Story This Memoir Will Destroy You;

[Lunar]

This Memoir Will Destroy You;​

The faint hum of a car engine drones softly, filling the otherwise silent drive-in with an arguably therapeutic noise. I’ve always been a fan of car sounds, not the loud showoff ones, but the subtle kind; The sound the tires make while cruising down the highway, or the clicking of turn signals, and, of course, the calming hum of an engine in park. These sounds are almost nostalgic to me; they always helped me drift off to sleep during long road trips with my dad or over lunch when I tried to get some extra Z’s in. Night drives are always the best, especially when there's a lot going on in my mind... you see, driving makes you feel in control, and feeling in control eases your mind through hard times. I’m not driving tonight, however. Tonight… I am parked.

"You said, take the violin that you hang on the wall; Put it under your bed before it crumbles and falls..."

This is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in my entire life. There's something to be said for minimum wage retail workers and beauty; You’ll always have the Kardashians to keep up with and Instagram influencers come by the handful with their looks, but somehow underpaid 7/11 cashier’s take the cake in total attractiveness. Funny how life works, in another, she could’ve been an A-List actor or a top model, but unfortunately, through the shackles of capitalism and a little bit of bad luck thrown in the mix, here she is… a cashier in the middle of Indiana. Fluorescent light refracts across her bright blue eyes, which compliments the blue highlights in her bangs. Her pale skin contrasted with the dull atmosphere inside the store; it looked almost transparent, blending into the white shelves behind her. I think I'm absolutely in…

“Love…” The words leave my mouth without thinking, fuck. The girl’s face twisted into a confused expression.

“Uh… you can take your card out now, sir.” She replies, bringing my attention to the card-reader, which must’ve been beeping for a bit while I was zoned out.

“Oh! Shit, sorry!” I say as I quickly slide the card out of the machine and into my pocket.

The bag of goods is light in my hands, if I hadn’t been weirding out at the cashier then I would’ve stopped her from bagging it altogether. A 20oz Coke and a pack of Newports. She didn’t ID me, but from the smell of smoke that came off of her, she probably didn’t care, us addicts got to look out for each other. The door chimes a glittery tone as I leave; the speakers must be getting old as it sounds more like a dying bird chirp than the usual ‘Sonic Ring’ sound.
Time to assess the idiocracy of my social ability. What the fuck was that? “Love!” I mimic myself as I walk down the sidewalk, the streetlights barely providing enough light to walk without tripping over random garbage bags strewn about. It’s fine, just another meaningless interaction with a stranger I’ll never see again. This is usual for me; it feels like I fall in love with every stranger I meet; This is the life of Lucas Underwood… hopeless romantic.

If Indianapolis is the city of love, then Paris is a poverty-stricken mess sporting racing and an epidemic of narcotics, though my roommates are totally okay with the second portion. Speaking of which… “‘Sup bitches!” I shout as I kick open the front door, the doorknob settles into its hole in the wall, nicely crafted by previous violent entries.

“Hey man! Whaddya’ grab?” Bailey, my first roommate shouts with a joint hanging from his mouth.

“Just a coke and some smokes.” I shut the door and sit down next to him; the smell of skunk and axe spray hits me like a truck.

“Jesus dude, why spray that shit if you’re just gonna keep smoking?” I say.

“Jessie was gonna come by, but she got called back into work.” Bailey responds with a chuckle.

He reaches over the table and grabs an open Steel Reserve, he then takes a big swig.

“Where’s Issac?” I ask, looking around the living room.

“I dunno, man, last I heard he was picking up from J.” He replies, finishing off his doobie.

J is our plug; well, it’s Bailey and Issac's plug. I just tend to chief off their shit sometimes when I’m having a bad day or when we’re all chilling together. Good roommates share good drugs.

1​

Text/Thought/"Speech"

Spoiler: MOBILE FRIENDLY

This Memoir Will Destroy You;




The faint hum of a car engine drones softly, filling the otherwise silent drive-in with an arguably therapeutic noise. I’ve always been a fan of car sounds, not the loud showoff ones, but the subtle kind; The sound the tires make while cruising down the highway, or the clicking of turn signals, and, of course, the calming hum of an engine in park. These sounds are almost nostalgic to me; they always helped me drift off to sleep during long road trips with my dad or over lunch when I tried to get some extra Z’s in. Night drives are always the best, especially when there's alot going on in my mind... you see, driving makes you feel in control, and feeling in control eases your mind through hard times. I’m not driving tonight, however. Tonight… I am parked.


You said, take the violin that you hang on the wall; Put it under your bed before it crumbles and falls...


This is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in my entire life. There's something to be said for minimum wage retail workers and beauty; You’ll always have the Kardashians to keep up with and Instagram influencers come by the handful with their looks, but somehow underpaid 7/11 cashier’s take the cake in total attractiveness. Funny how life works, in another, she could’ve been an A-List actor or a top model, but unfortunately, through the shackles of capitalism and a little bit of bad luck thrown in the mix, here she is… a cashier in the middle of Indiana. Fluorescent light refracts across her bright blue eyes, which compliments the blue highlights in her bangs. Her pale skin contrasted with the dull atmosphere inside the store; it looked almost transparent, blending into the white shelves behind her. I think I'm absolutely in…

“Love…” The words leave my mouth without thinking, fuck. The girl’s face twisted into a confused expression.

“Uh… you can take your card out now, sir.” She replies, bringing my attention to the card-reader, which must’ve been beeping for a bit while I was zoned out.

“Oh! Shit, sorry!” I say as I quickly slide the card out of the machine and into my pocket.

The bag of goods is light in my hands, if I hadn’t been weirding out at the cashier then I would’ve stopped her from bagging it altogether. A 20oz Coke and a pack of Newports. She didn’t ID me, but from the smell of smoke that came off of her, she probably didn’t care, us addicts got to look out for each other. The door chimes a glittery tone as I leave; the speakers must be getting old as it sounds more like a dying bird chirp than the usual ‘Sonic Ring’ sound.
Time to assess the idiocracy of my social ability. What the fuck was that? “Love!” I mimic myself as I walk down the sidewalk, the streetlights barely providing enough light to walk without tripping over random garbage bags strewn about. It’s fine, just another meaningless interaction with a stranger I’ll never see again. This is usual for me; it feels like I fall in love with every stranger I meet; This is the life of Lucas Underwood… hopeless romantic.

If Indianapolis is the city of love, then Paris is a poverty-stricken mess sporting racing and an epidemic of narcotics, though my roommates are totally okay with the second portion. Speaking of which… “‘Sup bitches!” I shout as I kick open the front door, the doorknob settles into its hole in the wall, nicely crafted by previous violent entries.

“Hey man! Whaddya’ grab?” Bailey, my first roommate shouts with a joint hanging from his mouth.

“Just a coke and some smokes.” I shut the door and sit down next to him; the smell of skunk and axe spray hits me like a truck.

“Jesus dude, why spray that shit if you’re just gonna keep smoking?” I say.

“Jessie was gonna come by, but she got called back into work.” Bailey responds with a chuckle.

He reaches over the table and grabs an open Steel Reserve, he then takes a big swig.

“Where’s Issac?” I ask, looking around the living room.

“I dunno, man, last I heard he was picking up from J.” He replies, finishing off his doobie.

J is our plug; well, it’s Bailey and Issac's plug. I just tend to chief off their shit sometimes when I’m having a bad day or when we’re all chilling together. Good roommates share good drugs.

 

[Ryumomo]

Very beautifully written.

 

[Anon06]

Amazing. It’s just plain old living, but it’s so good! I demand more!

 

[Lunar]

This Memoir Will Destroy You;​

Do you believe in Feng Shui? I do. I use spiritual pseudoscience bullshit to help ease my existential dread, having said that; my room still looks like hot garbage. Clothes are strewn about on the floor; mostly black jeans with a few primary color shirts here and there, in half-glass-full terms; it could be seen as a fashionable carpet that breaks the standardized expectations of “normal” living spaces… a.k.a I’m a slob with intelligent-sounding excuses. My bed is against the wall, opposite from the doorway, though, point to me.

I always liked how your hands looked, and not just in comparison to mine; They were an artist’s hands.​

Introductions have been put aside for far too long now; My name is Lucas Underwood. Twenty-three years old and jobless. Well, in-between jobs, I was fired from this local bakery, Startchies, for chronic lateness. Since my very short stint in the Army, it’s been hard to hold down any real job. Speaking of the Army, I haven’t maintained my “professional and clean-shaven” look in years. The scruff on my chin glares at me with malicious intent in the mirror, and my hair is almost in reach of my jaw… frizz and all. On some days I’d consider myself an eight, and on bad ones, probably a four; an offensive system of appearance ratings aside, that is me. A rapid knock of threes breaks me from my mirror trance.


“Dicks away, I’m comin’ in!” Shouts a voice on the other side before a boot kicks the door open.

A dark-skinned man struts into the room sporting a drug rug with the Puerto-Rican flag weaved into the fabric. He reeks of weed just like Bailey; Jesus, my roommates might as well be the soil pot grows in.

“You reek, Isaac.” I say, ushering him into the room before closing the door.

“That’s the stink of a good night dude!” He produces a paper bag from his pocket, and the smell grows much stronger.

“We’re going to hotbox Jessie’s shed later tonight if you wanna come.” He puts the bag back in his rug-pocket. “Some of her friends are gonna be there too; it’ll be a social night.”

Issac and Bailey have been trying to get me to go out with them for a while now; I’ve been very introverted lately. It used to be nightly when we’d skate for hours or hit up a brewery to drink, but I’ve just been feeling off around people lately. I don’t mean to be a bad friend or anything, but sometimes I just feel more comfortable alone, y’know?

“Uhm, maybe? I’m not really feeling the best--” I try to say, but Issac waves his hands in my face before finishing.

“Nah man, you’re ours tonight.” And as if on cue, Bailey kicks the door in. Goddamnit, what did my door do to you guys?

“Yes sir, you have no choice! We got some extra bud just for you man!” Bailey shouts as Issac once again produces the stinky bag.

“Look guys, I appreciate it, but--” My protests fall on deaf ears as they grab my shoulders. Shit.

We share a car in this household, the Candy Mobile we call her. She’s an old white beat-up 1994 Chevy Van; you can just guess why we named it that. The paint is chipping off the sides, adding to the creepy aesthetic. Topical, because it feels like I’m being kidnapped as they throw me in the back. A dark brown shag rug breaks my fall; it would be comfy in literally any other circumstance… who am I kidding? It is still very comfy. I love this van.

2

​

Text/Thought/"Speech"

Spoiler: MOBILE FRIENDLY

This Memoir Will Destroy You;​

Do you believe in Feng Shui? I do. I use spiritual pseudoscience bullshit to help ease my existential dread, having said that; my room still looks like hot garbage. Clothes are strewn about on the floor; mostly black jeans with a few primary color shirts here and there, in half-glass-full terms; it could be seen as a fashionable carpet that breaks the standardized expectations of “normal” living spaces… a.k.a I’m a slob with intelligent-sounding excuses. My bed is against the wall, opposite from the doorway, though, point to me.

I always liked how your hands looked, and not just in comparison to mine; They were an artist’s hands.​

Introductions have been put aside for far too long now; My name is Lucas Underwood. Twenty-three years old and jobless. Well, in-between jobs, I was fired from this local bakery, Startchies, for chronic lateness. Since my very short stint in the Army, it’s been hard to hold down any real job. Speaking of the Army, I haven’t maintained my “professional and clean-shaven” look in years. The scruff on my chin glares at me with malicious intent in the mirror, and my hair is almost in reach of my jaw… frizz and all. On some days I’d consider myself an eight, and on bad ones, probably a four; an offensive system of appearance ratings aside, that is me. A rapid knock of threes breaks me from my mirror trance.


“Dicks away, I’m comin’ in!” Shouts a voice on the other side before a boot kicks the door open.

A dark-skinned man struts into the room sporting a drug rug with the Puerto-Rican flag weaved into the fabric. He reeks of weed just like Bailey; Jesus, my roommates might as well be the soil pot grows in.

“You reek, Isaac.” I say, ushering him into the room before closing the door.

“That’s the stink of a good night dude!” He produces a paper bag from his pocket, and the smell grows much stronger.

“We’re going to hotbox Jessie’s shed later tonight if you wanna come.” He puts the bag back in his rug-pocket. “Some of her friends are gonna be there too; it’ll be a social night.”

Issac and Bailey have been trying to get me to go out with them for a while now; I’ve been very introverted lately. It used to be nightly when we’d skate for hours or hit up a brewery to drink, but I’ve just been feeling off around people lately. I don’t mean to be a bad friend or anything, but sometimes I just feel more comfortable alone, y’know?

“Uhm, maybe? I’m not really feeling the best--” I try to say, but Issac waves his hands in my face before finishing.

“Nah man, you’re ours tonight.” And as if on cue, Bailey kicks the door in. Goddamnit, what did my door do to you guys?

“Yes sir, you have no choice! We got some extra bud just for you man!” Bailey shouts as Issac once again produces the stinky bag.

“Look guys, I appreciate it, but--” My protests fall on deaf ears as they grab my shoulders. Shit.

We share a car in this household, the Candy Mobile we call her. She’s an old white beat-up 1994 Chevy Van; you can just guess why we named it that. The paint is chipping off the sides, adding to the creepy aesthetic. Topical, because it feels like I’m being kidnapped as they throw me in the back. A dark brown shag rug breaks my fall; it would be comfy in literally any other circumstance… who am I kidding? It is still very comfy. I love this van.

2​

 

[Lunar]

Ryumomo Anon06 shorter one this time, on a 24 hour shift right now sorry!

 

[Ryumomo]

Your words paint such a 'right now' motion picture. Really enjoyed this quick bit as well.

 

[Lunar]

This Memoir Will Destroy You;​

White smoke billows out of a muffler and into the sky like wisps that have been freed from a metal cage. Every so often the engine makes a sputtering sound, as if it’s stumbling over itself, a clear display of negligence, oil changes missed, and batteries slowly dying. Cold mornings like this are extremely peaceful, only the world is awake and it paints a mural of its beauty in the dim blue sky, breaking up the dark shades with pink and orange. A beautiful sunrise in a run-down drive-in.

If good boys smoke good drugs, then consider me an angel.​

Ugh, parties. I used to like them, but now the feeling of being around fucked up people while sober is just lame. Issac reads my mind, apparently, because he passes me the joint; Fuck it, if ya can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em. Jessie’s shed has become a headquarters for us the past few years; we always meet up here to hang out instead of in her apartment. ‘We can’t smoke in here; it sticks to the fucking walls, dude.’ Jessie’s voice rings out from my memory, she became very protective of her new pad since she had to pay back the security deposit for her old one.

We’re seated around a circular table that holds a buddha-shaped ashtray. Jessie likes to consider herself a little spiritual, but she’s got nothing on my Feng Shui. To my right is Issac, and Jessie is on my left. Jessie is a tall girl with long blonde hair to match; it practically goes down to her knees. She spends most of her time at the vape shop she works at, but when she’s not slaving over a wage, or corrupting the youth with spicy feel-good juice, she’s with Bailey... who is on her left. She and Bailey have a very weird dynamic, sometimes they’re dating, sometimes they’re just fucking, most of the time they’re just stoned out of their minds. Good friends.

Speaking of friends, Jessie brought a couple of new faces to the shed. I don’t do particularly well with strangers, I feel as though I will run out of things to talk about if I try to start a conversation… so I usually don’t. It’ll probably be even harder tonight because, seated straight across from me, is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. Shit. What are the odds? This cashier’s eyes are piercing my soul. Her expression tells me that she recognizes me and is trying to remember where from. Here’s to hoping she forgot.

“Holy shit, well hey there loverboy!” Cashier chuckles, her eyes opening wider. She remembered.

Jessie looks over at her, confused, and then looks back at me as a realization creeps over her face.

“Oh my god! That’s the guy you told me about, Molls?” Jessie shouts, laughing in her own squeaky tone.

Something about people’s laughs tells me a lot about that person. Jessie has a bubbly laugh that can either pierce your ears or cause you to laugh along with her. It matches her bright personality; I hear her laugh a lot. Cashier Lady’s laugh is kind of hoarse, starchy, and cool. It puts me at ease, which tells me she’s probably chill about most things.

“Yeah, dude! Way to fail your charisma check back there, man” She gives me a wink, and then jumps up, leaning across the table with her hand extended into my face. “Names Molly.”

“Luke.” I manage to sputter out as I fumble around with the joint, trying to free my right hand from its skunky oppressor.

Her hand is soft yet dry; In the few moments of shaking her hand, I was able to feel an endless sea of calluses, and my thumb rested on what felt like a scab on her pointer knuckle. Her grasp is delicate; an artist’s hands, probably used to careful placements and precision. If I had to guess, I’d say she does pottery or sculpting.

Now that she’s seated and that awkward encounter is over, I finally take a drag from the joint. The sting hits my throat almost immediately as I inhale, it’s been a while since I last smoked. “Light-weight, light-weight,” is chanted by all as I cough out my troubles. I hold the roll out in front of me as I wheeze, offering it up to literally anyone else, and the guy left of Molly reaches out for it.

“Here you go uh…” I stutter, trying to get his name out of him.

“Steven, and thank you!” He quips back as he yoinks the paper out of my hand.

This Steven guy has good fashion sense. His sweater is coyote brown and the white collar of his undershirt pokes out of the top, if only I was that creative with outfitting. He leans back in his chair as he takes his hit and his arm is stretched out across the back of Molly’s seat. Ah, so that’s who he is.

“So how did y’all meet?” Bailey asks, giving a passing glance to the newcomers and Jessie. “Jessie’s only talked about y’all a few times but never mentioned it.”

Molly shoots a sarcastic glare at Jessie. “Dude, do you never talk about high school to anyone?” She says with a smirk before turning to face Bailey. “We were in a band back in the good ol’ days.” Molly gives the last part an exaggerated elderly accent.

“Oh wow! Nah, yeah… we knew she was in a band but she said everyone moved away so y’all broke up!” He smiles and leans into the table. “Tell us all her embarrassing school stories--” His devious prying in quickly ended by a sharp elbow jab from Jessie.

Molly laughs and waves her hand, dismissing his inquiries. “Yeah, I did! Spent the last few years over in Ohio, but this guy here made me come back.” She gives her own elbow jab to Steven, though hers is much softer than Jessies… and with less violent intent.

Steven chuckles as he passes the joint to her. “Hey, I was just tryna’ save you from the pits of hell.”

If hell really is nothing but an endless expanse of cornfields and Smuckers factories, then I should really start going to church.

3

​

Text/Thought/"Speech"

Spoiler: MOBILE FRIENDLY

This Memoir Will Destroy You;​

White smoke billows out of a muffler and into the sky like wisps that have been freed from a metal cage. Every so often the engine makes a sputtering sound, as if it’s stumbling over itself, a clear display of negligence, oil changes missed, and batteries slowly dying. Cold mornings like this are extremely peaceful, only the world is awake and it paints a mural of its beauty in the dim blue sky, breaking up the dark shades with pink and orange. A beautiful sunrise in a run-down drive-in.

If good boys smoke good drugs, then consider me an angel.​

Ugh, parties. I used to like them, but now the feeling of being around fucked up people while sober is just lame. Issac reads my mind, apparently, because he passes me the joint; Fuck it, if ya can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em. Jessie’s shed has become a headquarters for us the past few years; we always meet up here to hang out instead of in her apartment. ‘We can’t smoke in here; it sticks to the fucking walls, dude.’ Jessie’s voice rings out from my memory, she became very protective of her new pad since she had to pay back the security deposit for her old one.

We’re seated around a circular table that holds a buddha-shaped ashtray. Jessie likes to consider herself a little spiritual, but she’s got nothing on my Feng Shui. To my right is Issac, and Jessie is on my left. Jessie is a tall girl with long blonde hair to match; it practically goes down to her knees. She spends most of her time at the vape shop she works at, but when she’s not slaving over a wage, or corrupting the youth with spicy feel-good juice, she’s with Bailey... who is on her left. She and Bailey have a very weird dynamic, sometimes they’re dating, sometimes they’re just fucking, most of the time they’re just stoned out of their minds. Good friends.

Speaking of friends, Jessie brought a couple of new faces to the shed. I don’t do particularly well with strangers, I feel as though I will run out of things to talk about if I try to start a conversation… so I usually don’t. It’ll probably be even harder tonight because, seated straight across from me, is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. Shit. What are the odds? This cashier’s eyes are piercing my soul. Her expression tells me that she recognizes me and is trying to remember where from. Here’s to hoping she forgot.

“Holy shit, well hey there loverboy!” Cashier chuckles, her eyes opening wider. She remembered.

Jessie looks over at her, confused, and then looks back at me as a realization creeps over her face.

“Oh my god! That’s the guy you told me about, Molls?” Jessie shouts, laughing in her own squeaky tone.

Something about people’s laughs tells me a lot about that person. Jessie has a bubbly laugh that can either pierce your ears or cause you to laugh along with her. It matches her bright personality; I hear her laugh a lot. Cashier Lady’s laugh is kind of hoarse, starchy, and cool. It puts me at ease, which tells me she’s probably chill about most things.

“Yeah, dude! Way to fail your charisma check back there, man” She gives me a wink, and then jumps up, leaning across the table with her hand extended into my face. “Names Molly.”

“Luke.” I manage to sputter out as I fumble around with the joint, trying to free my right hand from its skunky oppressor.

Her hand is soft yet dry; In the few moments of shaking her hand, I was able to feel an endless sea of calluses, and my thumb rested on what felt like a scab on her pointer knuckle. Her grasp is delicate; an artist’s hands, probably used to careful placements and precision. If I had to guess, I’d say she does pottery or sculpting.

Now that she’s seated and that awkward encounter is over, I finally take a drag from the joint. The sting hits my throat almost immediately as I inhale, it’s been a while since I last smoked. “Light-weight, light-weight,” is chanted by all as I cough out my troubles. I hold the roll out in front of me as I wheeze, offering it up to literally anyone else, and the guy left of Molly reaches out for it.

“Here you go uh…” I stutter, trying to get his name out of him.

“Steven, and thank you!” He quips back as he yoinks the paper out of my hand.

This Steven guy has good fashion sense. His sweater is coyote brown and the white collar of his undershirt pokes out of the top, if only I was that creative with outfitting. He leans back in his chair as he takes his hit and his arm is stretched out across the back of Molly’s seat. Ah, so that’s who he is.

“So how did y’all meet?” Bailey asks, giving a passing glance to the newcomers and Jessie. “Jessie’s only talked about y’all a few times but never mentioned it.”

Molly shoots a sarcastic glare at Jessie. “Dude, do you never talk about high school to anyone?” She says with a smirk before turning to face Bailey. “We were in a band back in the good ol’ days.” Molly gives the last part an exaggerated elderly accent.

“Oh wow! Nah, yeah… we knew she was in a band but she said everyone moved away so y’all broke up!” He smiles and leans into the table. “Tell us all her embarrassing school stories--” His devious prying in quickly ended by a sharp elbow jab from Jessie.

Molly laughs and waves her hand, dismissing his inquiries. “Yeah, I did! Spent the last few years over in Ohio, but this guy here made me come back.” She gives her own elbow jab to Steven, though hers is much softer than Jessies… and with less violent intent.

Steven chuckles as he passes the joint to her. “Hey, I was just tryna’ save you from the pits of hell.”

If hell really is nothing but an endless expanse of cornfields and Smuckers factories, then I should really start going to church.

3​

 

[Lunar]

Ryumomo Anon06 Tried to make up for the last post with a longer one! Thank ya'll for reading.

 

[Lunar]

This Memoir Will Destroy You;​

Molly​

Moving back to Indianapolis was supposed to be a fresh start — No more drugs, well, no hard ones anyways. Unfortunately, shit isn't always that simple. My Knight in Shining Armor’s chivalry was just a front, the red flags were there but they weren’t flown high enough for me to see… or perhaps I’ve just been subconsciously ignoring it to fulfill my fear of being alone.

Alone. What a concept. Billions of people in the world, and yet we few still feel isolated. "Few" is hopeful thinking, all of us feel alone; Somehow, the world is painfully small and empty to us in each of our skewed sights. What do you see when you look at someone? A pure stranger? An extension of yourself? Maybe you make comparisons of loved or lost ones; Maybe you see someone to cherish, to create an eventual relationship with? I tell you what I see; A random dude confessing his love to me.

“Love…” he stutters, giving me the most intense eye-fucking I’ve ever received. I’d be real creeped out if he wasn’t a little cute… Jesus, am I toxic?

Nah, the only real difference between creepy and cute is how attracted you are to each other. Think about it; If some random dude you thought was ugly showed up to your work one day with flowers, you’d be creeped out, maybe a little embarrassed! But if Channing Fucking Tatum showed up and did the same thing, you’d lose your shit! I’m not toxic, social structures are.

She’s real cool, she’s overrated. Real cool, sophisticated!

Lucas​

My recollection of last night is untrustworthy. I’m glad you can’t technically OD on weed because I would’ve been on the ground foaming at the mouth hours ago. It’s morning now, and I have to fight through the foggiest poo-brain I’ve ever received. Noted, no grass for a while, this shit sucks. Upon rolling out of bed, my feet are greeted with a smooth and cold sensation, the kind of smooth that makes you wanna slide across it with socks on but the kind of cold that makes you wanna curl back up under a blanket. It’s my floor!

“Hey! Haven’t seen you in a while buddy.” I exclaim, inspecting my room.

It seems, in his inebriated stupor, high Lucas decided to clean his room. All of my dirty laundry is folded up in the hamper and my modern art exhibit of trash is nowhere to be seen. I should really thank me by treating him to some breakfast… french toast perhaps.

“Coffee’s on the pot!” Bailey greets me as I walk into the kitchen.

Jessie is with him, twirling around the room on beat with the bright amalgamation of acoustic guitars and bongos resonating from the speaker on top of the fridge. The coffee pot is alluring me with all it’s might, and I answer the call with desperate furiosity. I come from a big coffee-fantatic family, and as a consequence, I'm pressured to prepare my cups in a very specific way or else I’ll face the wrath of my forefathers. In keeping with the superstition of breaking tradition, I sprinkle two tablespoons of sugar around the bottom of my mug, then I pour approximately three tablespoons of Hazelnut creamer atop of the sugar coating, and finally, the most critical part, I pour the coffee in a circular motion— This is to ensure that most of the drink itself mixes naturally as opposed to using a spoon.

Alright enough with the coffee “connoisseur” ramble, it’s just deeply ingrained in my head.

Molly​

Cellphone alarm clocks are the bane of my existence; The cheery ‘bing bongs’ make my skin crawl. What kind of sociopath thought that ‘happy-go-lucky’ chimes would go well with waking someone up. These ringtones have singlehandedly given me PTSD and now I have a miniature panic attack the second I hear even a hint of a goddamn xylophone in a song. I can’t tell what’s worse though, waking up to a psychotic use of happy instruments or the fact it’s just a harbinger of the doom that work is in thirty minutes. Whatever, time to get ready.

Steven is already out of bed, I can hear his shitty singing coming from the bathroom.

“I'm mindin' my business as God is my witness No weapon gon' prosper that's formin' against me” He sings off-key.

“Silence J-Cole, it’s way too early.” I demand silence as I collect my uniform off of the bathroom floor.

“What do ya’ mean, babe?” He quips as he sticks his head out from the shower, his bottom lip quivering. “You know my sick bars invigorate you--”

I interrupt him with a faceful of last night’s socks. He lets out an ‘Ack!’ before retreating back behind his Finding Nemo-themed curtain. Steven can be extremely childish, but it’s kinda charming. I mean who wants some straight-laced guy with beige or slate white shower curtains? The thought bores me too much to even think about it a second longer, I’ll accept his cartoon fishy-ness for a while longer.

“Alright, I’m off to work. I’ll probably be off at around three.” I put my toothbrush back into the cabinet and head to the door, but a cough stops me in my tracks.

Once again, sticking his head from behind the curtain is Steven. This time he has his lips puckered up in expectancy. Ugh, fine. I quickly hop over to him and place a peck on his lips before bidding adieu once more. Man, I don’t mean to sound grumpy but I’ve been on a sick one recently and it takes a while for me to feel normal while sober again.

It’s funny, I thought I came to this place to get sober.

4


​

Text/Thought/"Speech"

Spoiler: MOBILE FRIENDLY

This Memoir Will Destroy You;​

Molly​

Moving back to Indianapolis was supposed to be a fresh start — No more drugs, well, no hard ones anyways. Unfortunately, shit isn't always that simple. My Knight in Shining Armor’s chivalry was just a front, the red flags were there but they weren’t flown high enough for me to see… or perhaps I’ve just been subconsciously ignoring it to fulfill my fear of being alone.

Alone. What a concept. Billions of people in the world, and yet we few still feel isolated. "Few" is hopeful thinking, all of us feel alone; Somehow, the world is painfully small and empty to us in each of our skewed sights. What do you see when you look at someone? A pure stranger? An extension of yourself? Maybe you make comparisons of loved or lost ones; Maybe you see someone to cherish, to create an eventual relationship with? I tell you what I see; A random dude confessing his love to me.

“Love…” he stutters, giving me the most intense eye-fucking I’ve ever received. I’d be real creeped out if he wasn’t a little cute… Jesus, am I toxic?

Nah, the only real difference between creepy and cute is how attracted you are to each other. Think about it; If some random dude you thought was ugly showed up to your work one day with flowers, you’d be creeped out, maybe a little embarrassed! But if Channing Fucking Tatum showed up and did the same thing, you’d lose your shit! I’m not toxic, social structures are.

She’s real cool, she’s overrated. Real cool, sophisticated!

Lucas​

My recollection of last night is untrustworthy. I’m glad you can’t technically OD on weed because I would’ve been on the ground foaming at the mouth hours ago. It’s morning now, and I have to fight through the foggiest poo-brain I’ve ever received. Noted, no grass for a while, this shit sucks. Upon rolling out of bed, my feet are greeted with a smooth and cold sensation, the kind of smooth that makes you wanna slide across it with socks on but the kind of cold that makes you wanna curl back up under a blanket. It’s my floor!

“Hey! Haven’t seen you in a while buddy.” I exclaim, inspecting my room.

It seems, in his inebriated stupor, high Lucas decided to clean his room. All of my dirty laundry is folded up in the hamper and my modern art exhibit of trash is nowhere to be seen. I should really thank me by treating him to some breakfast… french toast perhaps.

“Coffee’s on the pot!” Bailey greets me as I walk into the kitchen.

Jessie is with him, twirling around the room on beat with the bright amalgamation of acoustic guitars and bongos resonating from the speaker on top of the fridge. The coffee pot is alluring me with all it’s might, and I answer the call with desperate furiosity. I come from a big coffee-fantatic family, and as a consequence, I'm pressured to prepare my cups in a very specific way or else I’ll face the wrath of my forefathers. In keeping with the superstition of breaking tradition, I sprinkle two tablespoons of sugar around the bottom of my mug, then I pour approximately three tablespoons of Hazelnut creamer atop of the sugar coating, and finally, the most critical part, I pour the coffee in a circular motion— This is to ensure that most of the drink itself mixes naturally as opposed to using a spoon.

Alright enough with the coffee “connoisseur” ramble, it’s just deeply ingrained in my head.

Molly​

Cellphone alarm clocks are the bane of my existence; The cheery ‘bing bongs’ make my skin crawl. What kind of sociopath thought that ‘happy-go-lucky’ chimes would go well with waking someone up. These ringtones have singlehandedly given me PTSD and now I have a miniature panic attack the second I hear even a hint of a goddamn xylophone in a song. I can’t tell what’s worse though, waking up to a psychotic use of happy instruments or the fact it’s just a harbinger of the doom that work is in thirty minutes. Whatever, time to get ready.

Steven is already out of bed, I can hear his shitty singing coming from the bathroom.

“I'm mindin' my business as God is my witness No weapon gon' prosper that's formin' against me” He sings off-key.

“Silence J-Cole, it’s way too early.” I demand silence as I collect my uniform off of the bathroom floor.

“What do ya’ mean, babe?” He quips as he sticks his head out from the shower, his bottom lip quivering. “You know my sick bars invigorate you--”

I interrupt him with a faceful of last night’s socks. He lets out an ‘Ack!’ before retreating back behind his Finding Nemo-themed curtain. Steven can be extremely childish, but it’s kinda charming. I mean who wants some straight-laced guy with beige or slate white shower curtains? The thought bores me too much to even think about it a second longer, I’ll accept his cartoon fishy-ness for a while longer.

“Alright, I’m off to work. I’ll probably be off at around three.” I put my toothbrush back into the cabinet and head to the door, but a cough stops me in my tracks.

Once again, sticking his head from behind the curtain is Steven. This time he has his lips puckered up in expectancy. Ugh, fine. I quickly hop over to him and place a peck on his lips before bidding adieu once more. Man, I don’t mean to sound grumpy but I’ve been on a sick one recently and it takes a while for me to feel normal while sober again.

It’s funny, I thought I came to this place to get sober.

4​

//i'm not too happy with this entry, I wrote this throughout the day and intended there to be more but things kept popping up and distracted me. there is better to come.//