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  © 2019 Tabitha Cornell. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  ISBN 978-1-54396-202-4 eBook 978-1-54396-203-1

  This book is dedicated to those who feel lost in the chaos

  To those who wander in their own darkness

  for the next answer to the next question

  To the people whom seemingly have it all

  but really have less than nothing

  Contents

  Passion

  Mark

  Anxiety

  Janny

  Sex

  Adam

  Loss

  Mark

  Bliss

  Janny

  Family

  Adam

  Hunger

  Janny

  Freedom

  Adam

  Blame

  Mark

  Money

  Adam

  Words

  Janny

  Substances

  Mark

  Law

  Adam

  Time

  Janny

  Secrets

  Mark

  Darkness

  Janny

  Sex

  Mark

  High

  Adam

  Liquor Courage

  Mark

  Decisions

  Janny

  Why?

  Mark

  The End

  Passion

  Do we have a choice?

  Do we have a say in what we love?

  Passion is a gift given to us in the form of need.

  A want for something more.

  A representation of our self.

  A change of time can change our mind.

  Leading us to oblivion, unknowing the path ahead.

  It can lose us if it chooses us.

  Entwined in our veins, it leads the way.

  To cross the line.

  What once you thought, might now be.

  Wants of yesterday have turned to need.

  Pieces fall and touch is gone.

  Pleasure remains but in a different light.

  The warnings go unheard.

  You continue to look the other way.

  Judgment day is near, keep your head low.

  It’s my secret, my passion.

  What’s your poison?

  Mark

  My rugged exterior can oftentimes be off-putting to the opposite sex. I refuse to comb my hair more than once a day, and to be quite honest, it’s lucky if it gets that much kindness from me. I find the five o’clock shadow to be a clad look. (Not really, but I undeniably hate shaving. It’s a waste of my precious time and liveliness, and to be quite honest I just plain don’t care.)

  I find the reactions comical when people find out that I am a college professor. I’ve learned that people have a preconceived view that educators of higher learning are masters in the game of life. They generally appear to have their lives figured out and commonly have a lot going for them. College-level educators give the idea that they are elite in their own universe. The men generally wear modest and clean clothing, often resembling a dumbed-down sweater or tie-shirt combo. They spend much time reading and researching their chosen realm. They also tend to know a lot of vast words in which they use often without caring if anyone else knows what they are really talking about.

  The most defining characteristic I notice in this clique is their voracious passion. They have a deep lust for what they are teaching to the world. They humbly find amorous amounts of joy in it. This passion is the only thing I have in common with these people. Every other stereotype you’ve heard is far from the reality that I live in.

  Eleven thousand five hundred thirty-eight. If you were to count from 1 to 11,538, it would take approximately 1 hour, 36 minutes, and 9 seconds. The sum of the digits is 18. The Roman numeral for 11,538 is written as MMMMMMMMMMMDXXXVIII. 11,538 seconds can be reduced to 3 hours, 12 minutes, and 18 seconds.

  I’m a numbers man—always have been and always will be. Ever since I can remember, my thought processes have revolved around numbers. How many steps from point A to point B? 11,538 steps is the answer today. It has taken 11,538 steps for me to get to this exact location. From the moment I stepped off my bed, I have subconsciously monitored each step I’ve taken. I guess I can say the same for each calorie I’ve ingested since this morning. I’m not OCD or anything; I know there is no way to calculate these numbers with 100 percent accuracy. They are an approximation that I tally within my mind, and I’m okay with that. With my approximation, I can calculate calories burned by steps versus calories ingested by food. I can evaluate this data to conclude if I’m going to be a fatty when I wake up the next morning.

  For some reason, my brain thrives on numbers. It’s like dancing—your body moves to the flow of the music without thinking about it. My brain gets it. It only makes sense that I base my occupation off my aptitude to interpret and manage numerical data. This is what I’m respectable at. It might be the only thing that I’m good at. I tell myself this every single day.

  Do I consider my body to be a sanctuary? No.

  Do I prefer to see the optimistic in life? No.

  Do I know how to fuck my wife right? Apparently not.

  Could I have prevented my son from dying? Perhaps.

  The only thing I want more in this world right now is to get my ass back to my office—I’ve been longing for hours to see my best friend. Even though we get to visit on a regular basis, he’s the highlight of my day. He keeps me from falling off my rocker. Okay, maybe that’s not completely true, but he’s been there for me when no one else has. He’s talked me through some miserable dark times on more than one occasion. In fact, just the other day I had a moment where I felt screwed over once again in this world. He was there and he shut that shit down real quick.

  We first met in high school, and it was a match made in heaven. Through the years we have kept in contact. Sometimes we will talk daily, and other times we go months without hearing from each other. Every time we reconnect after those long periods, it’s as if time never left us. These past many months we have been tighter than ever before.

  388 steps later, I can see the intricately carved wood door with my name printed across the glass in gold ink. Associate Professor of Mathematics Mr. Marcus Hutchins. I have always hated the name Marcus. It’s a stupid fucking name. I remind myself to get the name changed on the door at some point soon. Until then, I’ll only answer to “Mark.” I slide my badge through the scanner and enter my closet of an office. There sits my oversized desk, a pricey office chair, and a fold-up chair for students to use during meetings. There is a small horizontal window to the left of the entrance door through which you can see only the sky and surrounding tall buildings in the distance. I toss my bag and files on the floor behind the desk. I open the top drawer of my desk where Admiral Nelson awaits me, my best friend.

  I take a couple swigs of the Admiral. 138 calories. I’ll have to take 2,760 steps to burn those 138 calories. As I sit and make my calculations, I notice the smell of incense and cat piss. There is only one person I know with that distinct odor—Jeffery Binner.

  That poor unfortunate bastard fell right into my grasp on the second day of class this semester. I’ll be the first to admit that I like our little arrangement. You see, it was all by chance that Mr. Jeffery sat down in the front row of my lecture one sour Monday morning. He appeared to be genuinely interested in my teachings, but his vibe was
a different story. He seemed distracted in a sense. He stood out expressively from the other students in the room. He was slightly disheveled and wore a wrinkled black-band shirt and oversized blue jeans. It looked as if he had just finished a quickie in the back seat of his presumable 2004 Buick Century. Lucky shit; at least one of us was getting some pussy.

  I noticed him reach into his pocket and pull out a cell phone. It all made sense when I saw that baggie of weed fall from his pocket onto the classroom floor. He recognized what had happened and looked me straight in the eye to see if I noticed. I did notice. I stared right back at him while I continued my message on obtuse triangles. I purposefully darted my eyes between him and the baggie. I wanted him to know that I was aware of the marijuana that was so cutely sedentary on the floor in front of us both. He knew that if he were to stand up from his table to snatch that baggie, the entire student body would have seen it. If that were to happen, he and I both would be obligated to deal with the situation. He played it smart and left it on the floor. No one even knew the difference. Watching this kid silently freak out in his head for the remaining 48 minutes of class was priceless. Does this make me a tormenter? Maybe. I’ve been called worse.

  After 48 minutes, I dismissed class for the day. Jeffery didn’t bother moving; he knew he was busted. I strolled near his desk and scooped up the cellophane plastic that contained the weed. I examined it for a few seconds before deciding that this is exactly what I desired in my life today. I put it in my pocket and glanced at Jeffery.

  “Finders keepers,” I said with a grin.

  He nodded without hesitation. He knew that I was letting him off without repercussions. He stood up and left the room without as much as a word. It turns out that Mr. Jeffery is not all that great when it comes to math. After some less than favorable test scores, he was hasty to ask for another courtesy. So, we came to an agreement. In exchange for passable grades, little Jeffery stops by my office once a week to rejuvenate my weed supply. I’ve hooked him up with a keycard to my office to come and go when he has some decent stash to share.

  With his odor still lingering in the office I know I’ve just missed him, probably by minutes. I open my bottom desk drawer and pull forward the files and other miscellaneous junk. I feel with my fingertips for something, anything. There it is. I pull out a plastic bag from his usual drop-off spot in the back-right corner of the drawer. I open it and take a whiff of the contents. The skunky aroma fills my nostrils, and I detect a hint of orange. My favorite! I’ve taken it upon myself to call this treat, the green dream.

  I toss the green dream into my bag and take two more swigs from the depleted Admiral bottle. I exit the closet and head for fresh air—202 steps if I take the elevator. I pick the stairs at the last minute. On my lengthy drive home, I decide to stop at Joni’s Cheese and Liquor to stock up on some brew. Tonight, I make a brave move. I choose to cheat on the Admiral and enjoy the succulent flavor of some decent whisky. Crown Royal to be exact. For reasons unknown, it sounds respectable. Besides, it’s a special occasion today.

  Anxiety

  You will never know until it’s departed and left.

  A brick of weight that hovers in your torso.

  Disregard it. Escape it. Impossible, it appears.

  Now and then you know, take a moment to prepare.

  Generally unprotecting, it leaves no mercy.

  There’s no chance for existence here.

  Whom you remain, it doesn’t care.

  No matter how, you ensure your best.

  A sheet of cover so you can hide.

  Yell into the threads just to feel alive.

  Stand awake, put on your face.

  No one suspects, not even a hint.

  You are the expert with breathing the less.

  The worst you never see, holding back is real.

  Abandon the date, he might appear.

  You persuade yourself it’s healthier to be harmless than sorry.

  There’s no getting used to the constriction.

  Who’s your master?

  Janny

  As I sit in my car, in an almost empty parking lot, I think to myself, Is today going to be the day? The day I have been fighting back this whole time? Is today going to be the day I finally snap and completely lose my shit? Will I bust at the seams and let the real Janny pour out onto the floor like green toxic sludge for everyone to see? Will today be the day I go home and take the bottle of pills?

  I just never know.

  That’s what makes me so crazy in my head sometimes. I feel like I never know anything about anything, and it kills me. I feel like I’m just barely sliding by, day to day. I don’t believe life is supposed to be this hard.

  Yet, here I am, giving myself another pep talk. Trying to muster the courage, the motivation, to put my hand on the door handle and open the car door. To put my left, then my right foot onto the pavement. To slide my bulky body off the seat of the car into a standing position. To take those dreaded heavy steps into the building. To attempt to thrive in a place where I spend most of my precious life. For what? So I can get a paycheck and not be a homeless fat person? So I can call myself an honest working citizen that doesn’t live off the government like so many folks do?

  Pretty much.

  It would be much easier to leave my everyday life, to check out of realism for a while. So why don’t I choose to be one more statistic? Why don’t I live off the government, get the free health care, and never work again? Because—I was raised right and I believe I need to do my part in civilization to make my own authentic living. Even if it literally kills me inside.

  It’s not as if my job is tough or anything. I work in a clothing store for fuck’s sake. It’s the upscale customers that I have to cater to on a day-to-day basis that drains me mentally. Any occupation dealing with customer service is out-and-out repulsive to me. However, I only have a high-school level education, so my selections are very limited as far as careers are concerned.

  My official job label is fashion assistant, but I like to think of myself as a spending assistant. I make most of my earnings from commission and client tips, so the fashion assistant label sounds more reputable. The philosophy is, the more money the customers spend, the more money in my pocket at the close of the day. I was recently promoted to assistant manager yesterday. I believe it’s safe to say I’m decent at what I do, and I’m proud of it.

  I glance at my watch and realize I’m three minutes late for my shift and I’m still sitting in the parking lot. Okay, time for a pep talk.

  I got this. I need to put in my eight hours today so I can spend the rest of my evening at home, which is where I really want to be. I’m going to make the best of it today. Don’t forget to smile, because I am a mega-star. By mega-star I mean remarkable and awesome. I was promoted because I deserve it. Don’t second guess yourself. Don’t let my team regret their choice to hire me up. Be a team player. Most notably, be friendly with every person. I need to do what I need to do to get through this day. I think I’m ready. Let’s go! Open the door.

  The feeling comes over my body—I don’t want to do this. Another day of work sounds treacherous to me. I don’t want to be here. I want to be home in my safe spot. I want to be in my pajamas, cuddling with my fuzzy blanket and eating my favorite munchies. It takes every ounce of persuasion for me to not start the car and drive away forever. I force myself to get out of the vehicle and start walking.

  I open the front door of the store, and the smell of new denim hits me hard in the face. I forgot that today we start our fall clothing line. I have been enthusiastic for the new merchandise to be released in the store. It qualms me that it slipped my mind until now. New products in the store mean I get to go shopping for myself! The best part of my job is that I get a 40 percent markdown on everything in the store. My company requires me to wear clothing from their brand while I’m working. Each employee is allowed a generous budget for our own personal use. Anything beyond the budget is employee-discount worthy.
I do love the fact that this boutique has attractive apparel in extended sizes. Many fashionable clothing stores only go up to a size XL, which usually fits like a medium size anyway.

  Even wearing agreeable clothes for eight hours a day, I’m still uncomfortable in my oversized figure. My frame doesn’t fit many of these clothes properly, and it makes me look bumpier than I really am. When I feel bumpy, I get pissy. I guess it’s safe to say I’m pissy a lot these days—more than the average 23-year-old woman should be, in my opinion.

  It’s hard to find decent clothes for a body that is bigger than God intended. I need a top that’s going to tighten at my chest so I can bring more attention to my breasts. It still has to be able to conceal my horrid arm fat and be loose enough to flow over my muffin top and jellylike rolls. Most importantly, it has to be long enough, so when I bend over, the stretch marks on my back aren’t exposed. This is a lot of pressure to put on one shirt! Don’t even get me started on jeans. It would be a miracle to find a decent pair of jeans that could live up to my overrated standards.

  Today I’m working with Lucy and Sherry. Lucy is a young blonde gal who is 18 or 19 if I had to speculate. She reminds me of that bouncy cheerleader girl in high school that all girls loath but secretly desired to be. Perky people make me sick. How can people be perky all the time? It’s not logical. I have to try very hard to act like that, and even then, I know it’s all forged. Eventually, my act shows truth and I’m revealed, leaving me to hate her even more than before. She annoys the crap out of me, probably because she is pretty and I’m not. She does her hair and makeup everyday like she’s going clubbing and hitting up an afternoon porno shoot. Who honestly has time to wash, dry, and curl their hair every morning and apply what appears to be 16 layers of makeup? Not me, that’s for sure.

  I look at people like Lucy and it makes me feel miserable about myself. I know that sounds absurd, but it’s true. She looks like she puts too much determination into herself. I wonder why. Is she hiding from something? Is she trying to cover up who she really is? I don’t have the patience for makeup and hair. As I watch Lucy, I begin to wonder what my life would be like if I were thin and polished like her. Would I be happier? Would I have a hot husband? Would people want to be just like me? I begin to feel bad for thinking these things about Lucy. She is actually a very nice person with an attractive personality. She has been nothing but kind toward me in all the months we’ve worked together. Deep down, I still hate her for reasons I don’t fully understand. I’m a horrible person, I know.