15.9.09

the incident ii

It has been a couple of weeks since the last time I wrote something on this brand new Hewlett-Packard that will soon be sold. My doctor, who I see every week at least once, was not happy about it, although she told me she would not force me to do anything. I have been busy doing nothing. I still choose WAL-MART over a full night's sleep, I still choose drinking and smoking with my father over talking to him, I still choose Jane, Bill, and Shanecca over everyone else.

I went to the water park with my friends. Bill is skinny but fit. He used to be a runner in high school. He never went to college. He hates his father, who lives with a Cuban girlfriend somewhere in Atlanta, and visits his mother's grave the first Tuesday of every month. After going to the water park I learned also that he likes speedos as much as briefs, and he hates boxers as much as board shorts.

Shanecca is fat. She is also beautiful. She could work for a plus size modeling agency and be in women's clothing catalogs. Even though she works at Wal-Mart she buys all his clothes at Target. She does not know how to swim, but she still enjoys the water park as much as children do, or so I guessed.

Jane is neither tall nor short, neither fat nor thin, neither blonde nor brunette, but she is really pretty on an average kind of way. She drives a very old car and has seventeen different lava lamps at home. After the water park we went over to her place to watch a movie and have a beer. We watched Casablanca, which is supposed to be a classic. I, personally, dislike everything from Casablanca but the ending. Although I only like it because of how it makes me feel I wish it was different. I felt sad after watching the movie. Her tiny smiling eyes again. And silence. I spaced out, and only after Bill punched me in the stomach realized that Jane had been asking me if I wanted another Guiness for almost a minute. Of course, yes.

My father read my first writing. He did not like it. Too childish, he thinks. According to him, before the incident I was able to actually draw feelings. He liked how deep I was able to reach without trying. You were a bittersweet, yet happy soul, he told me after a long silence filled with two beers and seven cigarettes. But then you fell in love with her. I do not know what he meant, and did not want to ask. I am afraid of remembering things I am not ready to, although my doctor says that is unlikely to happen. She says I might start remembering things from before the incident one piece at a time and will actually need to piece them together to make sense of them. She knows about the incident, she has told me about it. I only know because of her. What neither of us really know is what happens before.

I will try to write sooner next time. I am not feeling well today. I have described my friends better, though. I do not know if I should call them my friends, just yet. Sometimes I wish I could contact those who once thought they were my friends, they might be helpful. But then again, I don't not know if I want their help. I am afraid. I am going to the restroom now, I need to refresh my butt.