I Just Wanted to be Edgy Too

Chapter Eleven

Van

I chewed the inside of my cheek as I scribbled the last few words out. I could barely read my own writing back. The letters became connected as I blurred them on the page from the ink in the pen and the movement of my hand across the paper. They were legible, but they were messy, too. Typical of someone like me, I suppose.

When the writing process took hold of me, there was no stopping it. It was stronger than any drug or drink you could get your hands on. If you didn't surrender to it, it'd eat you alive.

I wasn't going to let it eat me. I read the words back and kept the beat with my foot as I planned out how it would sound between the edge of Bondy's guitar and the outline of Benji's bass.

I should be better than I am now,
by now you're back to your house,
and I still call the road my home.
It's not pleasant
Living like this,
but when it comes to me
you don't give a shit
Because you'd be better off without me
than you'd be alone.

I'm an outsider looking for another
"Pick me up"
I visit you just to deliver the facts.
You say you're an
Insider
Finding ways for me to give a fuck
You're not ready to chew on the truth,
And I'm not the type to cut any slack.

It happened again,
on the weekend when it wasn't even a Sunday,
On your knees,
It's like this every time.
So I loved up a bottle,
because it's easy to wrap one in my fist,
"But I'm not going to ruin that with some of this"

I'm an outsider looking for another
"Pick me up"
I visit you just to deliver the facts.
You say you're an
Insider
Finding ways for me to give a fuck
You're not ready to chew on the truth,
And I'm not the type to cut any slack.

I pause, waiting for the change in tone,
the change in key,
Wrap my head around a new verse.
Applause, waiting all alone,
I'm not the one you want to see,
And you swear he's not getting worse.

I'm an outsider looking for another
"Pick me up"
I visit you just to talk on the facts.
You say you're an
Insider
Finding ways for me to give a fuck
You're not ready to chew on the truth,
And I'm not the type to cut any slack.

I picked up the phone and sent a quick message to Larry, asking if he could come to my room so I could show him something. He responded that he was on his way. By the time he knocked on my door, my guitar was in my lap and I was playing with different chords.

"What's this?" Larry scanned the room. The papers strewn across the floor, the glasses of water and empty bottles of wine sitting around. His eyes focused on the guitar next to my open notebook.

"Oh." He smiled.

I smoothed out my hair and picked up my notebook. "Can you read this? It's not the best one. It's not the one I've been working a lot, but it's the first one that I know how I want to sing it. It just sorta happened."

Larry sat on the bed and read through the words. I'd catch a smirk every few lines. The hardest part of being a writer, was letting someone else see it. Sure, he'll take it in and make of it what he wants, but the truth is, my words will never matter to anyone as much as they did to me. Some people will resonate deeply with them, but they'll never feel like they do when they first come out. That's a sacred feeling.