Chapter THREE: The Only Thing I Want To Finish
Read the previous chapters for sense being made. It's been AWHILE since I posted here, hopefully I can be more productive in the future. Most likely, not. These ideas were loosely influenced off of real life experiences, combined with missed opportunities and personal fantasies. The story is complete fiction; however many of the situations are exaggerations based off real life. Most of the names in this series have been changed, except for the people I hate.
Feedback is always welcome. Thanks for reading!
*****
SCENE ONE: Depression or Cynicism
It's been a boring, uneventful three days since that cashier chick sucked me off in that parking lot.
As I drove to work this morning, the fragrance of her perfume still lingered in my backseat. For whatever reason, she's been stuck on my mind for half a week. It wasn't her looks that did it for me, but rather her attitude and the way she succumbed to orally please me. She had this drive I've never seen in a woman before. And I'm sure I'm not the first stranger she's ever felacio'd casually just for the fuck of it. I need to start living my life like that. No, not the 'sucking some stranger's cock' part, but the 'doing whatever I feel like doing' part. Yeah yeah, you keep telling yourself that. Go away gay thoughts.
I had to open the pizzeria this morning. It's not the best hours for me. 8am-5:30pm. It should be tolerable for ordinary people but not for self-deprecating night dwellers like me. The manager used to be a douche, complaining over every little thing I did. Probably didn't help that he had a military history. But after he promoted me to a 'person in charge', we became cool. I could go on about the cast of characters at the Italiano's pizza joint, but that's for another chapter.
When I got back home Dylan and Megan were fighting in their room. I could tell they were fighting because Megan was doing most of the talking. Dylan usually shuts up in their heated arguments, and to be fair -- no male can match the emotional firestorms that Megan can stir up. I took off my flour-covered, pizza sauce-splattered work attire and hopped into the shower. Ahh, refreshing.
A spray of steamy hot water snapped my neck sideways. It was burning hot but I loved it. The fog of steam from the shower clouded up the mirror. Good.
The mirror squeaks as I slid my palm over the glass, revealing my dumb face. After such a deserved showering I should be happier, but for some reason I felt miserable. I felt like dog shit, again. If I am depressed, two random spontaneous sexual encounters weren't the cure for it. I still don't feel confident or fulfilled.
Looking at my reflection, I ran my hand across my face. Smooth shaven. I liked my stubble but work requires their employees to shave everything off, face-wise. I suppose they don't want random hair particles in people's pizzas. Rubbing the top of my head, I remembered how long I had my hair back in high school. Now I have a Marine-style buzz cut. I like my hair now. Looking at the times in high school, my hair was ridiculous. Shit, everything was ridiculous back then.
Having a bedroom filled with useless junk didn't help with how I felt. I'm surprised I haven't seen a rat scamper around in this wasteland. I gotta clean up this place. Maybe tomorrow. I got dressed and sat myself down on my computer chair. It's a routine I've mastered for years. After turning on the computer, I ironically looked at a word document without any words documented. Nothing but blankness, just a white rectangle and a blinking cursor. This is more than writer's block. Why do I want to be a writer when I have nothing to say? I'm a 24 year old nothing. I haven't lived life. I haven't traveled or experienced interesting situations. As I rested my forehead onto the keyboard the sound of my bedroom door creaked behind me.
"Fuck this man. I'm tired of this shit." It was Dylan, obviously distraught. He dove onto my bed facing the ceiling.
"Yeah, tell me about it."
"Well for starters, she won't let me say anything. She keeps talking and talking and talking. I might as well be an inanimate object..." Dylan looked around the room. "...like this chair, or this empty bag of chips, or this pile of dirty laundry." He sat up now. "Dude, it's just a suggestion but maybe clean your room?"
"First off, when I said 'tell me about it' I meant it as an expression. I don't wanna hear about your stupid emotional fight with Megan. Second, I like my messy room. If you don't like it, you can leave."
Dylan collapsed back onto my bed and sighed. "I just can't do this anymore."
"You always say that." I turned my chair around and gazed onto my blank word document. "Is she still here?"
"Nah, I think she went out with Kerry and Annalisa. They're probably talking shit about me right now."
Oh, Kerry... *closes eyes and slowly smiles*
Oh, Annalisa... *shutters with horror*
Dylan starts chuckling. "Seriously though, you should really get at Annalisa."
"Fuck you, are you trying to make me more depressed?" I jested.
"So you finally admit it. You have depression."
"I doubt I'm clinically depressed. However, even if I was depressed, is it a breakthrough that I admitted it? Just because I'm self-aware of my depression doesn't lift the dark clouds over my head," I said.
Dylan didn't reply so I continued. "There's a reason why you and Megan wanted me to hook up with Annalisa in the first place. It's because I was such a bore when it comes to connecting with people."
"I dunno," Dylan said. He sat back up with sincerity masked over his face. "You shouldn't be so down on yourself all the time. Compared to others you don't have it that bad."
"I know that," I sighed. "People always say there are people less fortunate out there. Starving children in Africa. People with AIDS in Africa. Umm... some other horrible shit that's happening in Africa. Knowing there are people that have it worse than me doesn't make me feel better. That would be self-indulgent. 'My life is better than these people so that makes me feel good'. Fuck that. I don't like who I am right now and that includes all of my first-world problems. If you can't understand that, then keep comparing your own life with less fortunate people to make yourself feel better."
"Yeah, I don't think you're depressed," Dylan nods.
"I didn't say I was depressed. I said I felt depressed. There's a big difference."
Dylan chuckles again. "Yeah. Plus, I know I wouldn't be depressed after having some girl mouthfuck me in a parking lot."
Fucking Megan. "Of course Megan would tell you," I groaned.
