Status: two students with procrastinating issues, you guess the status.
With a Little Help from My Friends
Lonesome Town.
There’s no more clapping, no voices shrieking my name. The blinding lights are off, and still, a bright white orb obscures my sight. I walk around in a daze. All I can account for the last couple of months is a headache and jet lag. My ‘friends’ call me the second I land, drawing near like vermin to stale food; left out in the cold, alone and rotting. I’ve been abandoned.
‘Party, party, party!’ They chant. No ‘Welcome back’ for me. Let’s get straight to business.
I watch as strangers flood through my empty home, each one greeting me with a clap on the back as if our histories had begun more than a minute back. They drink and smile and laugh, and fornicate in my unfurnished rooms. I walk through my house and see strangers tearing it apart. Some stop to take my picture. My scowl deepens with each snap and flash.
I cannot last a night without being surrounded by people. But I’m miserable.
They lay sprawled, half drunk and disoriented, spent from a night of mindless recklessness. These punks have said goodbye to their livers long ago. They forget my name, and who I am, and where they are. Dawn breaks, and they slowly scatter in stumbling droves. The house is empty once more.
I need space.
I lock the door behind me and lumber back into an empty room. The morning light pours in though the blinds, kissing my cheek as I lay myself on the smooth, hardwood floor. The sun warms me through. Sleep floods into my brain.
* * *
Here comes another shitty day… or night, I would think. I don’t quite know what time it is, or what day it is. My phone lies dead beside me. It never did me any good anyway; it was a connection to all the superficial fucks who trashed my house - their personal party service: Ryan Ross. That’s what I am.
I’m so tired of partying.
It was great at first. Fucking awesome. But one gets tired of the same thing, just as anyone else would. Faces would seem the same, the same music would blast from the same speakers, the same crowd would dance and drink to their wits’ end from dusk ‘till dawn. And they all come back the next day for another round. What’s weird is that we humans find safety in repetition, and yet we snap when we’ve had a little too much, or not enough. We’re a fickle bunch. Or maybe I’m just the fickle one.
That’d be me. There’s always something wrong with me – my lyrics would be a testament to that.
What the fuck was I thinking, anyway? I wasn’t even thinking. I was… I was something else.
I pull off my crumpled clothes and rifle through my suitcase for something decent to wear. When I finally do venture out, I realise that the contents of my stomach are comprised of vodka shots and juice.
The night air stings a bit, but that’s okay. It feels good as it fills my lungs and leaves me in misty white jets. I’d forgotten how cold LA could get at night. Call me stupid, but the cold reminded me that I am, in fact, alive and kicking. Better to feel the harsh sting of reality, than nothing at all, right?
‘Must move on,’ I tell myself, my stomach growling in concurrence. ‘Shut up, you.’
Why am I talking to my stomach? I’m going insane already.
The guys would probably laugh at me. They’re always laughing at me, especially Spencer. He always took care of me, always laughed at my pathetic attempts to care for myself. I wonder what he’s doing right now… probably making himself cosy in his little cabin, taking care of himself. That selfish fuck.
The first thing I see is a taco stand, illuminated underneath the yellow glow of a lone streetlight. Warm steam escapes from the blocky metal cart. There isn’t a long line, and it takes no time at all to fill a paper plate with something that looked like an abomination, but tasted like I died and went to Mexican heaven.
I wander some more. I eat some more. Take some sips out of my bottle of soda and enjoy the crisp air and the scummy vibe of the night. This was the backend of town, and believe it or not, I couldn’t find a proper place yet – the ex-crack den I now claim as my own is only a rental. I’d dropped out of college just to tour the world, and I’d come back from my whirlwind adventures a little bit richer, a little bit older, a little bit bitter. A lot more lonely.
Just around the corner from my house is a row ofprostitutes sex workers. The first approaches me, but not without giving a vulgar squeeze of her breasts. I guess that was supposed to seem sexy, but I couldn’t get past the fluorescent purple wig she was wearing. I didn’t know why I didn’t just turn around and go back. I felt like a moth, drawn to her neon hair. It had been so long since I’d seen a woman. Not a girl, a woman. A real woman, with real curves, and a real grasp of the world. All I’d seen for the last couple of years were girls. Little girls who wanted me; regardless, getting with one of them would theoretically be like fucking my own baby sister – if I had one.
“Hey honey,” She calls out. “A little bit past your bedtime, isn’t it?”
I laugh at her, tossing my empty soda bottle into the street. The others ladies watch on with curiosity from their posts along the street.
“Hon?” She repeats, in a silky sweet voice, the distance between us gradually shortening.
“I’m not a child,” I correct her.
She smiles, licking her lips, “Baby, you can be whatever you wanna be.” I can smell the tobacco and breath mints on her now. “I can be whatever you want me to be.”
“…for a price, baby boy.” She gingerly places her hand on my shoulder. The fuck-me pumps she’s wearing make her considerably taller, and the matching purple tips of her nails make her hand look like a talon. She was the predator, and I was her prey.
This time, I smile. Ryan Ross, you scoundrel.
‘Party, party, party!’ They chant. No ‘Welcome back’ for me. Let’s get straight to business.
I watch as strangers flood through my empty home, each one greeting me with a clap on the back as if our histories had begun more than a minute back. They drink and smile and laugh, and fornicate in my unfurnished rooms. I walk through my house and see strangers tearing it apart. Some stop to take my picture. My scowl deepens with each snap and flash.
I cannot last a night without being surrounded by people. But I’m miserable.
They lay sprawled, half drunk and disoriented, spent from a night of mindless recklessness. These punks have said goodbye to their livers long ago. They forget my name, and who I am, and where they are. Dawn breaks, and they slowly scatter in stumbling droves. The house is empty once more.
I need space.
I lock the door behind me and lumber back into an empty room. The morning light pours in though the blinds, kissing my cheek as I lay myself on the smooth, hardwood floor. The sun warms me through. Sleep floods into my brain.
* * *
Here comes another shitty day… or night, I would think. I don’t quite know what time it is, or what day it is. My phone lies dead beside me. It never did me any good anyway; it was a connection to all the superficial fucks who trashed my house - their personal party service: Ryan Ross. That’s what I am.
I’m so tired of partying.
It was great at first. Fucking awesome. But one gets tired of the same thing, just as anyone else would. Faces would seem the same, the same music would blast from the same speakers, the same crowd would dance and drink to their wits’ end from dusk ‘till dawn. And they all come back the next day for another round. What’s weird is that we humans find safety in repetition, and yet we snap when we’ve had a little too much, or not enough. We’re a fickle bunch. Or maybe I’m just the fickle one.
That’d be me. There’s always something wrong with me – my lyrics would be a testament to that.
What the fuck was I thinking, anyway? I wasn’t even thinking. I was… I was something else.
I pull off my crumpled clothes and rifle through my suitcase for something decent to wear. When I finally do venture out, I realise that the contents of my stomach are comprised of vodka shots and juice.
The night air stings a bit, but that’s okay. It feels good as it fills my lungs and leaves me in misty white jets. I’d forgotten how cold LA could get at night. Call me stupid, but the cold reminded me that I am, in fact, alive and kicking. Better to feel the harsh sting of reality, than nothing at all, right?
‘Must move on,’ I tell myself, my stomach growling in concurrence. ‘Shut up, you.’
Why am I talking to my stomach? I’m going insane already.
The guys would probably laugh at me. They’re always laughing at me, especially Spencer. He always took care of me, always laughed at my pathetic attempts to care for myself. I wonder what he’s doing right now… probably making himself cosy in his little cabin, taking care of himself. That selfish fuck.
The first thing I see is a taco stand, illuminated underneath the yellow glow of a lone streetlight. Warm steam escapes from the blocky metal cart. There isn’t a long line, and it takes no time at all to fill a paper plate with something that looked like an abomination, but tasted like I died and went to Mexican heaven.
I wander some more. I eat some more. Take some sips out of my bottle of soda and enjoy the crisp air and the scummy vibe of the night. This was the backend of town, and believe it or not, I couldn’t find a proper place yet – the ex-crack den I now claim as my own is only a rental. I’d dropped out of college just to tour the world, and I’d come back from my whirlwind adventures a little bit richer, a little bit older, a little bit bitter. A lot more lonely.
Just around the corner from my house is a row ofprostitutes sex workers. The first approaches me, but not without giving a vulgar squeeze of her breasts. I guess that was supposed to seem sexy, but I couldn’t get past the fluorescent purple wig she was wearing. I didn’t know why I didn’t just turn around and go back. I felt like a moth, drawn to her neon hair. It had been so long since I’d seen a woman. Not a girl, a woman. A real woman, with real curves, and a real grasp of the world. All I’d seen for the last couple of years were girls. Little girls who wanted me; regardless, getting with one of them would theoretically be like fucking my own baby sister – if I had one.
“Hey honey,” She calls out. “A little bit past your bedtime, isn’t it?”
I laugh at her, tossing my empty soda bottle into the street. The others ladies watch on with curiosity from their posts along the street.
“Hon?” She repeats, in a silky sweet voice, the distance between us gradually shortening.
“I’m not a child,” I correct her.
She smiles, licking her lips, “Baby, you can be whatever you wanna be.” I can smell the tobacco and breath mints on her now. “I can be whatever you want me to be.”
“…for a price, baby boy.” She gingerly places her hand on my shoulder. The fuck-me pumps she’s wearing make her considerably taller, and the matching purple tips of her nails make her hand look like a talon. She was the predator, and I was her prey.
This time, I smile. Ryan Ross, you scoundrel.