day in the life: of a broken hearted Sasquatch

Alone again, Naturally

Squatcho lives alone in his studio apartment. He is a tortured artist, sensitive and gentle, completely misunderstood. Squatcho just broke up with his long time on again off again girlfriend.

Eager to distract himself, he settled into a quiet evening at home alone with a good book. Then he thought, "a glass of wine will go great with this book".

Then Squatcho thought, "hum that book is
good and all but I need another glass of wine
to help me focus." suddenly, two glasses became 3, then 4 then... He exclaimed,

"Glasses are for candy ass bitches who cant understand a real artist's vision! This squatchie goes straight to the tap!" Squatcho polished off the whole bag of wine and was starting to get a little tipsy and slightly irate. "Man-fuck that Luis Rodriguez, I can write some better shit than that!"

But Squatcho over did it. He was too drunk to type. He hammered down on the keys violently; feverishly typing what he thought were the beginnings of a brilliant masterpiece only to realize he did not roll any paper into his typewriter. "Shiiieeeet."

Gingerly he began the long and arduous climb up to his bed. Muttering under his breath, "...fuck that type writer...fuck that dude-he thinks he's better than me, fuck that slut...fuck these stairs...." When Squatcho got to the top of the stairs he sat down for a while and his thoughts drifted to memories of his ex-girlfriend.


He sat there at the foot of his bed for a while
thinking about that bitch who broke his heart,
and tried to calm himself. He had the spins.

Minutes passed and he felt the room stop spinning so he climbing into bed and settled in when suddenly he felt sick. He propped himself over the side of the bed and threw-up. He muttered through the stream of puke, "if only getting rid of that cunt was this easy..."

"The events depicted in this story are fictitious. Any similarity to any person living or dead is merely coincidental."

Pretty Bad-Ugly Good

{i originally wrote this about 3 years ago. its a reader's digest version of a much sadder essay. I know i should stay true to form, and not betray the "craft" by holding back but i am weary of being too personal- exposing too much of my private self. I'm sorry, but I left in all the good stuff. i promise. Besides, i gots me a classy fella who's made a respectable woman out of me, and i cant just display my intimates for all to see, that would be very unbecoming of a lady. Not to mention disrespectful to my gentleman friend. Enjoy.}

***
I tried to make the fact that I did not leave my apartment for the greater part of nine days for more than an hour at a time; with human contact ranging from little to none, a little more digestible by going out and trying to be a part of society. What a disaster. I don’t know why I still try. I thought I was lonely, but the strangeness of that place, last night, today, those people, this world, leaves me dizzy and more self-loathing and narcissistic than ever.

Never a feeling more enveloping than failure existed.

I have given up on working people over to liking me. It is much easier getting them to hate me in those limited first impression fleeting moments. It is less effort on my part and more genuinely emotional on theirs. Their disdain for me is much more passionate than any warm fuzzy feelings of lukewarm (like) they could ever possibly muster up in a million lifetimes of first impressions.

It was always at the mercy of dissolving, like a tablet of Alka-Seltzer in a glass of water. Fizzy fizzing, fading, till the bubbles all but cease to surface. And all that is left is a glass of flat acrid water with a thick film of residue where substance once was.

***
“…and I always thought cats were for losers that lived in apartments…”- Homer