page long waste

Sometimes he imagined that he was just like a parasite. His eyes cast across the hard wood floor that was wet with spilled beer and littered with crumpled and used cigarettes. There was a sea of people, girls with lime green mid-rift tops and short skirts, boys with boat shoes and boyle sunglasses. They all really did look quite similar and he thought that's what they were probably aiming for.

The girl he looked at was a friend of a friend, a fairly dubious connection but he thought that he could pull it. What kind of parasite he'd never really worked out. Later on that night with the girl asleep next to him in a messy bedroom in a strange house, he looked at the ceiling and smiled. It wasn't the devious smile of a villain, but one of stupid contentment. In the morning he said goodbye and a feeling he knew well crept over him. A slow running feeling that lurks in through your kidneys and into your bones and you don't know how but the emotion actually causes you physical pain. He was already feeling the tinges of loneliness.

He sometimes viewed peoples dating patterns and now his own like writing a short story. In that a great idea is wasted if you don't use it to it's full potential. The next few days he sat in his room and looked at things. He went to his friend's houses and he filled in his life with distractions. Maybe he was like a parasite that was weak itself but fed quite regularly off stronger creatures.

In a few days he was out and doing things. He talked to girls and paid attention to their eyes, and to their smiles. Did they think that he was worthwhile? worth their time? worth anything? And if he thought that they did he smiled and walked around confident. He would look at himself a hundred times in the mirror and smile. Thinking he was someone.

Clearly he was not someone, maybe two people but not one. When he was at a party talking to a girl he would drink beer after beer, for the same reasons he envisioned everyone else did, to make talking easier, to become someone he wanted to be,the someone girls at that party might want to be with.

He wasn't that person he was a rather sick kind of parasite, he needed too much, much more than he could produce. So he was forced to seek out people and feed off them, make them tell him he was strong and worth something, because he was too weak to tell himself or to stupid to listen.

And he kept going and going. He'd met somebody and they were rad. They'd share a night, maybe a few days, then it was over. Peer pressure and the laws of hip detachment demanded no less.He'd go on and find another person and another. He'd look at their lips and their smiles, he'd ask them about their dreams. And everyone had great plans for grand adventures except for him, so in the night whilst they slept in his arms and he let the smell of their hair or skin wash over him he fed on their dreams and made believe they were his too.

If his life was a movie the screen now would fade to black because nothing would ever really change. The only really change is he learned more and more how to be on the outside what people wanted to be with. For him everything was a page long waste of a great idea.


You're a fucking parasite i can smell your desperation. You're like a tram ticket, you need validation. Or more like a puddle, all murky and shallow. don't talk to me, don't even say hello. I don't want to catch something and you seem contagious. I don't want a case of sleazy fuckitis. you've got a lot of flaws and no redeeming features. i'm friends with human beings not undead creatures.