One minute I’m watching Law and Order reruns, and the next I’m using all of my might to hang onto the ledge of the building I happen to be suspended from. I can’t breathe. If I do, ill loosen my grip and fall. Where am I falling to? I guess there’s not really a point in looking down when I have no luck in pulling myself back onto the roof. I mean really, the last time I did four pull ups was during the ninth grade. I’m fucked. Finger by finger, my hands are unravelling like a loose thread on a tee shirt. I’m free falling and I forgot what it’s like to breathe. I grasp my chest as if I can beg it to breathe at this point, and try to open my eyes to see where I can land, but it feels like my eyes have been glued shut by the intensity my body has cast upon it during this twenty story fall. I’m screaming on the top of my lungs. Or maybe my my mouth is just opened wide? Everything feels fake, but everything returns to reality when I slam onto the pavement. Who knew a Tempurpedic could be as comforting as the city streets? Oh right, me. I often wake up feeling as if every bone in my body has broken, but continue to launch off my bed onto my ass after my alarm once again attempts to deafen me. I then stand up with my two non broken legs, and wipe the tears from my eyes to read what time it is. “Nine Thirty! Are you fucking kidding me?!” I actually scream this time. I am never on time to things, and I told myself I would be able to do 9 am lectures. Trying to put on a pair of raggedy jeans and brush my teeth, I manage to get a glob of it on my shirt. I let out a loud grunt and drag myself to the dresser to pick out another typical worn out band tee. Ramones Rocket to Russia. One of the best albums to be made in Punk Rock history. I throw on a leather jacket, my black messenger bag, and slip on my beat up black converse. Followed by rushing out the door of my 13th floor city apartment.
After a little under arm sweat and possibilities of getting hit by stupid New York City cab drivers, I finally approach the doors of the English building. I prepare myself to sneak into the back of the classroom. I reach for the large glass doors that lead into the room, but I hear noise. The type of noise that our professor would never allow… talking. I cautiously enter, and see that everyone is out of their seats, and completely careless about their missing professor. I’m not one to engage in random conversations, so I find my seat and pull out my laptop to work on my columns I have barely started. “Hey punk princess, you wanna check out my set of drums?” Said the boy who refuses to tell me his name, but continues to sit behind me every Tuesday morning.
-An excpert of a book I would dream of completing, but my soul is currently preoccupied with nothing or no one able to help me feel whole again. I’m patiently, impatiently waiting.
