage and willpower I had, and with the speed of a coked-up sloth I tediously grabbed each outcropping of rock, hoisting myself onto ledges, into footholds, leaping bounds across some magical fissure that certainly would have held the secrets of immortality, sex, women, unicorns, and bats. But I had not the time to include spelunking in this Imagination Ejaculation! Though I hesitate to place the restrictions of time and space upon my glorious imagination, I must have climbed for near 24 hours, turned to 24 days, turned to 2 years. For by the time my manhood reached the top I had the deadliest eyes, the fiercest of chests, and the most amazing beard a man could ask for. What a feat! What an accomplishment!
Outstanding. . .
Terrific. . .
Incredible. . .

Lord, did I smell the most amazing things on the top of that peak! The rancid odor of my unwashed, sweaty mass was thrown to the wind and in rolled the divine smell of thunderstorms, snowstorms, snow lightning, ice-storms, and rain. I imagine this to be what God himself smells like whilst running a fucking marathon. That's right ladies, God is a runner and a damn good one at that! Because why not? This is my imagination, I'll make the rules and your opinions can take a backseat, you limey bastards!

So there I was, having ascended the tallest peak on whatever neo-planet the human race moves to once we finish fucking this one up. And I marveled at the wondrous site below me. I won't describe it for fear of causing your eyes to melt instantaneously, but I will say that its certainly easier to view if you take out your contact lenses. But wait. . . was I imagining things?. . . Of course I was! And high in the sky came hurtling the largest, most amazing, sinister, space rock any man dare lay his eyes upon. . .

Christ on cocaine, it was coming my way! Oh what a terrible way to have met my end! After doing the unthinkable, the impossible, it would be an ASTEROID that claimed my life. With such a feat as I had just accomplished, I alone deserved the right to chose how I would meet that rat-faced fucker known as DEATH. I was going to jump! I swear it I was prepared to jump, masturbating furiously as I plummeted to the jagged rocks below. But now I was frozen in my tracks. I could not move an inch, a muscle, not even a twitch. For this celestial rock had struck a fear in me more awesome than the wildest beast could ever claim to do. Thus I had already imagined my death by a horrible, fiery crushing. Or rather. . . the rock had planted the thought in my head!

For fuck's sake, this was a sentient rock, with psychic-inception powers to boot!
What a slimy bugger it was.

My own imagination would not build a construct with which I might save myself, and thus my imagination was no longer under my control. It was the property of this fucking rock now and I was at its mercy, but it was devoid of all such sentiments! So I had already accepted the manner in which I would die, when suddenly and in a manner akin to that of a defense mechanism, I felt the presence of my soul yet again and the imagination was all at once my own. In an instance I began to grow exponentially, until I had dwarfed the very mountain on which I had previously been standing. Like a moth to the flame the space-rock-monster rushed me and like the flame I struck! But what I really mean is I opened my mouth and swallowed that son of a bitch.

That's right! I swallowed a space rock.

It occurred to me that I had no idea what constituted that rock. What was it composed of?!

For fuck's sake I could have just swallowed a glorified instant cancer pill from space!

Lesions could grow on my face and burst with a mixture of puss and grime that would then burn the rest of my flesh like acid!

It could have been covered in fucking space leeches! The worst kind of hellish nightmare because the bastards are inside me! But they don't stop there, because now they are in my INNARDS! Goddamnit man, did you hear what I said? INSIDE MY INSIDES!

Well fortunately for me my imagination didn't conjure any of these things up except for in the thoughts of my thoughts. So for all intents and purposes I just ate a boring space rock, the most damage it might have done was give me heartburn, because it was flaming mad when it entered the planet's atmosphere.

So now having bested both an impassable mountain and the thing which sought to claim my life, I shrunk back to my normal size. Triumphant and screaming in victory, I had not at first noticed where I was, but it soon became all too clear and that was the moment that I had wished I had brought some pot with me on the perilous journey because it might have made me forget the horror of what was to happen next. . .

I was no longer on the peak. Instead I stood at the base of the mountain, no longer at the top of that impossible-geometric-aged-rock. And then it dawned on me, crashing down upon my chest the way I imagine it feels to let an alligator crush you with the swiftness of scissors and the power of a cider press. . . That limey bastard! That devious rat-fucker!

The space rock had only wanted me to think it would kill me and thus cause me to attempt to save myself by enlarging my carcass! Its goal had only been but to get me off the mountain, to take away my victory! With a vengeance it had come hurtling toward me with no intention of killing me! For that would have been too easy, too good for the likes of me! Humiliation was much better!

. . . and wouldn't you know it, I didn't get the chance to snap a picture as proof after I ascended the peak. . .

My beard burnt away, my chest deflated, and my pride wounded I said a hearty 'Fuck You!' to the pigfucker that was resting in my bowels and went on my unpleasant way.

Seven Car Pile-Up

I'll preface this by saying that the entire situation was one big, glorified accident.

What was overly dramatized was nothing more than a bunch of morons, old people, and that one blind guy trying to drive down the same part of the street at once. Twenty-shit-blazing-miles over the posted limit and you sure wonder where the pigs were that day. "For fuck's sake man, your gluttonous person can learn patience! Save the world, write a speeding ticket!". . .
Alright so I took some liberties with that one, but let's not start counting mistakes here because not one single fucker counted the numerous mistakes these Glorified Accidenters committed. They all got off scot-free. Dead, but scot-free. It might as well be the same thing given all the rumor and hype that has been circulating about each of these leech-bastards. I can't even conceive of writing one goddamn good piece until I witness the cluster fuck that is the scrap metal, blood, bone, glass, chalky airbag ejaculate, and shit. And wouldn't you know it, every other pigfucking journalist beats me to it!

For fuck's sake! I've entered a dark place in the middle of the night and to hell with me coming out alive. I've all but lost hope on such a thing. I'll concede that those other vampires snatched up the story before my itchy hands could but lay a finger upon this over-complicated typewriter, but they sure fucking didn't see what I saw. I read their articles this very morning. Every damn one had much to say about each man, woman, child, and rapist involved in the pile up of the century. Each article was nothing more than a sob story, divided equally between the seven players, so as to make sure the spider-web of a story was followed in the correct order, and at the end of it you wanted to shed naught more than crocodile tears for the poor fools whose carcasses were heaped up in that mess. . . Or maybe I'm just too doped up on coke to really give a righteous fuck about the sob stories and boo-hoos. Goddamnit man! Where's the anger? The passion? Where in the wide-fucking-world is the motive? This was an act of murder on the part of multiple parties and not a one of them had premeditated any such thoughts of it!
What a fucking ironic catastrophe!
What a cluster-fuck-medley of untimely deaths!
What a grotesquely, brutal and all around dashingly beautiful event!

And those dirty pigfuckers, too concerned with politics, sports, finances, or whatever else the world reads about while in a mindless stupor; oh those sons-of-bitches! They do this whole story, this whole beautiful story of pure chaos a great injustice. Well goddamnit those monsters don't deserve the credentials of a journalist! Where is the truth in those sob stories? WHERE IS THE PASSION!

No need to say more, no sir. A journalist's sole responsibility is to throw himself in the midst of the event and tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth so help him because if he doesn't the big-dirties on the receiving end will tear your heart out and eat it on the worst kind of stick imaginable. . .

Seven Car Pile-Up

In the midst of a seven car pile up those involved contemplate their deaths, review their lives, and attempt to embrace whatever after-life they've come to accept in the last five seconds. An onlooker sees none of this, save for the facial expressions of one man. Having witnessed such horror, another onlooker is moved to take his own life and thus he throws himself off of the largest bridge in the vicinity. This takes place the following morning, shortly after midnight. Few other stories regarding the various witnesses are as shocking or interesting. They merely act according to some societal norm, recounting what their eyes captured to local authorities. Following this they take one last look at the heap of metal, glass, and flesh before continuing on their indifferent ways.


On this very morning, an elderly woman has been given what could possibly be the best news of her long-lived life: her grandson, whom she has not heard from in over a decade, is coming to visit her on this day.

He needs picked up from the airport because in all honesty he is a wretched, unethical, shameless man that is hoping to con some much-needed cash from his dear grandmother knowing full well that she won't turn him away. The elderly lady, who will henceforth be referred to as Grandmother, suspects something of this sort deep in the recesses of her aged and wised heart. However, being somewhat naive even to this day she chooses not to heed this feelings, thinking instead how wonderful it will be to see her beloved grandson.. Typical of the man, he did not let her know of this trip until the last minute and she has but a few hours to prepare not only herself, but the house as well. Tables must be dusted and cleared off, curtains tied back to allow the sunlight to permeate the vintage windows, shoes stacked neatly in the closet, dishes cleaned and put away at the top of the cabinets, beds must be made so that the guest knows he will be welcomed.

There is so much to do in two hours, not to mention making herself presentable and decent. She wouldn't dream of going outside in any other fashion. For Grandmother's position within a faux-status-quo keeps her from wearing anything remotely comfortable outside of the confines of her uptown apartment. So while there is much work to be done around the house, she neglects to start with any of these chores. Instead, Grandmother focuses her two hours on cleaning, primping, adjusting, and styling herself. This becomes, of course, a lengthy process and thus before Grandmother knows it her allotted two hours have passed her by. No longer ahead of schedule, the elderly woman is running late and in a jittery blur of excessive amounts of hairspray, polka dots, and grey she exits the apartment and descends the stairs.

Grandmother proceeds out of the door and into her '92 Mercury Sable. A dependable vehicle that smells of old pine needles, yet the brakes lights are out from neglect. The spark plugs are past their prime, the timing belt is stretched to its limits, the tires are wearing down in an irregular manner. Hairspray residue lines the seats that possess a few old cigarette burns. Grim covers the corners and nooks of the dashboard. It is time to give the vehicle some love, some attention. It mirrors Grandmother as she turns the engine over; crying, screaming in agony after waking from its long slumber, praying for someone to love it, anyone to give it the attention it knows it deserves. Grandmother, in her nocturnal loneliness, expresses the very same sentiments. Yet, today none of it matters. Her needs will be satiated for a day, a night, a week, a month; however long her grandson needs to stay.

Her thoughts of such a happy time are cut short when the Mercury defies Grandmother's command and doesn't start the first time. Not phased by this, she attempts again and is delighted when the hum of the engine is heard. Within minutes she has begun the journey to the airport, a smile upon her face, day-dreams lining every chamber of her mind, but within perhaps the same amount of time she is thrust from the driver's seat, catapulted through the windshield with such force so as to break the glass, coming to a thumping halt on the pavement 5 feet in front of the Mercury. She's no idea what is going on and for all Grandmother knows, the drive to the airport is still taking place. A smile painted on her face accompanies the breaking of her hips and a femur, the crack in her skull on the left side, blood pouring into her eye makes it hard to see.

Grandmother lies there not moving and the witnesses at first assume she is dead, until the see her twitch in an attempt to get up. They take a split second to realize the old woman thrown from the driver's seat of blue Mercury is alive, perhaps broken, but surely she is alive and there is hope for her.

Until the yellow Mustang, screeching across the pavement, runs Grandmother over, crushing the fragile bones, organs, and tissue that was once her torso.

Seven Car Pile-Up

What started as a late-night party, quickly escalated into an all-night booze fest. Complete with naked party-goers, sex, and drugs the party was the talk of the University just mere hours after it had started. And at the top of the list of those receiving attention was the host, Ryan "Maniac" Houghswell. Maniac was the typical fraternity members, sexual deviant, and popular upperclassman at the latest 'Who-gives-two-fucks University'. Hardly ever was Maniac seen in public sober. There was always a girl or two around his arm(s). His reputation for throwing parties was perhaps the most talked about thing across campus aside from the size of the all-star football player's member. That also happened to be Maniac, in case you hadn't caught on. So as I was saying, Maniac threw killer parties. The best weed, large amounts of booze, the best locales, the hottest girls, the hottest guys. Every weekend was one big drunken, drugged-up, fuck fest. Maniac couldn't think of a better way to spend his Fridays, Saturdays, and Sundays.

Scratch that. Maniac did think of something better: one big drunken, drugged-up, fuck fest that takes place at his father's private estate in the Hills. No one around for miles, a large number of friends and strangers from campuses across town. The ultimate party. Something he might not be able to top again, so he would have to make it an annual thing. Maniac's father was once a well admired actor, turned porn star in his late career, who was often away in Europe somewhere. Something about new film-work. Maniac didn't pay much attention, but he knew that Daddy went away like this for months at a time every year. Three weekends worth of time to be exact. Three weekends of being shit-faced and laced with more coke than anyone could believe. Girls, music, girls, booze, girls, sex, girls, repeat.

It was going to take a significant amount of planning to get the place ready though. There was also the ordeal of securing all the drugs and booze. Maniac would have to hit all his regular dealers and then some to get all the coke and dope for three weekends. It would take a few days but eventually he would come up with the goods, though what he wouldn't tell anyone was that he had to do some dirty favors in order to secure them. Maniac had a piss-poor record with one of the bigger dealers in town and this would come to bite him in the ass as he approached the elderly man for the hook up. The old dealer was a closet homosexual and it is safe to assume that Maniac was not a stranger to the man's dick. Maniac hated every second of it, but you don't earn the title of "Best Host of Awesome Parties" without giving part of your soul away. Fuck it, take one for the team.

He took the yellow Mustang out today and pulling out of the parking lot of the dealer's place, Maniac decided to forgo the freeway. He loved that fucking car. Kept it clean, maintained. Aftermarket body parts, turbo and sound system. Not a scratch, not a dent. No imperfections. The freeway was the usual route though, and it was easy to push 90 to 120 miles per hour up there. It got boring. Maniac, with the taste of unwashed penis in his mouth, decided downtown would be more thrilling. Running lights, swerving around slower cars, and altogether scarring the shit out of pedestrians It didn't matter.

Maniac was far from an attentive driver so it wasn't until after he ran over the thing in the middle of the intersection that he decided to stop the car. He freaked out, because some where over the roar of his engine and the blaring music he heard the crunching of bones, the splattering of blood. Maniac knew that wasn't an animal and he panicked. He panicked hard. Jerking the emergency brake. Whipping the steering wheel around to pull a complete 180 degree turn at 50 miles per hour. This threw the pristine Mustang into the blue Hummer on the other side of the intersection.

Maniac never wore a seat belt. Too cool/obsessed with himself/inebriated/cocky for that safety device.

Maniac was laying on the hood of the Hummer, still shaking from the thought of running that 'thing' over; most likely he thought it was a human.