I have to admit to getting sucked into the Twilight Series. It's an incredible fantasy world that is very easy to get lost in. I have very high hopes for the fourth movie! I love, "The Perks of Being a Wallflower." In fact I can't think of a person that's read it who hasn't fell in love with it. My boyfriend's been telling me that I need to read the novel, "Less than Zero," by Bret Easton Ellis as well as it's sequel. Has anyone read it? I'm going to pick it up once I have less reading to do for classes.
For "The Perks of Being a Wallflower" --
http://myhaven.wordpress.com/2008/06/27/book-review-the-perks-of-being-a-wallflower/
(book review)
http://biography.jrank.org/pages/1848/Chbosky-Stephen-1972.html (author)
"And in that moment, I swear we were infinite."
Monday, September 19, 2011
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
written by a friend of mine
Languishing in Repitition
April 2010
Rewind. And it comes to your attention at the same time the entire rest of the world does, a few years and a few (more than a few) mistakes late. The guilt sets in and it’s hindsight bias. Thank you life. Congratulations on your inadequacy. Cheers to your failures! Would of, should of, could of. If only. You can’t blame yourself for what you don’t perceive until later. It’s not your fault if you never looked, never knew. It’s okay that you didn’t want to, really, it is. It will be fine...
...You know what they say about bliss.
Oh, I keep telling myself this. Making excuses. It’s perfectly understandable. People do this all the time, I say, over and over again, in my head. Its repetition is comforting; echoing the consistency of a place I find some semblance of safety in. A mantra, a prayer, the excuses become the very things that anchor me to the ground. Except I’m actually stuck knee deep in quicksand, too busy daydreaming and wallowing in guilt to watch where I was walking. Now I’m left to struggle.
The road to hell is paved with good intentions, my dad would say this. Repeatedly. In one ear and out the other, he would say. His advice was lost on my stubbornness masked as indifference. Fear masked as stubbornness, weakness masked as fear. Whatever you would like to call it. Whatever you would like to say. Go ahead, say it. I know that you do when you think I’m not listening. I need to hear you mock me while I’m drowning in my own mess. I wish I could say that I didn’t ask for this.
Pause. It’s the beginning of Spring, in a city I can’t stand, and every dead plant is blossoming. The roads are colored pink with cherry blossoms. This I enjoy. Yet, the smell of skunk and mulch linger in the street like the warm smell of cigarettes in my car. It’s souring.
The sky is blue again, for longer, and when it rains I don’t mind getting my hair wet. I walk with no umbrella and carry a hair dryer in my purse. Ready for anything, you would have said. Except when I pull it out to use it its covered in a mixture of lotion, loose tobacco, and faded portions of old receipts. You’re not surprised, and nor am I.
I start to wear skirts and sandals, long before the weather gives me the go ahead, but the goosebumps on my thighs are worth it, I tell myself this, repeatedly. It’s not cold. It’s not cold. It’s not cold. But I’m still shivering, and you’re still wearing your winter coat with as much pride as you wear your condemning I told you so.
I lighten my hair, paint my nails pink instead of red and smoke cigarettes on my porch by candlelight. I feel rebirth all around me, and I want to join it, but I just light one cigarette after the other, watching the hours fade into morning. Again.
I feel like a raccoon, some creature of habit, coming out at night and lurking in the garbage, just to assuage the hunger that growls from the pit of my empty chest. It all seems too dramatic.
But wait, I start picking apart the dead skin of my life. Exfoliate. Shave. Repeat. I look in the mirror and smile, but I can’t look at my lips while the white spots of pimple cream make a mocking “a” shape, cascading down my face. Small, graceful, steps. I guess.
I try to save. Send more than the minimum payment to the credit card company. They stop calling every day at 8am. Try not to overdraft this month.
Call my grandmother. Drive with the windows down. Order a glass of wine. Pick up a book. It all seems like what I should be doing. I walk around with friends outside. I stare at the landscape in awe. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. There is peace of mind. I am falling asleep at night.
Hurry and pause this right here. Watch it stagnate into the illusion that it is. Watch it try, try, try.
Play. And this all seems like I found it on VHS in the attic of an old house. The attic in an old house I could have grown up in, that has burnt to the ground.
I’m alone when I play this and there you are, walking across the screen. Waving. Smiling. Remember me, you say. And I do, but you’ve changed, so I fast forward a little but the tape cuts out and the screen starts to snow. There’s no audio. How quickly I lost you trying to find you. Again. In a potential future of the timeless past.
There’s no pause. No stagnating illusion but the one I’m creating as we speak. It’s not an albums new release, it’s that old tattered book on the shelf just out of arms reach. It’s smells like mold and it will repeat. And repeat.
Light a match and all that’s left amongst the ash is the empty frame of a home, and the melting videotape of the stillborn child I have become.
I wrap myself up and become the paradox of the present that I leave at the foot of my bed to open later, but end up shoving into some closet while I clean up, preparing for your arrival in a useless (and endless) anticipation that I have come to know and hate.
Repeat.
Repeat.
Repeat.
This is not a soap opera. This is not a sitcom. This is not reality television. This is a riptide, pulling a child farther away towards the mouth of a shark while he was only looking for seashells. This is the downpour. The rain, the waterfalls.
This is not a cry for help. Or for pity. This is the song.
I’m dancing with tap shoes on, on a wooden floor while you’re sleeping below me. Wake up. Look at what you’ve created, this dance. Listen to it in all the glory of it’s annoyance. Find the rhythm of it’s consistent beats as it repeats. Repeats. Repeats.
By: Lindsay Gulics
April 2010
Rewind. And it comes to your attention at the same time the entire rest of the world does, a few years and a few (more than a few) mistakes late. The guilt sets in and it’s hindsight bias. Thank you life. Congratulations on your inadequacy. Cheers to your failures! Would of, should of, could of. If only. You can’t blame yourself for what you don’t perceive until later. It’s not your fault if you never looked, never knew. It’s okay that you didn’t want to, really, it is. It will be fine...
...You know what they say about bliss.
Oh, I keep telling myself this. Making excuses. It’s perfectly understandable. People do this all the time, I say, over and over again, in my head. Its repetition is comforting; echoing the consistency of a place I find some semblance of safety in. A mantra, a prayer, the excuses become the very things that anchor me to the ground. Except I’m actually stuck knee deep in quicksand, too busy daydreaming and wallowing in guilt to watch where I was walking. Now I’m left to struggle.
The road to hell is paved with good intentions, my dad would say this. Repeatedly. In one ear and out the other, he would say. His advice was lost on my stubbornness masked as indifference. Fear masked as stubbornness, weakness masked as fear. Whatever you would like to call it. Whatever you would like to say. Go ahead, say it. I know that you do when you think I’m not listening. I need to hear you mock me while I’m drowning in my own mess. I wish I could say that I didn’t ask for this.
Pause. It’s the beginning of Spring, in a city I can’t stand, and every dead plant is blossoming. The roads are colored pink with cherry blossoms. This I enjoy. Yet, the smell of skunk and mulch linger in the street like the warm smell of cigarettes in my car. It’s souring.
The sky is blue again, for longer, and when it rains I don’t mind getting my hair wet. I walk with no umbrella and carry a hair dryer in my purse. Ready for anything, you would have said. Except when I pull it out to use it its covered in a mixture of lotion, loose tobacco, and faded portions of old receipts. You’re not surprised, and nor am I.
I start to wear skirts and sandals, long before the weather gives me the go ahead, but the goosebumps on my thighs are worth it, I tell myself this, repeatedly. It’s not cold. It’s not cold. It’s not cold. But I’m still shivering, and you’re still wearing your winter coat with as much pride as you wear your condemning I told you so.
I lighten my hair, paint my nails pink instead of red and smoke cigarettes on my porch by candlelight. I feel rebirth all around me, and I want to join it, but I just light one cigarette after the other, watching the hours fade into morning. Again.
I feel like a raccoon, some creature of habit, coming out at night and lurking in the garbage, just to assuage the hunger that growls from the pit of my empty chest. It all seems too dramatic.
But wait, I start picking apart the dead skin of my life. Exfoliate. Shave. Repeat. I look in the mirror and smile, but I can’t look at my lips while the white spots of pimple cream make a mocking “a” shape, cascading down my face. Small, graceful, steps. I guess.
I try to save. Send more than the minimum payment to the credit card company. They stop calling every day at 8am. Try not to overdraft this month.
Call my grandmother. Drive with the windows down. Order a glass of wine. Pick up a book. It all seems like what I should be doing. I walk around with friends outside. I stare at the landscape in awe. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. There is peace of mind. I am falling asleep at night.
Hurry and pause this right here. Watch it stagnate into the illusion that it is. Watch it try, try, try.
Play. And this all seems like I found it on VHS in the attic of an old house. The attic in an old house I could have grown up in, that has burnt to the ground.
I’m alone when I play this and there you are, walking across the screen. Waving. Smiling. Remember me, you say. And I do, but you’ve changed, so I fast forward a little but the tape cuts out and the screen starts to snow. There’s no audio. How quickly I lost you trying to find you. Again. In a potential future of the timeless past.
There’s no pause. No stagnating illusion but the one I’m creating as we speak. It’s not an albums new release, it’s that old tattered book on the shelf just out of arms reach. It’s smells like mold and it will repeat. And repeat.
Light a match and all that’s left amongst the ash is the empty frame of a home, and the melting videotape of the stillborn child I have become.
I wrap myself up and become the paradox of the present that I leave at the foot of my bed to open later, but end up shoving into some closet while I clean up, preparing for your arrival in a useless (and endless) anticipation that I have come to know and hate.
Repeat.
Repeat.
Repeat.
This is not a soap opera. This is not a sitcom. This is not reality television. This is a riptide, pulling a child farther away towards the mouth of a shark while he was only looking for seashells. This is the downpour. The rain, the waterfalls.
This is not a cry for help. Or for pity. This is the song.
I’m dancing with tap shoes on, on a wooden floor while you’re sleeping below me. Wake up. Look at what you’ve created, this dance. Listen to it in all the glory of it’s annoyance. Find the rhythm of it’s consistent beats as it repeats. Repeats. Repeats.
By: Lindsay Gulics
Monday, April 26, 2010
Ode to Hummus
Rough
Hundreds of chickpeas
Smashed and murdered
into one,
With lemon,
Broth,
Garlic,
Tahini,
Salt, pepper
And memories
Of my great grandmother.
This Syrian cement;
This symbol of my family;
My culture.
Like a paste
Holding my family together
Through flavors
eating;
Happiness.
Satisfying
my late night hunger
Is as satisfying
as iced green tea
After
a long run in the summer.
The two go together, really.
So when all is gone
Its time to murder
Yet another can
Of the little chickpeas.
Enter them into
The thrash chamber
Of giant blades,
Like a vicious horror movie,
Only to please
A family of
15.
Hummus.
Ode to Hummus (by Ashley Grabowski) REVISED
Hundreds of chickpeas
Destroyed and murdered
By two large blades,
add lemon to ease the pain,
Broth,
Garlic,
Tahini,
Salt, pepper
And memories
Of my great grandmother.
Tough,
Tiny,
Hard to please.
This Syrian cement;
My culture.
Like a paste
Holding my family together
Through flavors
eating;
experimentation:
add some:
peppers?
Sundried tomatoes?
Olives?
Drown my pita
In this chickpea combo,
To satisfy
my late night hunger;
Is as satisfying
as cold green tea
After
a long run in the summer..
It compliments a turkey sandwich,
Sometimes better than mustard.
So when all is gone
Its time to murder
Yet another can
Of the puny chickpeas.
Enter them into
The thrash chamber
Of giant blades,
Like a vicious horror movie,
Only to please
A family of
15.
Hummus.
Hundreds of chickpeas
Smashed and murdered
into one,
With lemon,
Broth,
Garlic,
Tahini,
Salt, pepper
And memories
Of my great grandmother.
This Syrian cement;
This symbol of my family;
My culture.
Like a paste
Holding my family together
Through flavors
eating;
Happiness.
Satisfying
my late night hunger
Is as satisfying
as iced green tea
After
a long run in the summer.
The two go together, really.
So when all is gone
Its time to murder
Yet another can
Of the little chickpeas.
Enter them into
The thrash chamber
Of giant blades,
Like a vicious horror movie,
Only to please
A family of
15.
Hummus.
Ode to Hummus (by Ashley Grabowski) REVISED
Hundreds of chickpeas
Destroyed and murdered
By two large blades,
add lemon to ease the pain,
Broth,
Garlic,
Tahini,
Salt, pepper
And memories
Of my great grandmother.
Tough,
Tiny,
Hard to please.
This Syrian cement;
My culture.
Like a paste
Holding my family together
Through flavors
eating;
experimentation:
add some:
peppers?
Sundried tomatoes?
Olives?
Drown my pita
In this chickpea combo,
To satisfy
my late night hunger;
Is as satisfying
as cold green tea
After
a long run in the summer..
It compliments a turkey sandwich,
Sometimes better than mustard.
So when all is gone
Its time to murder
Yet another can
Of the puny chickpeas.
Enter them into
The thrash chamber
Of giant blades,
Like a vicious horror movie,
Only to please
A family of
15.
Hummus.
first line trigger poem
– Note: This was supposed to get work shopped but I missed class that day, however I used your notes to revise it !
ROUGH
This kiss, unfinished
Seeming certain at that moment
As certain as the blanket
Intertwined within our bodies.
As certain as the socks
And pants on the ground.
This kiss, unfinished
And most certainly uncertain
As uncertain as her hair band
Still on your wrist
And uncertain as her picture
On your phone.
This unfinished kiss
Is finished.
This Kiss (REVISED)
This kiss, unfinished
Seeming certain at that moment.
As certain as the blanket
Intertwined around our bodies;
As certain as the white and black socks
With our pants strewn on the floor.
This kiss, unfinished
And most certainly uncertain.
As unsure as her hair band
Still on your wrist
With pieces of her hair, still attached.
And as terrifying as her picture,
Still on your phone.
This unfinished kiss
Is finished.
ROUGH
This kiss, unfinished
Seeming certain at that moment
As certain as the blanket
Intertwined within our bodies.
As certain as the socks
And pants on the ground.
This kiss, unfinished
And most certainly uncertain
As uncertain as her hair band
Still on your wrist
And uncertain as her picture
On your phone.
This unfinished kiss
Is finished.
This Kiss (REVISED)
This kiss, unfinished
Seeming certain at that moment.
As certain as the blanket
Intertwined around our bodies;
As certain as the white and black socks
With our pants strewn on the floor.
This kiss, unfinished
And most certainly uncertain.
As unsure as her hair band
Still on your wrist
With pieces of her hair, still attached.
And as terrifying as her picture,
Still on your phone.
This unfinished kiss
Is finished.
form poem rough and revised
FORM POETRY ATTEMPT
Rough
Food is a Way of Life
The art of eating isn’t hard to master;
From devouring breakfast’s eggs
Then going for a run with your legs
Helps your metabolism to only go faster.
Don’t eat late at night
for you’ll have an awful nightmare;
Unless you eat funnel cake at the fair.
The next day your muscles will fight.
A scoop of peanut butter
Will give your mouth a clutter,
But give the water bottle a chug
And it will give your stomach a plug.
REVISED
Food vs. Me
The art of eating isn’t hard to master;
From consumption of breakfast’s eggs
Then going for a run with my legs
Protein helps my body move faster.
Don’t eat late at night
for I’ll encounter a monstrous nightmare;
Unless I eat funnel cake at the fair.
“Oh Jeeze, these jeans are tight!”
A scoop of peanut butter
Usually fills the belly.
If I may, add some jelly.
A glass of milk would make my stomach mutter.
Steer clear of ice cream and cheese
Or else I’ll scream, “TOILET! PLEASE!”
Rough
Food is a Way of Life
The art of eating isn’t hard to master;
From devouring breakfast’s eggs
Then going for a run with your legs
Helps your metabolism to only go faster.
Don’t eat late at night
for you’ll have an awful nightmare;
Unless you eat funnel cake at the fair.
The next day your muscles will fight.
A scoop of peanut butter
Will give your mouth a clutter,
But give the water bottle a chug
And it will give your stomach a plug.
REVISED
Food vs. Me
The art of eating isn’t hard to master;
From consumption of breakfast’s eggs
Then going for a run with my legs
Protein helps my body move faster.
Don’t eat late at night
for I’ll encounter a monstrous nightmare;
Unless I eat funnel cake at the fair.
“Oh Jeeze, these jeans are tight!”
A scoop of peanut butter
Usually fills the belly.
If I may, add some jelly.
A glass of milk would make my stomach mutter.
Steer clear of ice cream and cheese
Or else I’ll scream, “TOILET! PLEASE!”
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Poem CUT UP - REVISION
Ashley Grabowski
ORIGINAL
It used to feel a lot more real when it used to be a lot more worse.
It all feels like a dream now that things are the way they
Being held, being smiled at, laughed at; what is this?
Who wrote the script for you? Where are the cameras?
I don't know, I don't want this to disappear,
yet,
How will I ever know the right side?
It's the reeling, the feeling, and the peeling for your intimacy.
CUT UP
and I be the way things I disappear, yet, How all I is cameras? I dream reeling, like script the this Where for used things at; now smiled it like I used reeling, like now don't side? It's the all cameras? I used are cameras? I will the they feels now right is it to a all the the script peeling disappear, yet, How been. Being lot should've now and real feel way peeling the I things this a what Where know to
CUT UP - REVISED
And I be;
The way things are,
I disappear.
Yet,
How all I is cameras?
I dream reeling,
Like script.
The
This,
Where
For used things.
Now smile
Like I used reeling.
Like now.
Don’t side.
It’s the cameras.
I used cameras.
They feel now,
To all the script,
Peeling.
Disappear, yet
How’ve you been?
Being lost,
Real.
Feel the way its
Peeling.
The things;
What we know.
ORIGINAL
It used to feel a lot more real when it used to be a lot more worse.
It all feels like a dream now that things are the way they
Being held, being smiled at, laughed at; what is this?
Who wrote the script for you? Where are the cameras?
I don't know, I don't want this to disappear,
yet,
How will I ever know the right side?
It's the reeling, the feeling, and the peeling for your intimacy.
CUT UP
and I be the way things I disappear, yet, How all I is cameras? I dream reeling, like script the this Where for used things at; now smiled it like I used reeling, like now don't side? It's the all cameras? I used are cameras? I will the they feels now right is it to a all the the script peeling disappear, yet, How been. Being lot should've now and real feel way peeling the I things this a what Where know to
CUT UP - REVISED
And I be;
The way things are,
I disappear.
Yet,
How all I is cameras?
I dream reeling,
Like script.
The
This,
Where
For used things.
Now smile
Like I used reeling.
Like now.
Don’t side.
It’s the cameras.
I used cameras.
They feel now,
To all the script,
Peeling.
Disappear, yet
How’ve you been?
Being lost,
Real.
Feel the way its
Peeling.
The things;
What we know.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Revised Short story for Workshop A
Follow the North Star
Aiden DeJesus was a character of his own. Most people questioned where his head was and why he preached the things that he did. He was all about revealing his personal outlook on life and what makes our souls peaceful. He was religious in a sense; however, music, was what made him, him. Starting in his sophomore year of high school, Aiden began to lose it. First was the alcohol, next came the marijuana and shortly after, the experiments exceeded. 17 years old and a senior in high school, Aiden started to worry his friends and family, but most of all, his best friend Joey who lived around the corner from him.
Joey Freeman, 19, was one of the only human beings that could understand Aiden. Yes, he was his partner in crime; yet, Joey had a much better grasp on controlling his life outside of the trouble he and Aiden would get in to.
"Dude, you down for a trip tonight? I got," Asked Joey, excitedly.
“Hell yeah, dude.” I wanna escape this week's hell for a while," responded Aiden. “I got emails from 2 of my teachers declaring that I’m failing their courses, spent the last of my money on bud last night and got into a huge fight with my parents about mad unnecessary shit.”
The friends placed the tablets on their tongues and passed the time by playing hacky sac while they waited for it to kick in.
Hours later, Aiden was woken up near a lake by two fat cops.
"Son, what are you doing here?" asked the cop.
"God told me to follow the North Star, and I did," said Aiden.
"Oh… right…. Well considering we just found you sleeping next to a lake an hour away from your home, I think it's time you came with us." Replied the cop.
“How do you know where I’m from?” Aiden asked with concern.
“We found your wallet and took a look at your license,” said the cop.
Aiden's last memory before his apparent encounter with god was being at a party at his friends' school at TCNJ with Joey. What the FUCK is going on? Where is Joey?
He knew that if his parents found out about whatever this incident was, that he wouldn't be seeing anyone for a very long time. It was one last chance before they sent him to a rehab center and if anything, this was that last chance.
"We're gonna have to call your parents, kid," said the cop.
Aiden got up, releasing a massive sigh, noticing that his jeans were covered in mud and grass stains and then suddenly had another vision from the previous night.
“BRO DO YOU SEE THAT?” asked Joey.
Ignoring Joey’s question, Aiden began his one of many speeches about music, life and god.
“Jesus presents us with music to cure and soothe our souls. Feel the peace flowing through your veins bro. The music. Feel it,” he said.
“Aiden, shut the hell up with that shit already. Look at the talking lizards for fuck’s sake. THEY ARE TALKING LIZARDS, AIDEN!”
Snapping out of this vision, the cop car pulled into Aiden’s parent’s driveway. His face turned to an unhealthily pale complexion.
“Are you sure that my parents need to find out about this? This really wasn’t my fault.” Lying, he continued, “I’m positive that someone spiked my drink, I swear that I had nothing to do with it. Please just let me go,” Aiden pleaded.
“Sorry kiddo but… your fault or not, you’re gonna have to take a visit to the emergency room and being that you’re under 18… your parents have to know,” said the cop. “And either way, you’re too young to be drinking so you’re screwed no matter what, kid. Sorry.”
“Well wait, where’s my friend Joey?” asked Aiden.
“We spoke to him after looking through your missed calls and he said he’d lost sight of you around 2:30 a.m. Said you wouldn’t answer the phone all night, but he’s home safe. Might want to give him a call. Seemed pretty concerned,” said the cop.
Word of the incident traveled pretty quickly and all of Aiden’s friends started quite the buzz about it. Of course there were different stories coming from everybody, however, nobody was the slightest bit surprised.
“Aiden this was it. We warned you, Aiden and you’ve gone beyond your limit. Your father and I haven’t slept in fucking months with the shit you’ve been getting into. You’re so lucky that you didn’t pass out IN the lake. You could have drowned yourself! My god! I can’t even stomach this, Aiden. Not one bit,” Aiden’s Mother paused. “I already called the rehab center. You leave in December,” she said.
Tears rolled down Aiden’s helpless face. He picked up the phone and called Joey.
Previous to this predicament, there were situations such as Aiden drinking himself to a state of blacking out, puking on his phone and then flushing it down the toilet. The staff at Verizon got quite a kick out of that story. Another time, he was on such an awful trip from eating shrooms that he almost killed his friend for no reason at all. He claimed that he was looking at him funny so he drew a butcher knife from the kid’s kitchen draw. And then of course there were the many times where he tried “cuddling” with his various female friends and by the way that he approached each of them, none of them were enthused what so ever. It had gotten to a point where no one even knew the real Aiden anymore.
His departure for rehab was unannounced and it was sudden and very saddening to everyone. Joey was the only one who knew anything so as any friend would do; he gave everyone the run down.
A message was forwarded to all of Aiden’s friends reading:
“Hey everyone. As you might have heard, Aiden has been going through a rough time and he was recently enrolled at a teen Christian rehab center in Pennsylvania. He is not aloud to use his phone nor computers so the best that we can do to contact him is by mail. But here’s the catch: No profanity can be included as well as avoiding anything about alcohol or other illegal substances. The staff will read these letters before Aiden sees them so make sure you choose your words carefully. Remember this is his closest case of contact to the outside world, so he’d love to hear from all of you.
- Joey”
Under it, read the address to which the letters should be sent.
Months later, after everyone had sent Aiden letters, they began receiving response letters and it was like hearing from a ghost.
Joey walked inside his house with the letter in his hands, shaking with excitement. When he finally opened and read the letter, he was quite pleased. It was very long, talking about how he was learning a lot, eating properly, gaining a better relationship with god, Etc. However… one part that especially stood out for Joey read: “And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love. – I Corinthians 13:13”
With a thin gloss overcoming Joey’s eyes, he smiled and sat down on his bed, glancing at a picture of him and Aiden.
“You saved me, bro,” he said to the picture, “You saved a lot of us. Fucking kid’s a saint in disguise.”
Aiden DeJesus was a character of his own. Most people questioned where his head was and why he preached the things that he did. He was all about revealing his personal outlook on life and what makes our souls peaceful. He was religious in a sense; however, music, was what made him, him. Starting in his sophomore year of high school, Aiden began to lose it. First was the alcohol, next came the marijuana and shortly after, the experiments exceeded. 17 years old and a senior in high school, Aiden started to worry his friends and family, but most of all, his best friend Joey who lived around the corner from him.
Joey Freeman, 19, was one of the only human beings that could understand Aiden. Yes, he was his partner in crime; yet, Joey had a much better grasp on controlling his life outside of the trouble he and Aiden would get in to.
"Dude, you down for a trip tonight? I got," Asked Joey, excitedly.
“Hell yeah, dude.” I wanna escape this week's hell for a while," responded Aiden. “I got emails from 2 of my teachers declaring that I’m failing their courses, spent the last of my money on bud last night and got into a huge fight with my parents about mad unnecessary shit.”
The friends placed the tablets on their tongues and passed the time by playing hacky sac while they waited for it to kick in.
Hours later, Aiden was woken up near a lake by two fat cops.
"Son, what are you doing here?" asked the cop.
"God told me to follow the North Star, and I did," said Aiden.
"Oh… right…. Well considering we just found you sleeping next to a lake an hour away from your home, I think it's time you came with us." Replied the cop.
“How do you know where I’m from?” Aiden asked with concern.
“We found your wallet and took a look at your license,” said the cop.
Aiden's last memory before his apparent encounter with god was being at a party at his friends' school at TCNJ with Joey. What the FUCK is going on? Where is Joey?
He knew that if his parents found out about whatever this incident was, that he wouldn't be seeing anyone for a very long time. It was one last chance before they sent him to a rehab center and if anything, this was that last chance.
"We're gonna have to call your parents, kid," said the cop.
Aiden got up, releasing a massive sigh, noticing that his jeans were covered in mud and grass stains and then suddenly had another vision from the previous night.
“BRO DO YOU SEE THAT?” asked Joey.
Ignoring Joey’s question, Aiden began his one of many speeches about music, life and god.
“Jesus presents us with music to cure and soothe our souls. Feel the peace flowing through your veins bro. The music. Feel it,” he said.
“Aiden, shut the hell up with that shit already. Look at the talking lizards for fuck’s sake. THEY ARE TALKING LIZARDS, AIDEN!”
Snapping out of this vision, the cop car pulled into Aiden’s parent’s driveway. His face turned to an unhealthily pale complexion.
“Are you sure that my parents need to find out about this? This really wasn’t my fault.” Lying, he continued, “I’m positive that someone spiked my drink, I swear that I had nothing to do with it. Please just let me go,” Aiden pleaded.
“Sorry kiddo but… your fault or not, you’re gonna have to take a visit to the emergency room and being that you’re under 18… your parents have to know,” said the cop. “And either way, you’re too young to be drinking so you’re screwed no matter what, kid. Sorry.”
“Well wait, where’s my friend Joey?” asked Aiden.
“We spoke to him after looking through your missed calls and he said he’d lost sight of you around 2:30 a.m. Said you wouldn’t answer the phone all night, but he’s home safe. Might want to give him a call. Seemed pretty concerned,” said the cop.
Word of the incident traveled pretty quickly and all of Aiden’s friends started quite the buzz about it. Of course there were different stories coming from everybody, however, nobody was the slightest bit surprised.
“Aiden this was it. We warned you, Aiden and you’ve gone beyond your limit. Your father and I haven’t slept in fucking months with the shit you’ve been getting into. You’re so lucky that you didn’t pass out IN the lake. You could have drowned yourself! My god! I can’t even stomach this, Aiden. Not one bit,” Aiden’s Mother paused. “I already called the rehab center. You leave in December,” she said.
Tears rolled down Aiden’s helpless face. He picked up the phone and called Joey.
Previous to this predicament, there were situations such as Aiden drinking himself to a state of blacking out, puking on his phone and then flushing it down the toilet. The staff at Verizon got quite a kick out of that story. Another time, he was on such an awful trip from eating shrooms that he almost killed his friend for no reason at all. He claimed that he was looking at him funny so he drew a butcher knife from the kid’s kitchen draw. And then of course there were the many times where he tried “cuddling” with his various female friends and by the way that he approached each of them, none of them were enthused what so ever. It had gotten to a point where no one even knew the real Aiden anymore.
His departure for rehab was unannounced and it was sudden and very saddening to everyone. Joey was the only one who knew anything so as any friend would do; he gave everyone the run down.
A message was forwarded to all of Aiden’s friends reading:
“Hey everyone. As you might have heard, Aiden has been going through a rough time and he was recently enrolled at a teen Christian rehab center in Pennsylvania. He is not aloud to use his phone nor computers so the best that we can do to contact him is by mail. But here’s the catch: No profanity can be included as well as avoiding anything about alcohol or other illegal substances. The staff will read these letters before Aiden sees them so make sure you choose your words carefully. Remember this is his closest case of contact to the outside world, so he’d love to hear from all of you.
- Joey”
Under it, read the address to which the letters should be sent.
Months later, after everyone had sent Aiden letters, they began receiving response letters and it was like hearing from a ghost.
Joey walked inside his house with the letter in his hands, shaking with excitement. When he finally opened and read the letter, he was quite pleased. It was very long, talking about how he was learning a lot, eating properly, gaining a better relationship with god, Etc. However… one part that especially stood out for Joey read: “And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love. – I Corinthians 13:13”
With a thin gloss overcoming Joey’s eyes, he smiled and sat down on his bed, glancing at a picture of him and Aiden.
“You saved me, bro,” he said to the picture, “You saved a lot of us. Fucking kid’s a saint in disguise.”
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