Throwing Drunken Tantrums in the City Streets

Every Friday night, I vow I will not hook up with him.

I don’t want to hook up with him.  I never cum.  Because I don’t let him touch me. Because he doesn’t make me feel safe because he’s aggressive in a nonconsensual way.  I also don’t want to enjoy it.  Because then I will begin to actually like him.  And I can’t like him because he doesn’t like me.  And he’s too similar to my ex anyway.

Regardless, once the weekend rolls around and I’ve had enough drinks, I am all over him.  And then I wake up naked and alone, feeling stupid.

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Super Whoa-Man

Repost from 2012

I had never been so scared in my life. I watched my friend’s face contort as she read the rest of the letter that I had handed to her. She looked kinda pissed. But then again she always looked kinda pissed. I guess she looked extraordinarily pissed off as she read the letter-

“Wow,” she sighed, cutting my nervous thoughts off. She didn’t look at me right away, she just fiddled with the letter, her face twisted in thought. I looked straight ahead of me, watching the little kids draw on the blacktop in chalk. They were so cute and happy. I wish I were the same way.

“So everything is still up in the air? You don’t know what’s going to happen?”

She finally looked over at me, her expression cautionary. Evidently she didn’t know how to go about things or what to say. But neither did I.

I shrugged my shoulders, slumping a bit as I began to think of what this evil villain that I’ve created has dragged me into, thinking about how this villain, that was, but wasn’t me, has ruined my life.  There was only one way to terminate this evil villain because I couldn’t be my own superhero, but those thoughts have landed me in this fucked up situation in the first place.

© 2015 Vic Romero

Three

Three years isn’t a long time in the grand scheme of life, but at my age (I’m nineteen), it feels substantial.

Three years ago I was in high school, which is a completely different world in contrast to college.  I was a minor at age sixteen and in the midst of my downward spiral of depression.  I also lost my best friend three years ago.  Not “lost” as in death, but “lost” as in, no longer friends.

I lost most of my friends three years ago, but only one of those losses wasn’t my fault.  That loss hurt me the most.

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Putting My Life Back Together

Saturday Repost from Fall 2012

“I’m reading The Perks of Being A Wallflower right now and a lot of it is really hitting home for me…it’s kinda scary.

This time last year, I was losing myself, I was depressed, and I didn’t care. As long as my grades looked okay, everything was okay with me…I hung out with the wrong crowd…But then it hit me: Why am I doing this? I’m miserable. I lost a lot of my friends. My “new friends” are shitty friends. They’re not even friends. They don’t talk to me unless I’m doing something stupid with them.

Then came the summer, I started putting my life back together.

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Dying Embers in December

I ignored the cramps in my fingers as I fervently knitted the hat I was making, pushing my pestering thoughts out of my head.  Although this was a soothing activity, which was something I severely needed after being berated, it was also a mindless activity.  I was trying to swaddle my bruised heart with the black yarn that gleamed with red sparkles, but it was futile.  No amount of swaddling would heal my heart…I had to heal my heart myself.  So I tentatively succumbed to my pestering thoughts, thinking that if I faced them head-on, I would be able to accept them better.  When I started paying attention to my thoughts though, they became louder and overwhelming.  I squeezed my eyes closed and began to think of something positive in a desperate attempt to push back the tears that I knew would soon be flooding my eyes.  When I reopened my eyes, all I focused on were the needles in my sore hands, using the pain to create something warm and beautiful.

© 2015 Vic Romero

Shit In The Shower

I’ve been home for two days and they’ve both been arguably the shittiest days of 2014. I ended up hysterically sobbing to the point of puking in a parking lot and afterwards I called my boss, who’s like a mom to me, and she made me feel a lot better about everything. I usually would write about all the shit that’s going down at the same time that’s caused me to wish that I wasn’t alive anymore but everything that’s happened in the span of two days is still too sensitive for me to write about. I basically feel alone, rejected, pathetic, and…scared as hell. I’m afraid that I’m losing everything that mattered to me…and there were only a few things that I cared about so…it sucks.

Anyway…I hope my break can’t get any worse. Yeah, I can’t sleep nor can I eat but as long as nothing else awful happens hopefully I’ll be able to…feel like myself again. Right now I just feel numb.

Goodnight everyone

-Vic