The Lesser of Evils
Her friends
I miss the crackle of a drawn cigarette. In the mornings when I sip my coffee, I can hear it.
I can hear the echoes of every bad decision I've ever made. The smooth spill of chocolate wine in to my porcelain mug.
God, that tasted like shit.
I can hear the weight of my loaded cup when I carefully place it on top of my piano. Then I press her keys and sing
along to her woes.
A bunch of fucking howling dogs, we are.
I don't know what it is about mornings that plugs me in to the madness and all. My first thoughts when I wake up
are laden with god damn electricity. Not the good kind, either.
It's not a source of entertainment. It's a lighting bolt straight to the heart.
"Wake up, asshole. You've got some shadows to chase."
Well, thanks for the morning jolt, you son of a bitch. Couldn't wait for the coffee?
We're not very nice to each other. Myself and God. Or whatever that voice is.
It's probably just the part of me that longs for an institution. Or maybe it's the more enlightened part of
myself and that's why she's so vulgar. She doesn't bull shit me like I bull shit myself. "Get your shit together, (Name).
It's time to wake up. Be responsible and all that smooth jazz."
She's insane.
What does she expect? That I'm just going to pop out of bed, and open the blinds with a cute little spring in my step?
Does she just think I'll start singing songs with birds and shit? Unless there's 54 feet of snow piled up outside my
bedroom window, I'll never wake up in that kind of drunken bliss. Tell ya what, old friend. Let me die in my sleep tonight. Then tomorrow
morning, take the little pieces and start all over with me. You fucked up real good, so take a few more hours this time. Make sure
I can handle my liquor with my new body, and give me that shiny bright-lite thing that everyone else has in 'em.
If you don't mind me playing with the details, make me a red head too. Freckles, and all. Build me a bigger vessel, and make sure I'm
born in Canada. I don't know why, I just like the idea of growing up in the place. Those Nickelback douches seem like morons
but at least they sorta seem happy, too.
"Just wake up, ya prick."
Alright, here we go. One foot. Two feet. Now move.
My legs feel like logs.
I'm thinking, pre coffee which is a hell of a good sign, but my body is still dreaming...
Cuts to dream.
((((((( Day directs ))))))) -the dreams will be inserted later-
Cuts back to reality.
Oh fuck. What is that smell? "Well, let's put two and two together, shall we?"
I really don't have the patience for my imaginary whatever-the-fuck you are to be sarcastic, so could you please shut the hell up?
She's right, though. I must have been out of it for longer than I thought. There are dishes on my couch, and clothes
on the counter by my sink. My piano is coated in dust and the floor is covered in sploshes of paint. The walls are
painted with wine, and the trash bag is about a week flooded. I'm too afraid to look in the mirror, so I won't be checking
the bathroom. I'm still not sure what that smell is, but it reminds me of when I was a kid, and our sewage backed up and flooded our
trailer.
"So what are ya gonna do?"
I can't do this today. Not today.
I shoved all of the dishes off the couch, and in a single sweeping motion I was back to my body and dreaming.
((((( psychology dream))))))
I can hear the echoes of every bad decision I've ever made. The smooth spill of chocolate wine in to my porcelain mug.
God, that tasted like shit.
I can hear the weight of my loaded cup when I carefully place it on top of my piano. Then I press her keys and sing
along to her woes.
A bunch of fucking howling dogs, we are.
I don't know what it is about mornings that plugs me in to the madness and all. My first thoughts when I wake up
are laden with god damn electricity. Not the good kind, either.
It's not a source of entertainment. It's a lighting bolt straight to the heart.
"Wake up, asshole. You've got some shadows to chase."
Well, thanks for the morning jolt, you son of a bitch. Couldn't wait for the coffee?
We're not very nice to each other. Myself and God. Or whatever that voice is.
It's probably just the part of me that longs for an institution. Or maybe it's the more enlightened part of
myself and that's why she's so vulgar. She doesn't bull shit me like I bull shit myself. "Get your shit together, (Name).
It's time to wake up. Be responsible and all that smooth jazz."
She's insane.
What does she expect? That I'm just going to pop out of bed, and open the blinds with a cute little spring in my step?
Does she just think I'll start singing songs with birds and shit? Unless there's 54 feet of snow piled up outside my
bedroom window, I'll never wake up in that kind of drunken bliss. Tell ya what, old friend. Let me die in my sleep tonight. Then tomorrow
morning, take the little pieces and start all over with me. You fucked up real good, so take a few more hours this time. Make sure
I can handle my liquor with my new body, and give me that shiny bright-lite thing that everyone else has in 'em.
If you don't mind me playing with the details, make me a red head too. Freckles, and all. Build me a bigger vessel, and make sure I'm
born in Canada. I don't know why, I just like the idea of growing up in the place. Those Nickelback douches seem like morons
but at least they sorta seem happy, too.
"Just wake up, ya prick."
Alright, here we go. One foot. Two feet. Now move.
My legs feel like logs.
I'm thinking, pre coffee which is a hell of a good sign, but my body is still dreaming...
Cuts to dream.
((((((( Day directs ))))))) -the dreams will be inserted later-
Cuts back to reality.
Oh fuck. What is that smell? "Well, let's put two and two together, shall we?"
I really don't have the patience for my imaginary whatever-the-fuck you are to be sarcastic, so could you please shut the hell up?
She's right, though. I must have been out of it for longer than I thought. There are dishes on my couch, and clothes
on the counter by my sink. My piano is coated in dust and the floor is covered in sploshes of paint. The walls are
painted with wine, and the trash bag is about a week flooded. I'm too afraid to look in the mirror, so I won't be checking
the bathroom. I'm still not sure what that smell is, but it reminds me of when I was a kid, and our sewage backed up and flooded our
trailer.
"So what are ya gonna do?"
I can't do this today. Not today.
I shoved all of the dishes off the couch, and in a single sweeping motion I was back to my body and dreaming.
((((( psychology dream))))))
♠ ♠ ♠
The "dreams" will be added later. Some are translated from dream poems, some aren't. They are a part of the story, but are mostly dialogue and will be done with art panels, and put in separate chapters.