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"My arm is stinging.

 

It’s a fairly deep scrape, just below the elbow. Inner arm. Blood trickles down and stains my jeans.

 

Shit. Ma ain’t gonna like that.

 

I was in such a good mood today. It made me careless. I ran and lunged into the tree; I didn’t even notice the broken branch until it tore into my skin.

 

Shit." 

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     My dad raised me to be a saver. Some of my fondest childhood memories involve rolling change together on rainy Sunday afternoons. When I scored my first preteen babysitting gig, my Dad helped me open a savings account where I socked away half of everything I earned. I kept a big jar on my nightstand where I collected all my loose change — my first ever travel fund. Even though my parents were unable to help me much financially, I dreamt of pursuing an English degree and becoming a teacher. I qualified for scholarships and bursaries but still had to take out student loans to cover most of the cost of my books and tuition. I diligently kept a part-time job during the school year and typically worked at least two jobs during summer vacations. Every spare cent I made I tucked into my savings account to put towards my student loans when I graduated...

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My Dearest Diary,

 

How do I even begin to apologize for my boorish behaviour? To suggest that I don’t need you, would be better off without you, when your presence has been the only thing to keep me whole these past few years. I was more beast than man, and I cannot begin to plunge the depths of my mere mortal soul for an adequate apology. I shall simply say that I was wrong...

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"There it is!

On the periphery,

in the ether,

pulsing gently in all the world’s liminal spaces –

 

The other world."

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Okay, so I can’t be the only person who does this: You are simply minding your own business, enjoying your day, when BAM! — out of nowhere, a long-buried memory of something stupid you once said resurfaces, and you can’t help but cringe. Hard. I have a few, but there is one memory in particular that, to this day, still makes me blush with shame...

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“The evening air hung heavy with wisps of pervasive fog so that one might not have noticed the emaciated spectre haunting the catacombs if it weren’t for the dim glow from the cigarette.”

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That’s what someone might think if they saw me in the cemetery tonight. It’s important that I think about myself this way. I’m an artist, so it’s all about the visuals. I replay this sentence over as I make my way amongst the lesser tombstones to the site of my impending triumph, taking a long drag from my cigarette. I, of course, had begrudgingly switched to a vape pen when concerns about lung cancer had become en vogue, but there is nothing like the real fucking deal when your adrenaline is pumping and your mind racing. Though, and I would never admit this out loud, I do miss the perky scent of mango that my vape would have afforded me...