3I had this system for getting exactly what I wanted out of people. It was a quite long process. And the only thing I had to do was talk to the dead. Call me a whacked out psychopath. Call me a needy bitch. Call me morbid and stupid and evil. But this little game of sex operator, death edition was my life.
Anyway, I was free today. I skipped my way over to the bar and sat down at a booth. Now, my eyes have this weird habit of rolling around in their sockets, and I never notice. I would stare at a sign in front of me for hours, when they would really be looking at the people standing next to me. They were doing it again. But this time I notice. I saw my friend, Adam, sitting a few seats away. Except this time, he was sober. Me, being my stupid, curious self, sat next to him. "What's the occasion?" I ask. He looked over to me, his green eyes stabbing me in the brain. "I'm in love," he said simply. He always says that. Along with, "It's different this time. You'll like her. Trust me." That's right. I do like them. But they're all the same. The same, bubbly, generous girl one by one. The same, drunk, sexy girl he always falls for. The thing is, I'm getting oh-so fucking tired of remembering all of their names. By now, I always refer to them as Olivia.
"Another Olivia, eh?" I said dryly. What can I say? The guy has to learn to keep his heart on one girl. Not that I'm some love guru or whatever, but still. "Yeah." he smiled at me. Even though I know he hates my calling his crushes all by the same name, I also know I'm his only friend.
"So when do I get to meet the lucky lady?" I asked Adam.
"She's right behind you," his eyes looking over my shoulder. Now, don't get me wrong, I'm never jealous. But when I turned around, I wish Adam had stabbed my eyes out with a fork. To put it simply, she was a babe. Tall, thin brunette with a smile that would've made Marilyn Monroe rise from the dead just to commit suicide again. Crap.
"Hey, Adam!" she gushed. Honestly, it took all my power not to roll my eyes at how cute her voice was. Like a kindergartner that just got a cookie from her teacher for counting to five. As my eyes wandered around Adam's adorable little piece of arm candy, I felt a tug on my arm.
"Jen, your drink." Adam said. Huh. Looks like Olivia # 15's so mesmerizing, I didn't notice that my beer spilled and dripped all over my arm, down my clothes, into my shoes. Crap.
...
My job was simple. I spoke to the dead. Clients would come in my little shop, ask me to talk to their dead Aunt Yzma, and I would roll my eyes back and chat with her about the weather. It wasn't exactly what I said I was going to do back on Career day at Elementary school, but hell, it's a living. Don't start judging me. I haven't lost all my dreams. I still dream of a nice married life in Paris. Paris in August. Living my life out as a photographer. But until then, I'll be talking to Cousin Billy, who choked on a hot dog last summer.
Anyway, my day was over. Here I was, on a cold little bus, riding in the rain. I loved the rain. It was beautiful and cold and it felt like it was cleansing you. No, seriously. It hypnotizes me. But I never talk about that kind of shit, no way. Just think about what people would say about me.
By the time I'm home, I'm already sitting on my lime green deck chair, staring at the rain. I would've pulled out my pack of cigarettes, but I left those at work. They must be lonely.
In this type of weather, I always think of things that I wouldn't regularly dwell on. I would normally be thinking, "Hmm . . . wouldn't Paris be nice? Yes, it sure would." You really have to know me to get me, because, really, I don't get me. I have no idea who the hell I am. I'm just a viewer. Like I'm watching myself from far away, seeing the decisions I make, seeing myself talk and walk and laugh and cry. I don't make those decisions. I don't know who I am. I'm not funny, at least I don't think I am. I have no real opinions, nothing I'd argue about that's for sure. I might as well kick myself out of the house for leaving my socks in my microwave "by accident."
My mind wanders to Adam. That idiot. With his black hair of doom. Olivia #one, #four, and #10 have told me that his hair is the sexiest thing they've ever laid their eyes on. I won't disagree. I'm just glad he knows how to dress himself. He has no job, constant girlfriends, always drunk and a liar. But he has interesting stories, and always generous. Got to give him brownie points for that.
And then my mind wanders to the fact that I need more clothes. I've been living off of a tee shirt from the 5th grade, black jeans and a My Chemical Romance sweater for month. I think it's time for me to spend money on my attire, and not drinks. Lock down. I can do it. I don't depend on alcohol. I swear. I'm not that weak.
A/U: I hate this piece. I just wrote it last year to see if I could write. Turns out I can't. I know there are tons of improper sentences in there. Please review. I most likely won't update this.