Biography written by Jake on Thursday 1, February 2007

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Fall 2005

Overall Rating: 93.266666666667%

This writing has been rated by 6 members, resulting in a rating of 93.266666666667% overall. Below is a breakdown of these results:

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Suicide was once just a seven letter word. I grabbed it, and...touched it, and planted it in forbidden soil. It grew. Suicide became the refusal to transcend for those facing the Cruel Inevitable. Those were his cold, cold mutterings. I woke up next to Lee, not him. My confusion for this state was preceded by the lack of feeling in the fingers on my right hand. The tips felt hard and senseless against each other, like they were made of hard plastic and not warm, pliable flesh. The previous evening was cloud and blur. Lee began to mumble about me hogging the blanket, and I began to mumble about what the hell I was doing there. Twined, our incoherency grew into a low rumble. My head shook softly and began to shed its mist... The evening before began with contemplations of consumption. My friend John had been fronted a reasonable sum from his employer, and his plan was pizza. I was often the odd-man-out during these adventures, since I was jobless and penniless, and had no way to contribute to the pizza fund. However, John was a kind-hearted fellow, and he had a brilliant idea hit him--in the head I think. He'd pay for Lee's pizza, and Lee'd pay for mine. Lee looked confused for a moment, and then agreed. He was generous as well. We hit down town like an empty pack of cigarettes hitting the back of a trash can, so with a light rustle and a slow float. After ordering a gourmet pie we wandered into one of the local drinking establishments and sat down for a pitcher while our pie baked. It was Lee, John, Jared, and I. Three hard-working guys in the construction business, and one free-spirited vagrant. Drinks were downed, and before long the guys rushed out the door to claim their food, leaving me behind to quickly finish the last half of the pitcher. The night was spinning in my hands, faster and faster. We finished up the pizza back at home, and planned our next move. More alcohol, and some drugs; a partyer's buffet. The substances singed my memory, rending black, blank holes. Eventually we mounted another expedition, leaving Jared and Lee behind, and acquiring two new passengers. The night dragged on, and eventually the flood of alcohol caused the passengers to flee. It was just John and I, riding a tequila tsunami. Soon I was stumbling around down town, petitioning the homeless, or those who appeared as such, for crack. A duty for John, who'd given me a $60 tab for the evening. Success was had, and rocks in hand we made our way to The Jungle. John left briefly when we entered the bar, and then soon reappeared with four Coronas. My consciousness slept and wandered for a time, spending fickle attention. It was shook awake by the bouncer telling me to stop pounding my beer bottle on the stage, and to quit yelling so much. Temporary insanity, really. The stripper in front of me asked if I was having a good time, and then darkness came again. I regained focus to find myself staring at a wall of concrete. I was crawling(falling) down an alley choked with miasma and ruddy light. John stood nearby, casually asking a hooker if he could borrow her crack pipe. John lit up and desperately sucked the acrid smoke into his lungs. Coughing, he passed the pipe to me to hold. The glass of the pipe was razor hot, and I felt puzzled as my fingers seared. My plastic fingers. I cooled them on the prostitutes flesh. My mind leaked from my body in a slowly drawn pour. Careful and meticulous, every drop wasted. The night grabbed me again. Evanescent euphoria, my mind can see...but that was something different. That hadn't happened yet. The room I found myself in was walled with diffused chaos. There was nothing there but a bent can with smoke trickling out. I breathed in the chaos and I breathed in the smoke. I exhaled hope and life, and fell again into the fade.

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    Moving and I feel a true insight. I always love reading your writing. There is so much feeling.
    I remember this story, although never in one sitting like it is now... more like several fragments, shared at random moments.
    I agree with beau_bambi. nice work.
    this is a writing that has had a lot of thought and emotion sewn into it...it's difficult to write with such an intensity as this....it's fantastic.
    Gritty and evocative; earthy.

    An excellent piece.