Life’s Too Short…

Love, Death. With Love there is no death. Fear of death goes. I was staring up at the sky, a star-lit sky, thinking these things, as he approached me with a gun.

Blang, he blasted it at me. It had no bullets. It was an empty trigger.

‘I did it to be healthy,’ he said.

We looked at each other in the eyes. We laughed, smiled. My headphones were blank so I put them to charge.

The desk was sitting up, white. I was in my office. Rubbing my eyes because they were red.

My boss was texting me about some assignment that wasn’t mine that was to be finished.

‘Goddamn,’ I thought to myself.

I looked at the glass of water, then took a swig.

The uncorked bottle of whiskey was on my desk. I was staring up at the ceiling; the fan was going, going.

My Aunt had called, but I hated talking to that b*tch.

My hormones were raging. I was almost twenty-five, and I still had hormones. ‘Goddamn, me.’ I thought.

The fan was whirling, whirling in the sky.

We took a Jeep over there, me and my friends.

This conversation with a girl was getting personal. My parents were pissed that I was smoking. But, I was pissed at them for being pissed at me.

Smoking wasn’t even a big part of my life; it was a respite. I feel the need to explain myself because I have Indian parents.

My sore ass, from sex last night. You feel the need to explain having sex from last night because people are interested.

People are immediately interested in your sex life.

And, I’m not an alien. I’m also interested. But, I’m more of a jealous interested — like “Wow, I need to be having sex right now.”

I put on some Dave Chappelle to calm down.

This has no continuity.

There’s no continuity to this. That’s alright. Life isn’t continuous.

I had a few more pages to fill up, so I wrote a few more lines, and a few more lines. I picked up a Hemingway book and wrote to sleep.

The fan was still whirling in the end. My cousins were in the other room. There was laughter.