#1
Yeah, the second and third installment of my lame drug induced "short stories". I'm sorry for those I owe crits to, I will get to you guys, no worries.

"an aptly delusional story pts. II-III"

i don't understand this, why were we given a name? i don't want to understand the concept of pain, love, or loss. i don't understand. i don't want to understand. i just can't understand anymore, you see?

"oh fuck, you're going to bring me into this again?" says the homeless man.
"i don't understand anything, can't you explain?" i asks him.

"..."

"fuckin' listen kid, i don't want to explain anything. why do you think i live on street corners and sleep with newspapers and hide from everything? why do you think about anything?" he says to me.

"i don't know." i says.

and i put my hands in my pockets, and they're empty. and they've been empty. and i've wanted them to be empty for a long time, but why? i used to stumble into walls on bad nights. i used to slur. i don't fucking slur anymore. you don't understand.

i don't understand this.

"listen, you goddamn punk. this is life. make some use out of yourself and buy me a fucking drink." says the lush.

"you know there's more to life than that, right?" i asks him.

"piss off." he says.

i start running my fingers through the dust and the dirt. this is an artform. this is for the poetic. is that why i've stopped writing down words? or thoughts? or anything other than the thought of being alone? is that what this is all about?

"you don't understand." i says to him.
"oh, i honestly do" he replies, "you don't want to hurt her, am i right?"
"no. what? no. i didn't say anything about her." i says.
"i'm not fuckin' stupid kid. i know what it's like. you're cold now, ain'tcha?" he asks.
"kind of." i reply.
"well get off the fucking streets then." he says to me.
"i have nowhere else to be." i says back to him.
"why don't you just leave already?" he asks.
"i don't know. nobody knows. i just don't want to hurt her." i reply.
"listen, kid, have you ever wondered why you're the only person who pays any attention to me? have you ever actually read what my sign says?" he asks.

for the first time i could actually read it. there were no blurs. i was sober enough now:
'anything helps, anything'

"do you understand now, boy?" he asks.
"i used to bury myself underneath anything that'd make me feel better." i said to him.
"i know, what were you planning on doing last night?" he asks.

...

"what?"

"you fucking heard me, kid, now answer it." he demanded.
"i, uh, i was going to mix vodka and vicodin. too much of it. too much of both." i says.
"so why the fuck didn't you?" he asked.
"i don't know, i didn't need to." i replied.
"okay, my boy, that's all i needed to know. now, honestly, have you ever wondered why you're the only person who ever pays any attention to me?" he asks.
"not really. i don't know why i talk to you about anything. you don't seem that wise." i replied.

he laughed a bit, i was surprised.

"well, boy, you know i'm not actually a person, right?" he asks.

i didn't understand.

"what do you mean?" i ask.

"look. listen. i'm just a fucking metaphor to you. i don't know why. it probably has something to do with that ****ing habit of yours, ya know?" he says.

i looked around and noticed everybody walking right past us. they all had their heads buried in newspapers and cell phones and anything other than reality.

"do you see now, my boy?" he asks.
"kind of. i guess i didn't really pay attention to them before anyways." i laughed a bit.
he laughed a bit too.

for a brief moment we forgot why we were standing there in the snow. my eyes weren't bothering me as much as they used to, but i had to rub them. when i pulled my hands away i was standing alone. in middle of a graveyard.

"does this have anything to do with any of this?" i asks myself.
i looked down. i still wasn't wearing any shoes. i still didn't know where they were. i still blamed everything on all of this.
after awhile of staring at the ground i noticed the mans sign; i couldn't read it now, though, i don't think anything was actually written on it. so i started writing on it. every word blurred together but the more i wrote, i better i felt. coincidence? maybe.
i didn't plan on having anybody read what i was writing anyway. i'd misspell certain words and i wouldn't space out anything. it helped.

"fuck", i says, "goddamn it, i have to walk back home in the fucking snow and i don't have any shoes on."
i kicked the ground.
i buried my head in my hands and started swearing underneath my breath. when i pulled my hands away i was back on the street corner and i was surrounded by people. i was wearing a nice pair of shoes and i was warm.

"i don't understand." i says as i shook my head.
"whatever."

there aren't any lessons in this; just realizations. there aren't any spaces for a reason. but at least nothing was slurred and everything was written entirely sober, right? right.

cue the curtains enemies; applause, applause, the drama has finished. there was entirely too much drama involved in this.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

it wasn't as planned out as i had thought. apparently the flaws were prominently displayed, or maybe i was just tired of lying, or maybe everything was supposed to go wrong. i don't know.

"i'm going to teach you a fucking lesson sometime." i says to her.
"what? what do you mean?" she asks.
"don't fucking wake me up tomorrow." i says to her.

all of this was flowing through my head, but i guess some words were coming out of my mouth instead.

"i'm going to teach you a fucking lesson sometime." i said to her.
"what? what do you mean?" she asked.
"you can embrace this or lose it forever." i says.

and i started to walk away.

"wait" she said, "what the hell are you talking about?"
"listen.. do you hear this?" i asks as i held my hand up to her face.

...

"no... hear what?" she asks.
"nothing.. get used to it."
and i fucking walk away.

hmm, 'so much for a fucking conversation' i think to myself, 'so much for fucking anything', i think to myself, 'to hell with this place', i think so myself.

"fucking, come back here now." i says to the homeless man.
"goddamn it, what the fuck do you want?" he asks.
"i used to want this so i could stumble into walls, just to see if anybody would notice. i used to want to slur anything on my mind. i used to want to forget something on my mind one second after thinking of it. i used to want this." i says to him.
"well, why the fuck do you want it now?" he asks.
"because i don't want to anymore. i don't want to now. i want to teach everybody a lesson, i want to be selfish." i says to him, " but i can't do that."
"why can't you do that now?" he asks.
"because i don't want to anymore. i don't want to now. i just want to leave and never come back, you know?" i asks him.
"no, i don't fucking now, now leave me the fuck alone." he demands.
"i've been hearing voices again. i've been having delusions again. i'm sober though." i says.

...

"who the hell are you talking to?" she demands.
"nobody." i says.
"look, can't you meet somebody around here? you don't know a person from talking with them?" she asks.
"apparently not. apparently i can't meet somebody from here. i'm tired of fucking being here." i says.

brief.
brief.

"besides, she fucking knows me better than even you do, so piss off." i says and i leave.
and i leave. and leave. and i leave.

love. is. love. is. love. is. love. is. love. is. love. is. love.

"don't fucking wake me, okay?"

and i leave. and i leave. and i truly understand the meaning of being happy.
pursue your dreams and forget anybody who wants to wake you. this is reality. this is love.
and i leave. and i don't wake up.
#2
To call your writing style "unique" would be an understatement,
but I just can't get enough of it,
fucking brilliant stuff
#5
hey man! you're writing! that's awesome! i copied this and i'm gonna fight my way through this as the night goes on and maybe say something constructive later.