Brian's Journal: Because that trigger isn't gonna pull itself!

I really need to stop touching my face.
I am so stressed
And the oil from my fingers
Is really not helping with the acne.
Thank Athena it is barely noticeable.

I haven't even really talked to her lately.
My walkie-talkie receives fuzz.

Tomorrow night is the last day
Of the worst year
Ever.
And forty-two percent of Americans agree with me.

They act like
"Thank god it's the end of the 00s."
"There's nothing to say for that!
It's not like the eighties, or nineties."
Everyone is an idiot,
And I cannot wait to hear
The first person
Say "the tens".

Tonight I am absolved from humanity,
And even if I could hear the timbre of her voice,
(which I certainly won't)
It would not help.

I am going to drink by myself
And kill every spider that I have thus far
Allowed to live in my bedroom.

You are no longer welcome,
Soldiers of Arachne.

May Athena guide your spirits
Back to the pit from which you came.

One
Terrible
Week.

-Brian

Walking down the street, 1:30 am...

The spent bodies of used Christmas trees
Litter the sides of the road like
The wounded after battle.

They call me Bud,
For I am the king of beers.
If it’s an addiction you want
Feel free to talk to me.
For I am the vice president.

Athena,
Generally I only pray to you
For the wisdom
To ascertain the differences
Between the effectible
And the already effected.

Today I need you to shift reality.

I walk into the party
Towering above everyone else
In charm and wit.
Every hand I shake or fist I bump,
That person then has the bug.

Suddenly it’s a cavalcade
Of sardonic musings
And trivial discussion.

I, like always,
Have created monsters.

Everything I touch turns to
Damage.

I’ve been trying to change for years now,
But this metamorphosis will not take.
Mr. Samsa? I’d like to stop now.
I’d like to get off this ride
And get on this train
And go to Manhattan
And be a better person.

I want to be the only person.
And if the bombs fall while I’m in the city
I may never get the chance.

At least I will die in her arms.

Why then, Athena,
Do you allow me to make mistakes?
Why would you let me alert
Those who would keep me from her
Of my sabbatical?

This is very disconcerting.

I heard a country song the other day at work,
And for a second I forgot my hatred of that medium
And listened.
The song was about thanking God
For unanswered prayers.

I just want the wisdom.

I pontificate on your intent.

Please, Athena,
Send me on my odyssey
With the wind in my sails
And the sun at my back.
Let the muses sing me to her
And let them never ululate off key.

Eight days.

-Brian

I yelled at a bunch of waitresses today.
I felt bad afterward.

Thirty days hath September,
April, June, and whatever.
I just think that it's the 29th
And that means
Nine more days until I see you.

I wonder what it will be like.

I know exactly how it will go at the train station.
Me, walking with my luggage,
You unencumbered and electric.
You will move throughout Penn Station
In one of your little skirts
And dance across the floors
Normally reserved
For the bereft and homeless.

I imagine your eye make-up,
Your breath,
Your posture.
I feel as though if I were to die tomorrow
(And by writing this poem and cursing myself,
I certainly may)
I would be content with this pristine image
That I keep of you.

I have never entered your apartment,
Yet I know it already.
I will tiptoe on your carpet
And knock on your hard wood floors.
And when,
If
We shower together,
I will know the tiny, unreachable
Parts of the small of your back
To get with your loofah.

At night and deep in sleep
I can taste your sweat.
I remember it from before.
Those long, sleepless, aggressive nights
Where your perspiration was in my eyes.
I remember it.
And with no violence to suggest at all
Will I get you to drip that way again.

With every moment that I stand
I imagine your hand
And your drip
And your taste and your hips
And the flips in your hair
That you wear when you're scared
And you're weak and you need to be held.

You have some metal. It needs a good weld.

And I am masked and approaching,
My dear perfect nothing.
And I will put to the side
Every little bit of myself
To touch you
Hold you
Be with you
Again.

I walked about the house
Tonight with a candle.

And I burn for you.

Nine days.

-Brian

You are that little bit of
Something natural,
Something sincere,
Something brilliant,
Something-Nothing.
I imagine the pieces of your nose
Floating
Down the rivers I've dreamed of
When I was ill.

I imagine your portions,
I'm so sick with contortions
I'm vomiting up scores of my own pores
And acting disorderly.

I imagined you dancing, last night,
You know,
You little unobtainable, beautiful, something.

I imagined you dead,
And myself as well.
It was the only way to be equal.

I can imagine the solipsists
That may bite at your coat.
They bother me not.
I know that you work for a
Very, very powerful man.
And I envy you.
But with every beat your
Single heart
Can take I want you
To always remember
That this little bomb inside my chestplate
TICKS
With every thought of you.

If for some reason tomorrow you were gone,
I would write a song
And evaporate
Into nothing.

Every little bit of your body belongs in my hands.
It only seems right.
Am I wrong for feeling that way?
I will absorb you.

You beautiful, intangible, unobtainable, serendipitous nothing.

Ten days.

-Brian

I'm just posting this so that there is activity on the account and it isn't harvested out.

There's some good shit in here. I loved it, anyway.

-Brian

Hi. It's Brian Sfinas here.
I can honestly hear the sound of the end of the world coming.
I have cancer.
I'm in prison.
I am dead.
I am gone.
But, really, humans, should you study the end of times.

... We think it to be nearer than expected.

-Aiden

This is a story about The Sun,
Before The Sun was even born.
About how she never wanted to shine
Because she always loved the storms.
About how she was a slave
And her heart was always torn.
And the love she had for the moon
Would for eternity be stored.
And if you're reading this right now
And fancy yourself bored,
Just imagine what her face looks like
When she shines on you, forlorn.

-Brian

Tomorrow,
If you cut off one of my arms,
I'd still be in yours
The next day.

-Aiden

I slit my wrists
When we last kissed.

Dear Aubrey,
Sorry you're missing.
No one will find you.

Dear Sue,
If you send me one more goddamn terse and moronic text message I will seriously reconsider talking to you again.

Dear Nick,
THESE FUCKING DISHES ARE NOT HERE FOR YOU TO JUST SHIT ALL OVER LIKE A MONKEY.
If you use a glass, throw it IN MY FUCKING DISHWASHER.
That's all I ask.

Dear Rich,
Thanks for your support.
I hope your mom leaves you alone.

Dear Becca,
I have no idea what to say to you.
People miss people.
That's what college does.
I'm sorry.

Dear Luke,
I need your help with this code I got.
I miss you.
That's what college does.
I'm sorry.

Dear Josh,
I'm still not gay.
Stop calling me.
For realz.

Dear Athena,
Take these people away.
That, or make them easier to deal with.

-Brian

I'm crouched over, tapping noisily on metal keys when I hear my door unlocking. I sigh.
"Guess who's making house calls?" Nick asks as he bounds through the door like Kramer.
"You're a pharmacist. If you made house calls, you'd be a drug dealer... What would you have done if I was masturbating?"
"Said something witty and waited outside the door for ten minutes... You busted out the typewriter, huh?"
"Yep."
"This has gotta be good, can I read?" He asks plopping down on the couch next to me, eagerly grabbing for the stack of pages next to me.
"I don't care, it's not edited and I don't care what you think."
"What? I'm not in your target demographic?"
"My childrens' generation is my target demographic, not my parents'."
"Is that a joke about me being old? 'Cause I'll beat you."
"Ha! Get out."
Nick starts reading. Moments later, "As verbose as he was inane?"
"Yep."
"Is this me?"
"You're so full of yourself."
"This reaks of Bronte."
I stop typing. "It reaks of one of the greatest authors of the last millenium?"
"Well, yeah. It reaks of girl."
"Alright, get out."

-Brian