The Things I Couldn't Say to You In Person

It took him less than an hour to push out another story, another poem, hell, another drunken ramble and they ate it up. Thanks to the 21st century, his babble hit the masses within seconds. He could see them all sitting in front of their blue screens, hitting the refresh button, waiting.

They all knew it was coming, nothing was a secret. He put his life up there for everyone to see. Tweets, status updates, video rants. Part of him did it for them, it helped keep them away. Soaking up all this generic bullshit made them all feel like his best friend. He worked harder at that then the blank page.

The other part did it because he was drunk.

What idiots he thought. "They wonder where I get this stuff, why I do it. Can't they see? All they have to do is take off the gloves and not give a flying fuck what anyone else thinks."

The reviews were coming in now. Most were the same. "You're the greatest thing since Hemingway!" He hated that, being compared to Hemingway, or Bukowski, or Hank Moody. He respected them all, even the one that wasn't real. Yet, he didn't like to think that he was embodying these people, it was more like he was heading down the same slippery slope they all traveled before him. Fuck, people could be dumb, he laughed to himself.

Then he saw the note from his mother, "I hope you are ok."

FUCK FUCK FUCK! She shouldn't see this, he thought. The acquaintances, "friends," co workers, fan boys, young lady admirers, sure they could read all they want, but his mother; there was no reason for her to see how fucked up his life was. That was why he escaped home in the first place.

It got to him more and more when he saw the comments from the girls asking to see him, and the girls asking to see him again. He had disappointed his mother. Her friends and coworkers saw this shit and he was sure that bothered her as well. Hell, he fucked a few of them and they hinted to that shit when in the messages they left him.

He got up and grabbed his phone and a beer. He had to tell her he was ok, he couldn't apologize for everything, but he could give her some peace of mind. That would be enough.

As he looked through his phone for his mother's number someone knocked at the door. "SHIT!" he yelled. It was Cindy, he forgot she was coming today.

He let her in and they talked for awhile and after a few drinks they moved to the bedroom. Same old play, different cast. He had beer, a place to stay, food in the fridge, and a young woman of 19 laying naked in his bed. His latest story was a hit. It was all he wanted out of life and he was happy.

He regretted never calling his mother, though. Part of it was because he loved her. The other part was because he was drunk.







there's no F'in christmas!

you're right mom. there is no f in christmas. :)