half of my heart // hs ON HOLD

three

671 Days Before

Seven hundred and three, seven hundred and four, seven hundred and five, seven hundred and six, and about thirty seven more and I finally gave up on seven hundred and forty three. Sleep obviously wasn't an option as I had now tossed and turned for twenty three minutes, sung fourteen songs that came to my head, and imagined a whole new life with banana milkshakes and kids chicken fingers with forest boys and unhappy girls and snowy streets and hot chocolates, and the longer my eyes stared into space, the more things I began to do to tire myself, even counting to seven hundred forty three.

It was four fifteen and I found myself enjoying the early morning. There was no music playing downstairs, there were no birds fucking in my windows, the old man that walks his hairless dog every morning wasn't awake yet to smoke away his life allowing the fresh beautiful smell of rotting tobacco to flood into my windows to sometimes allow my face to scrunch up in disgust in my sleep- it was finally peaceful.

Its been seventy four hours and I can say that Harry and I have developed the world's quickest friendship, which deserves to be in the Guinness World Records for changing from feeling suicidal the second you wake up to the moment you shut your eyes once you tuck yourself in the bed you spend half your life in, to waking up approximately thirty nine minutes before ten o'clock three mornings in a row just in case you missed a boy who could easily blend into a tree- drinking hot coffee.

He got me, and I can't say that he and I felt the same, because even though I don't feel sympathy for any of the shit I have once did, even trying to attempt half the bullshit Margo Roth Spiegelman tried, I still wished that no single living being had to ever feel the pain that erupted inside of me each living second of the painful days I have lived.

So at four thirty three, I got out of bed, grabbed the first pair of sweatpants that fancied me, searched for the softest shirt in my closet and slipping on some kind of shoe, and left my hell hole with the snow still sleeping. A beanie tugged around my ears as I shoved my lips down into the neck of the sweatshirt that was bunched up around my front door for my random outbursts like these- which tend to happen once every thirteen days.

At moments like this, I felt like Quentin Jacobsen, in need of adventure so bad that you don't even realize it until the one you've loved since you were nine years old appears by your bedroom window asking you to drive your moms minivan around Orlando to commit crimes that aren't even crimes but are still considering committing a felony.

I could have picked Harry up and let him sit in the passenger seat of the car I now share with the cool girl in the yellow sweater who let's me live in her business building and only makes me pay rent every two months- which happens to be better than getting a car on your sixteenth birthday- but I didn't. I sat alone listening to the The Neighbourhood cd given to my dear friend in the yellow sweater- whose name is Ashley, but yellow sweater girl sounds better- by her boyfriend of seven thousand six hundred and ninety four years; only giving me the feeling of that 'forever alone' company.

So I rode basically in silence before shoving a piece of gum into my melting teeth, hoping that I will not only look like I just woke up from the longest nap in hell, but at least I've got good teeth, so my night couldn't have been that bad.

I could have gone to Suntrust and taken a look into the quiet night of some town in Ireland, but this isn't Orlando and I don't have a list of places to sneak into and I don't have a map of Sea World in the back of my mom's minivan and I didn't just drop off three catfish to the three people I hate more than myself- like Margo Roth Spiegelman, but I did park at the top of some mountain- maybe a large hill, in some town in some state in some place thousands of miles away from where I once was.

But like everything else emerging in the depths of my life, I found myself getting extremely bored with my sour ass sitting on the cold dirt ground pulling grass out of the harmless land, killing the scenery for some romantic couples first bubbly time. I don't really know what I had in mind, so I got back in the cold seated car, turned the heat on high enough that my cheeks began to burn like hot chocolate, and found myself sitting in the parking lot owned by the one and only McDonalds.

I sat for a while, staring at the blinking 'a' and noticing how dim the lights to both the 'c' and the 'd' were and how I could relate. The rest of the letters were happy and smiling because they just sold a Big Mac and chicken mcnuggets, while the poor light-less letters just sold a seniors diet coke and a chicken lettuce wrap with no ranch- and that's when I sat with my forehead pressed to the steering wheel and laughed at myself for seventy four seconds while blaring Marina and the Diamonds, the windows bouncing back and laughing with me.

I hadn't realized how much I secretly enjoyed my life until it was eight forty one and I was in an oversized sweater from the best vintage thrift shop two blocks down and the comfiest black leggings I've ever worn, sitting on my red leather couch that was indented in the right cushion from sitting in it too much, staring out the huge window that was by far the best part about this little apartment. I watched three people walk out their doors with business suits on and it made me even more happy that I didn't have a life. I watched a young athletic hot healthy twenty one to twenty four- my guess- year old walk her black Pomeranian down the street three times with hot pink ear buds plugged into her world, and that one stung as I continued to guess their lives as more people walked the busy street I lived on.

The perks of living on top of the music store is that seventy six percent of the town either lives on this street, walks on this street, eats on this street, or gets out of taxis on this street, and my favorite part about early mornings on a week day was playing my all time favorite game- which was unnamed- but it consisted of my eyes, my feet curled under my body, and my imagination creating lives for the people that walked by for at least and hour and a half, and yes, I found that amusing as hell.

And that's when the game got interesting, Just broke up with her boyfriend of six months, walking the dog he bought her, working out her ass to attract more boys, insecure yet so proud that she wears lipstick while jogging, her parents are lawyers, around twenty three.

Just left the bar, drank four shots of vodka and some cherry drink, bought three for the lady on the right, chugged two beers, went into a private room, going through a seven year divorce, has court at noon, wearing sunglasses because of hangover.

And to make the morning even better, Just drank a warm coffee, saying 'fuck' after dropping the leather notebook in long skinny fingers, belonged in a forest on the outskirts of Australia, was cute, really cute, really nice teeth, good lips- pink, red, reminded me of frozen lemonade- out-ruled curls, ivory skin, piercing eyes, nice skinny legs, lean stomach, perfect fit ass-

Before I could finish the traits of a body, I jumped up, my fingers flipping the lights on before I even got in the bathroom. Slamming the side drawer open, I thrusted bat shit on my eyelashes until I could say I wasn't as ugly as I was ten seconds ago. Faster than I had ever seen myself run, even better than that time in seventh grade my mom made me join track because I slept too much- what a bitch- I sprinted down the spiral creaking stairs that connected me- sadly- to the rest of the world.

In the distance, I could see him doing a good deed to the hottest mother fucker to touch this earth. And it wasn't until then that I looked down to see my frog slippers, tight leggings with a small hole on my right thigh two inches above my knee, a crimson sweater that hung low around my chest and covered thirty two percent of my ass- proving that double d'd triple three'd ass with nice fake roots and basically orange skin was still, yes, prettier than me with her tight yoga pants and short tight long sleeve that was low cut, and I laughed.

Don't ask me why I didn't turn around and walk back into my apartment, but if I put on mascara for this, then I'm staying. So my froggy slippers marched their way up to forest boy, a good three feet behind while I watched the cheeto disappear into what I hope is a cage of hungry tigers. I counted my steps, one two three four, and as I opened my mouth to say something that was probably along the lines of his, he beat me to it, "What a bitch."

And I couldn't agree more.

He turned around, his lemonade cherry smiling lips curling on the edges with two crescent moons irking in the depths of ivory. Shots of evergreen icicles followed the trail of the comfiest outfit I've worn, stopping at my person favorite- my froggy slippers.

"Cute."