Wednesday, 29 June 2011


The sky is a rainbow white

Let me take the thorns and pierce my fingertips

Let the blood be sugar

I kept looking at the church

As if I’d fall

The suicides and homicides describes

All changeable as varnish

And the ghost

Hear me ror

Sunday, 26 June 2011

Exit. Chapter 7

I regret the fact that I don’t have my hat on, but I pull it on quickly as he makes his way to the mirror. He tilts his head sideways avoiding eye contact with me, as he pulls his head by his chin to the other side, his eyes most likely fixed on his high cheekbones. Then he looks back at the mirror leaning his hands against the sink, crossing his legs. His teal eyes catch my dark ones for a second, before he leans his head backwards staring at the ceiling for a brief second.

“Hey.” A conversation in the girl’s bathroom? I could actually eye him, but I do nothing as I keep brushing my teeth, ignoring him as if I have my headphones. I keep my pajamas’ sleeves down as the scribbles are faded out but still could be seen. That would actually happen if he actually took it and his eyes were as pale as the scribbles, his teal eyes running from the end of my palm up to my elbow.

I wonder if I should give him a ‘dude, did you see the sign on the door or the signs on the walls or the freaking pink paint?’ or rather say it out loud. But I do nothing. I spit out the minty water, looking at the sink feeling his gaze upon me. I look at him quickly, feeling uneasy, as he looks down then back up.

I expect him to place his palms under his chin or shrug say ‘suit yourself’ and walk away.
Or rather I expect Leslie to walk in, grab him by the collar, despite my lack of interest in violence.

Nothing like that happens. I raise my fingers to tap the sink in annoyance but then I get my whole self in a knot and open to mouth something as he waits for my reaction.

“Hey.” I say that aloud, as he smiles at my reaction. Then satisfied he leans back from the sink, stuffing his hands in his pockets smirking at a joke in his head. Should I be cold? Should I stare into his eyes trying to make myself seem like an ice queen? Should I hold myself from showing interest?

Not like I liked the teal eyed taller male in front of me, as he hesitated for a while, plunging his hands deeper and deeper into his pockets as if they could fade away along with him, from crawling to the staircase and into his floor.

Why could I not show my emotions ever? What was wrong with trailing your fingers upon the face, touching the cheekbones, running your thumb upon the bottom lip, planting kisses all over? Why was the fate like that when we had to keep the bursting emotion inside us, hiding any possibility on the outside? Why the longer we kept cold the longer would it last? Why were we told this is how it works when it doesn't?

I splashed more water on face, hiding the question playing on my lips. I didn’t know him. I had never seen him before, as if he was a mirage. I wanted to stretch out my hand as see if he was real, knowing that maybe he was a grade older.


He looked older.

Maybe he was one of the teachers only looking all child-like? No. Why would a teacher be stalking girls in a bathroom?

Are you stalker? That question was playing on my lips, as I felt his gaze, as he leaned against the wall. I washed it off with colder water, as drops wet the tips of my sleeves and soaked the front bangs of hair, as the drops travelled down my neck. I rub them off with my towel, as he struggled with some sort of sentence stuck on his lips.

“What’s your name?”

“What’s yours?”

I had no possibility of muting him out unless I did something cheesy which was not in my intention, though I caught myself glancing at his lips for a brief question. He chuckled at my reaction and said nothing. He quickly shook his head at the door, leaning from the wall, rocking on his heels twice before heading towards the door.

Should I say g’bye?

What if he was some outsider who broke in to steal? I looked at his walking off back and saw no signs of robbery, well, noticeable ones and his face didn’t seem like the ones you saw in the news with ‘I robbed, what’s your problem, oi?’

“See you.”

Indeed. Right.

I struggled, not hearing any sign of a closing door, knowing that he was expecting an answer straight from my own mouth, not from my iPod coded by music or said out loud by somebody else. I tapped my fingers against the sink. I walked leaving my toothbrush and everything else near the sink.

“Right. Sure.” I said not sounding sure. He turned his head, smirked and walked out, giving me a sudden desire to mute out the thoughts of our brief encounter.


This should be my most reread scene, as I love them way too much and this scene in particular. The idea for this scene came as I walked into the girl's bathroom and a guy was in it, who just apologized and exited. I don't even remember who it was, but I guess I remembered it as I was writing the scene.

(2015): This scene and the whole novel and the bloke were based off Thom Yorke in the High and Dry video, remember the bathroom scene?

Chapter 8

Exit. Chapter 6

He beams at me, taking out his player. He puts on a headphone, but then hesitates and puts it back into his pocket turning it off, looking at me for a second as I realize how intense my stare must be. I apologize and look down, wondering if the wires of my player are mine or not, if someone had eaten the rest as if they were toys which are meant to be destroyed or eaten or puked out. Because all of a sudden they feel foreign and useless. Sell me, baby. I can feel Jonny digging his fingers deeper into my neck, my scalp, leaning nearly pressing his mouth against my ear, whispering slowly and hinting it with his warning look. Fuck me, now. Take me away before I vomit on the reality I’m given.

“Return back to reality.” By reality he means to his, where we have two kids, waiting at home, fame, royalty, no paparazzi, chickens waking us up at three am and giving eggs to neighbors as a sign of apology due to their singing which don’t seem like a chart breaker. I look at him, seeing his worry, both his and mine. It’s ours, we’re a couple. He’d seen this before, back when I met Leslie, thinking that he was Graham. Only this time there is the risk of feeling the sweet sour taste of hope mixing with the taste of reality hiding the bitterness. He sighs and presses his lips against my forehead, hearing the bell, which brings me, Leslie and Jonny back to the other reality where sadly, at least for five minutes you must pay attention, as the art task is given. Or rather the task is given in life, not always said aloud, sometimes to be found out but given some time. A life span actually, if to speak correctly. A life span to find the meaning of life for yourself not to wonder in the afterlife, tilting your head with the salty question upon the lips.

And you’ll talk bullshit called the previous paragraph in your mind or mind book, utter fuckery.

“What did I live for?”

“Can I go back?”

“What is the meaning of life?”

I sat on the edge of my chair, drawing scribbles in the corner of the page not bothering the task I shall never know know because I spent the second on something needed.

What if he remembered me and tried to see how moronic in life was I? How weird I looked in my hand, rubber, living rubber, pulling my sleeves as if I was a druggie or sick and I was desperately hiding the traces of injections?

We briefly talked as I watched him as he kept erasing all the time, leaning his face nearly against the paper in concentration. I peeked clearly expecting his art skills higher, but he failed my expectations.

Life does.

Go fuck yourself if you think otherwise, I’d shoot you.

He wasn’t Graham, who loved drawing,

holding grapes,

peaches or other fruits.

He was Leslie who was open, friendly, smiling and laughed leaning his head down, with his hands in his pockets, fixing his glasses before they could slip down with his left index finger.

That was all I knew and I wanted to know more. But I never even dared to open my mouth to ask him, to start a conversation, knowing that the image I had drawn of Graham was nothing compared to the laughing Leslie sitting beside me.


I muted the world. Just like that.

I ignored my roommate who attempted to ask me if I was ok.

Was it a dream?

I was feeling Jonny’s fingertips upon my jaw line tracing back and forth, driving a sane person insane.

Maybe I just faked it? The way he’d smile after a while, the way he said his name was Leslie. He couldn’t be interested in the scribbles up to my elbows or the bright fuchsia steaks under my tuque or- or-

Jonny hiding in my closet from while to while? Like a secret lover, as if I had a husband. Suddenly it felt like it I felt as if I was cheating on Jonny, Graham and Leslie all at once.

Who was the plain flirt? Who was the husband? Who was the lover? Who had I loved with all my soul, so was the one behind it all? But then I could hold all three, all three making us four…making an exit in my mind, like Marcie had called it.

Only the difference in it was that I had that exit in my head all along why would I search for it for the rest of my life? It was staring right back at me.

I think people who search for it are useless, greedy, cruel wanting for life something else not bearing the fact and possibility of doing those colours by themselves. That’s why both Marcie and Evan wanted that exit. How cruel.

How human.

I was saying that as if I was some other species, like a Time Lord occasionally amazed by the foolishness of humans. But then was it like me? I never bothered by searching all I did was mute out everything, grasp Greenwood’s hand and that was it, my exit.

Did I want another?

I blinked, hesitating for a while. So human. Wanting more. I closed my eyes pulling the covers, calling my day a dream as in no way Graham was Leslie and could possibly talk to me. It was too surreal to be true.

So it was definitely a creation, like the so-called exit, only in my head. How poetic, an exit from reality. I smiled, feeling my eyes go heavy. Who doesn’t do that even for a brief second?
Why would something have a name like that, even if it existed which I was sure of did not?


Basically the day begins with several blinks and a flood of ripped memories popping the head, why do

people drink to have a heavier blur in the mornings when the blur still appears? Or rather the blur is

caused by the dream which shows a corrupted reality either a fat version of yourself dancing on stage,

making-out with some guy who you barely know and end up marrying in the dream or something resembling the failure of tomorrow’s test. Basically nothing good happens in dreams.

I don’t get married to Leslie or Jonny. Sometimes there are glimpses of them, but nothing more no gooey romantic story resembling my day dreams or including some hidden before facts revealed in the latest interview or an old back from the 90’s. Sometimes I get so desperate that I end up seeing him and I run up to him, make a fool out of myself while he stares at his Converse.

Does he even wear Converse?

I believe he actually does.

He doesn’t resemble the portrait I have of him in my dream.

Would I like him in real life?

Would he dump everything for a rabid sixteen year old fangirl, who knows all the latest gossip
about him.

I doubt it.

I get up, basically grabbing my muting device even for the bathroom, to mute every possibility of somebody interrupting my thoughts. I have to take them off as I wash my face and do every regular thing no matter girl or boy must do, no matter little or not. I take off my hat, knowing that at this early time no was here anyway asides somebody rubbing their eyes maybe from the heavy hangover or just from the ‘why did my alarm turn on so early’? I don’t even look if guys actually strode into the bathroom, which happens from while to while. In boxers? Rarely. Usually they stare at me before either taking a stall or going down to their own floor, in their boxers.
So I make no move when a red haired guy walks in.

He seems pretty woken up.

Chapter 7

Wednesday, 22 June 2011

Balcony Scene

Let the steel burn my hand as I shall feel the keyboard and the teapot upon the face, as I shall wonder about a fall as I shall see a smanb, the same man with the teapot on the edge of a hill he moight’ve eaten with his head as he covers his face, his mouth wqith the lack of time and a beard as he sal;l fall inside the greass, for the bones to jingle and migle in a dance, as the nblood shall scatred to feed the birds wirh the fear and the lack of deszcripiuon, as I shall describe it upon the eras ans people won’t see the teapot hanging in the air as I shall lure it closer with Radoiohead louder as the misatlkes shall be made with the coggareets fiddled,m the ends chopped off and the light turning off and on, the insecureance and the thought of driving and homosexuality upo n the hetrero as a tongue would linger in the mouth with hands cupping beast and lips upon te neck, as I shall be torn to the balcony, the skin a plasticine ads I shall keep noticing the fall, the monet when the feet no longer toiuch the ground butr reather the toes hold the posibilllittty of deathj and tyou stiull hesiutate abooouuut it, as if there mighhhttt be a fear that you’ll never fddie and never see the door to eternity, as the door semms to be opneded and irritating thaaat you swaakloow





This was written under another laptop, it was cold outside and I looked at the hill which was formed due the parking lot and it had been quite cold and I honestly didn't care about the typos and the short story was written during the length of Radiohead's Spinning Plates.


Tuesday, 21 June 2011

Exit. Chapter 5

But that is only in my mind.

There is no bond like that. There are just several nods from me no love advice coming from me as I never speak up as my nose is usually buried in a book, music blasting in my ears. I have never really cared about dating, but that would be a turn inside my soul and my devotion to Jonny who would pin me against the bed, harassing me the way I wish, something I wouldn’t really to be comfortable with telling, allowed to be blackmailed with it. I can see us chatting in my head, but there is nothing like that in the head. Nothing like that, I never participate, yet they seem to follow me even if I mute them and stare at their noiseless moving lips as I hear different artists yell lyrics into my ears.

In reality Marcie liked pop music and I disliked the chick flicks she enjoyed. Evan’s music taste was simply horrid as I had to yank the headphones off when he suggested me his. I wanted to curl into a ball and tell myself that only Radiohead existed and that I could surf the world alone with all the inhabitants dead with the news I should listen to. I shook my head, easing the wound by listening to something out of my daily playlist made special for awkward situations. He blinked, a hurt note in his voice as he flicked through my player seeing nothing that caught his eye.

I blind out their ‘Molko looks weird in Velvet Goldmine. I like their new album, though’, ‘head on the door? Is that the one with Just Like Heaven?’, ‘his solo isn’t as good’ because sometimes it hurts. But then it was too good to be true. That’s why I mute the world making it talk about what I want there is no Beyonce, no new Spears wannabes and endless scandals.

Everything… would be calm.

End of playlist.

I raised my eyes to see Evan waving a book in his hand.

“It’s really cool, Marcie. My girlfriend called me insane, but hell, can you imagine it if it was real?”

I clicked on pause and all of a sudden it felt as I was going into their personal territory, feeling guilty, as if I was stealing something, some information which I wasn’t supposed to hear. I guess I was interested in what book it could be, as I was finishing Lolita for whatever reason I chose to pick it up.

“It’s like a person has this door, waiting to be opened at a certain part of their lives and inside you see your ideal world, everything how you imagine it. Like heaven on earth, just one door, hidden in the world only to be opened by a person who it belongs to, who created it with its mind by birth. Isn’t that amazing? If I could find it I’d have my own island and girls in bikinis everywhere!” He stretched out everywhere making it sound cheesier and filled with girls in bikinis, as if they couldn’t conquer the island. It felt as if he were 14.

“Like an exit from reality? What are you high? Or rather is the author high? Though, sounds nice only guys for me and not in bikinis.” But I let Marcie speak with Evan, as I shifted towards the wall.

I pressed on play.


My eyes are wide and I can’t inhale, as I am paralyzed. He thinks I don’t hear him, he stretches his fingers on the right hand thinking to pull a headphone and plant a kiss upon my cheek. Instead he says it louder, blaming the loud music coming from my headphones. Graham smiles and says it once more that I had been expecting the class to turn their heads, jump on the tables and sing some song about love and dance around as he twirls me.

Instead they remain entertained by the ongoing break and nothing, while I press pause and take off my headphones, my heart, soul, brain so that I’d be standing naked before reality kisses me upon the lips. My first lesbian kiss with myself.

“Hi.” I try to smile and a smile comes out, without any force as I feel my eyes scanning his face. How his specs are held firmly on the bridge of his nose unless when he laughs and tilts his head down and they slip slowly and he pushes them up with his index finger or how his hair touches his brows if you hold it straight instead of some of them sticking in the air chaotically, while some even reach his eyes.


Hazel with that intense red tint escaping the problem of buying red contacts if he chooses some red eyed zombie, vampire or red eyed talking corn who escaped under the bed when you were seven and threw Barbies under the bed thinking that it would feed on them instead of your own flesh and warm blood.

“You’re Roberta, right?” I nod. His name is Graham. Right?

In my head. In my head. In my head.

Apparently my mouth either forgot that or didn’t know.

“Graham, right?” My idiotic mouth still holds the smile and my face holds a ‘yes you are, don’t lie to me’ expression. He laughs, tilting his head in the process, pushing his glasses up with his left index finger, hair falling on his now closed eyes as reopens them with a last light laugh coming from his lips.

“No. Not like Coxon, sadly. He’s even better looking than me and apparently, as the media thinks a better guitarist unlike me who held a guitar…” He unfolds his hand putting three fingers in the air, smirking. “Three or so times. God, I suck at guitar.”

Then he pauses, still smiling at my given name. So he’s not Graham and he looks like a Graham to me, not like he actually has something similar to Coxon, he just… looked like a Graham to me and I liked the name Graham. I want to pull my legs to my chest and rest my chin against them. I do it in my mind, as Jonny runs a hand through my hair, easing me and telling me to calm down. I can still call him Graham in my head, if I won’t like his name or anything.

“I’m Leslie, Roberta.” He smiles. But then he puts his hands in the air, shaking several steaks back, revealing his eyes. “Nice to meet you. But you can call me Graham, if you want to. Feels weird, but if you like it. Yeah, Leslie’s kind of creepy, but I was born with it so might as well try to hold onto it until I’ll gag of annoyance and wonder if my parents were high.” The high comment is added by Jonny, as he smirks, pulling Leslie by his nose and hurling him against a wall, as the second hand travels from my neck to my back.

“No, no. Sorry. Just thought. I mean, I mixed up and- and- and-” I can’t think of anything to say as he looks at me with interest, now pressing a pencil against his bottom lip. That’s why I hate reality when you blush mechanically, without getting confirmed by the script in your head and in your mind you can rub off the freaky, cheesy or plain boring bits, while in life you can’t.

“Yeah, nice to meet you…” I stop, feeling his name on my tongue like a mint sweet, something I don’t really like, but feels nice. I take it out, swallowing it as well in the process. “…Leslie.”

Chapter 6

Wednesday, 15 June 2011



Onto Jack White

You’ll be him

With the mustache

The interzone

The mock

The feel


Because there’s none

Wednesday, 8 June 2011

Realism in Warsaw


It scares you how you can never flick the flipflops against the wall

Or throw a chewing gum to the stars again

Well or eat a Greek salad in a Polish restaurant on the way


You just look ahead

Not knowing what the fuck it is

But being it

Hearing people talk about it

As the soup goes cold

And you are it


Exhaustion might be the main factor in this, yeah, I've been to Warsaw.


Saturday, 4 June 2011

Exit. Chapter 4

I sit up and struggle with the fact how much must I do to get a coke from the machine in the hall.

1. Put my Converse on.
2. Grab my wallet or rather one coin, but that still requires my wallet, search of luggage and opening it, as the locks would be empty and sour.
3. Find the key, which I threw as I walked in, most likely behind the night table.
4. Open the door.
5. Greet or smile any recognizable face, but prevent conversations by my muting monster, called my iPod, perhaps give out a few nods, if the person actually deserves it or is notable in making myself invisible. But then invisible is such a not so nice word, because people see me, I just don’t want them to fiddle with me that much, now that my single thing is now like a black pearl, as everyone has someone to snog with.
6. Walk on.
7. Wait in the line for whatsoever reason that the machine is always at popular demand as if a normal teenage girl needs a coke, chips or anything else every second of her existence which is mostly to the never breaking the circle of life factor, I hope she’ll get mutated babies then.
8.Pray, yes, pray that I won’t bump into Graham.
9.Pray, that I won’t blush or take out a headphone to find out how deep his voice is.
10.Pray, that I won’t find myself in a pointless dialog to find that his taste in music is rubbish and when I’d mention that Exit Music changed my life he’d just say who.
11.Pray, that it won’t depress me.
12.Pray, knowing that it will, as in my head we have already been to three concerts with that song in the playlist.
13.Pray, that he won’t find my Jonny Greenwood worship weird.
14.Pray, even knowing that he will.
15. Pray, that he’d fuck Jonny Greenwood.
16.Pray, that he won’t find me amazingly weird and not modern.
167.Pray, that he won’t just shrug and walk away.

Basically, all I have to do is not bump into him, let even the line be huge that I’d have to sleep, curled up and stare as elephants would fly by, grinning at my stupidity and the rules I’ve made as magnets to hang above my head.

Everything was usual that I found no need to look all new wallpapers or new ceiling paint.

Everything was plain, dull and familiar to the bones. I had to wait as usual as a girl, whose name I couldn't remember stood choosing what flavor it should be today forgetting that she could just return in the next five minutes or sooner to grab another pack. I clearly wanted to remind her that but in the end all I did was just wait, muffling her thoughts aloud even when she turned to me, apologizing, earning a dumb nod and silence to understand the ‘noise’ coming from my headphones.

In the end I got my trophy and I went back to my room, slowly drinking my coke knowing who was waiting for me there on the window sill with black bangs covering his dark eyes and the possibility of a fake Graham leaning against a wall, his eyes scanning the context of the book I was currently reading to nod in disagreement in a more sincere way than Evan would.

In the end I opened to the door to see Jonny sitting, Graham leaning and Evan rambling where the hell was Marcie, my roomie, his face hinting the possibility of a break-up with his now two months girlfriend, which was rather long compared to his last ones which barely lasted a week. The stupidity just materializes in front of me and degrades me, as if it were an axe.

The stupidity irritates me, as he knows nothing, she knows nothing and she wants a bouquet because she’d seen it in the movies, she thinks sex is bad and she’d never give a blowjob, she’d laugh and be a fucking ice queen, throwing notes at him, as some friend would have to wait, maybe even Marcie as the girls would take over the world. I’d take a gun to kill and load it, as I’d kill the ones who actually connect their lives with them and those who they connect with, the world has enough filth already. I’m not the one to blame, I’m the one to hail for the decision and balls.

I kept to myself holding a dialog with Jonny in my head at the same time, as he gave out his point of view on idolization of the partner. Then I turned my head to Graham who shrugged off telling that Evan was a moron in some way, despite his friendly apearence, suck on the lollypop, sweetie, and debated with Jonny for a while, as I continued to agree with Evan seeing his depressed state, but dropping several opposite sided comments in his direction. I tried to hint as faintly as possible for him to find somebody more worthy. Soon enough he thanked me and stood up. You’d be shot anyway.

I expected Marcie to come.

One hour left.

The hour passed quicker than expected as if my eyes were wide open as soon as my eyelashes brushed my skin in a known way. A known way I wanted Graham or Jonny to brush. I sat up quickly, still feeling dizzy from the gasp of sleep I just had. I stared at the door, as if I could see threw wood to see how the lock moved in a protesting way or how I saw Marcie, her curls held back by her sunglasses, guessing that she was on heels and tight designer clothes.

Soon enough the door sprang open as Marcie walked in, a big smile flashing on her tanned skin hinting where her cold winter break went. She grinned at me, dropping her luggage and throwing her arms around me, pulling me in a trademark Marcie-hug, which I had expected.

I dislike it when people hug me, I can feel them choke me, as they fiddle with my clothes as if I were a sex toy with a wide open mouth, I give blowjobs, ejeculate for me to know how bitter it shall be, when I shall swallow.

“Bo, sweetheart, how are you?” Before I could even respond I was already in a long tale about this hot guy who stalked her in a good way at the beach. She pulled her foot from her footwear, pushing her coat from the shoulders, dropping it at her desk, near her glasses. The tanned skinned girl fell on her bed on her back her eyes scanning the room for any hint of difference.


Then she looked at me expecting one single word, even knowing that I disliked talking about myself asides from rare occasions. It was out third year together as roommates as we always had to talk the stuff into putting us together and they just shrugged, as everybody else already divided themselves into pairs anyway with the same technique we used.

No one could stand her, neither could I. I’d throw a paperbag on her and choke her, the hatred coming from inside, as Jonny would hold my hair.

“Good.” And fine was all she ever got, sometimes I’d ask about the time or the homework, but that was rare and Marcie would jump up, in hopes that I might actually start a conversation, but none were ever held. “Evan walked in, wanted to see you.”

I feel like a Goth kid, maybe I should be one or lie that I am, just for her to bog off.

They didn’t mind that I rarely opened. They didn’t mind that I dressed in the same tones and structure day after day, year after year. They didn’t mind if I wanted to switch the music they both listened to. Despite the first glances their taste in music wasn’t as bad as I had expected.

Both of them were sitting on Marcie’s bed, yelling at each other about some celebrity scandal they read in the yellow pages. They both turned their heads to greet me before to proceed on their yelling. Evan was on one side, while Marcie was on the other and for weeks they seemed to talk only about it for at least one hour each day.

“Hey, Roberta, you want to sit with us?” Evan asked all of a sudden, looking at Marcie who didn’t seem to say that aloud all though the question was on her lips waiting to be freed. I stared at them, nearly dropping my tray.

What did they want?

I raised my head, my bangs falling to the sides revealing my eyes. I stood there for a while thinking what to do. She was my roommate after all and I bet Evan was her soon to be dumped boyfriend even if I had never caught them red handed. I nodded, thanking them quietly, despite the fact that I wanted to go back to my lonely table, which now, thanks to them was taken by some gossip girls. So I had no other option anyway.

I expected them to begin to yell at each other on some other article mentioned in the yellow pages, but nothing came. Instead Marcie smiled at me as I raised my eyes at her and so did Evan as they studied me as if they saw me for the first time in their short life.

“I heard you listening to Head on the Door, you like The Cure?”

“Did you watch Velvet Goldmine? Remember the beginning when Molko’s running?”

“I prefer his solo, though.”

I stared at them answering to questions mechanically, a small bit of me not regretting my addiction to listen to music rather loud, on max, ignoring the stares and confused gazes. Soon enough I loosened around them and began discussing films, books and music which made my existence worth it.

Marcie’s music taste was different from mine, but there were several songs we both adored, as our best film was nearly identical. Evan ended up giving me a must read and must listen to list as we discussed bands I liked and he loved or the other way round. Even now he’d roll his eyes at our book and film choice.

I started sitting with them, sometimes muting them out, but apologizing beforehand. They’d smile and bring out their players too, joking that it was music Thursday, respecting my need for music. In the end I found myself yanking out my headphones and starting a topic myself feeling a need to rant on today’s lessons, the new film which I was dying to see or something completely and utterly random.

That made Marcie smile as she had somebody else to talk to. Sometimes Evan would excuse himself and sit with the girl he was dating or his sport team depending on what he was interested in at the current moment. Sometimes it was Marcie who excused herself trying to butt into some group her boyfriend was in. It usually ended with Marcie being the odd one out that in time she never chose her boyfriends instead of us.

She’d invite her boyfriend with some amazing determination as we’d discuss The Eraser or some random chick flick me and Marcie saw the day before. It was like some wicked way to erase the unworthy boyfriends, which sometimes even applied to Evan’s girlfriends.

I never dated anyone officially. I never found myself interested in my classmates and like Evan said ‘we know too much about each other to fall in love’. They asked me once if I actually liked someone. I shrugged it off, saying that I disliked nearly all guys aside from fictional ones, besides Evan who like said before I knew too much about.

The day I found out that they didn’t date was because I blurred it out, saying that they looked cute together. Evan admitted his love for Marcie, as he hugged her, still laughing as hard as Marcie did. I guess after that I found myself closer and I realized that they were in the new list I had made which included them both as people whom I loved dearly.

Today’s lunch was no exception despite the fact that Evan hesitated for a brief second about his girlfriend’s invitation but shrugged it off, comparing how long had he known us and that girl of his. We ended up laughing at each other’s holidays, mostly at Evan’s and Marcie’s and a small retell of mine in three sentences with a long description of the talk show I was forced to watch. Evan had to watch it too and a marathon of the show the next day as his parents quite enjoyed the host and were gluing his sons eyes to the screen.

We walked on, into the outside, as I tried not to look where I had seen Graham as if I’d see him still there. As if he’d wink at me, invite me to join him and talk about his own holidays. Evan followed my gaze to see a blank spot on the grass where my ideal guy had been previously. I searched around to see nothing asides a guy leaning against a tree, his fiery red hair swishing with the breeze in a sick to me poetic way. I stopped my gaze on him as he looked up with his teal eyes.

“I still think talk shows should be banned and the hosts should receive a death sentence.”Evan muttered, his hands deep in pockets as he shook his head, as if his black hair was still long. I decided that perhaps it wasn’t cut that long ago, resulting the usual swing still to be mechanic without any thinking. I glanced back at Evan my gaze running past several girls whose life meaning was to be the next queen bee.

It was weird how many new faces I saw that day, as if it was a new year and I had known none. But then I walked in between Evan and Marcie, which made me feel secure from the unknown faces surrounding me in the hallways and their chats, which I usually muffled by music or by looking at my footwear, but not now, whenever I was with them today, tomorrow or the past months and soon enough years.

Then I wanted to throw my arms around them, but I did it in my mind, as I didn’t want to do anything cheesy. I beamed at them, as they began discussing the latest gossip, which I now found myself reading as well. Just like Marcie began listening to music I and Evan liked. Just like Evan began torturing himself by watching romantic comedies with us, cursing that some Italian mafia should show up and shoot the main characters before their lovers, parents, children and aliens showed up to make the movie cheesier than it already was. But then seriously what could make movie cheesier?

“More cheese!” Evan would yell out in the middle causing both me and Marcie to elbow him at the same time from both sides.

But that is only in my mind.

I think I fell asleep, so I did.


Actually, the scene where Roberta imagines what should have been or what she wanted was the scene I had always disliked in Exit, but it would be the perfect dream which doesn't make sense at all, so I kept it without editing it, because it's meant to be in the stupid absurd way it is and should be.

I love how dynamic Roberta's hatred towards everything is. She should get a gun.

Chapter 5

Wednesday, 1 June 2011

Everything Should Be In This Title

You'd go insane if the street was your music
The flying things throw themselves into the window
Let me hear the birds tweet with the I love you
The crashing waves of home
And the voice resembling
The past phases
All a line
Never gone
Taste of tequila
You remind me of blur
I'll make mistakes
You'll repeat
I'll listen to the dying carnival
I am going home
With you

Realism In Warsaw