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Literature Text
What could do me some good, you ask? A deep-tissue massage and a nice, long nap. No alarm clocks, no fitful dreams, no banging on my door, yelling at me to get my ass in gear. Just a few hours of undisturbed sleep.
Sleep is proof God loves us and wants us to be happy. Benjamin Franklin said it was beer, but I think it’s sleep. Now don’t get me wrong, I love a good beer, but let’s be honest, what’s better: waking up with one bitch of a hangover and a bad case of the shits, or waking up refreshed and realizing you’re not quite as dead as you thought you were? And let’s not forget, sleep is more important. That might be hard to believe, but think about it. You can go your whole life without a drink, but try and go one too many nights without sleep and you start climbing the walls.
You tell me I look a little outta sorts and then clap me on the back. Real hard. The force almost sends me hurtling to the floor. And then you tell me you’ve got some weed and ask if I want any.
Most people I know think weed is great. Or at least relatively harmless. I used to be one of those people. Then I smoked it. And let me tell you, it is anything but. One doobie and I was about ready to go streaking down main street, preaching the doomsday. That shit makes you paranoid. Every car you see is a cop car. Every person who passes you by is a government agent who wants to kidnap and torture you. Every fear you have is multiplied by ten and the world is going to swallow you alive.
No thanks, I say.
You shrug. My loss.
I look at the counter beside the couch where you sit. Your car keys are there, next to your cell phone and a book on Kurt Vonnegut. And So It Goes, it’s called. I dig Vonnegut. Slaughterhouse-Five was the bomb. I’d never really thought about getting unstuck in time but I think it’s one of the coolest things I’ve ever heard of. To experience life in no particular order. To see the past as the future and the future as the past. It makes a lot of sense when you think about it. Time is relative, after all.
I watch you roll yourself a thick one and light up. The smell of weed wafts through the air. I gag and try to scoot out of the way. You notice my discomfort and laugh. I’m such a pussy, you say. Can’t take a bit of second-hand grass.
I flip you the bird.
As you bring the joint to your lips and smoke it, I catch glances of the scar on your wrist where you slashed yourself after your girlfriend dumped you. And here you call me the pussy. Maybe I’m insensitive, or maybe I’m just not in-tune to romance, but that’s always been weak in my mind.
You see me eyeing that scar. You look down at it yourself and say, Sometimes I wish I’d gone through with it. That way you wouldn't have to take care of me the way you do.
And you know what I wish? I wish I could stop caring. I wish I didn’t have to lose sleep, worrying that you’re going to open a vein or decide to take a little joyride that ends with you in a ditch. I wish all this caring didn’t wear my body out. I wish you could see that it has. I wish you’d stop acting like everything is a-okay and you don’t blame me for keeping you alive. And call me selfish, but I wish you’d stop saying shit like “I wish I’d gone through with it” because, you know, that really fucking hurts and sometimes I wonder if you say it just to get a rise out of me.
I want to tell you this. I want to scream it in your face. But I don’t. I do what I always do: shake my head and roll my eyes like it’s all no big deal.
So it goes.
I’ve come to accept that she’s gone, you say.
That’s nice. And have you come to accept that she’s not worth your life? I don’t say this.
You continue, so casually: And you know something? You look really old.
I wonder why. This I do say.
I’m serious, man. We’re the exact same age and we’re identical, but you—you falter, trip over your words; it’s easy to tell that you’re stoned—you look about fifty years older. How is that possible?
I shrug. Gee, I dunno, I say sarcastically. Lack of sleep may have something to do with it. Excessive worry could factor in.
God, you're being a douchebag. I almost let that out, but I stop myself.
Look at me, you say. You spread your arms out on either side of you, your joint—now a stub—still clutched between your fingers. Look at me, you say again. Bet you never took me for a lover-boy, huh? Bet you never saw me as a hopeless Romeo.
Hey, I cut in, at least Romeo thought Juliet was dead.
True, true.
You take one last hit from your joint, then stagger over to the door, open it, and toss the joint out onto the lawn. You sit back down afterward. Lean your head against the back of the couch and close your eyes.
How do you feel? I ask.
I’m dope, you say.
I can’t help but smile. No shit, Sherlock. I mean are you okay?
Stupid question. Incredibly stupid question.
But your answer catches me off-guard: No. And I don’t think I’ll ever be.
There’s a moment of silence between us. You sit perfectly still, and I start to think maybe time has frozen. But then you speak. I don’t think I’ll ever be okay with her gone, you say. I don’t think I’ll ever be okay with losing her, or losing the part of myself that loved her.
Another pause. You bite your lower lip and look at me: But I think things will get better.
Is that the dope talking?
You chuckle. Maybe.
A third pause. This one longer than the first two. There are a million things running through my head. A million things I want to say. But I wait for you to do the talking.
I know you care about me, you say. Sometimes I wish you’d stop… for your sake.
A tear pools your eye.
You know, you can’t sit in judgment of me. Your voice cracks. The tear falls. It journeys down your cheek and hides under your chin. I know you do, but that’s not fair. That’s not fucking fair, man. You think this is bad? You hold up your wrist. Flash me your scar. What about what you’ve done to yourself? What about that, huh? No sleep, barely any food, all your… all your worry. You flash me your scar again. I didn’t even want to die, man. More tears are falling. You’re full-on crying now. I didn’t even want to die, but you… you’re killing yourself. Over me. You’re killing yourself over me.
You bury your face in your hands and sob.
I don’t know how to react. I wish I could get unstuck in time like Billy Pilgrim and go back to when we were kids, when we used to switch places on people because we were so identical it wasn’t even funny, and when the only things we cried over were skinned knees and too much homework. I wish I could travel to the future, when we’re both old and missing our glory days and this is a distant memory we’ve all but forgotten. I wish I could travel to when we were floating in the womb, wrapped around each other, and everything was warm and peaceful and time didn’t even exist. I wish I could live any moment but this one.
But I’m no Billy Pilgrim, and this is no book written by Kurt Vonnegut, and time might not be real but moments sure as fuck are and I’m not escaping this one.
And so it goes.
I walk over to where you sit, slumped over, sobbing like I haven’t seen you sob in a long time. You didn’t even sob this much when your girlfriend left you, but you’re sobbing this much for me, and to tell you the truth, I’m not sure what to think about that. So I don’t think, I do. I sit down next to you and gently clap you on the back. I keep clapping you on the back until your sobs turn to sniffles and you start wiping your nose and dapping at your eyes.
When I finally speak, it feels like we’ve been sitting here for hours. For years. For centuries. It feels like I haven’t spoken in so long I barely know how to speak, and my words come out in a barely audible murmur: I need to sleep. My voice sounds different too. It’s the voice of someone who’s lived far longer than I have. I barely recognize it.
And neither do you because you stare at me for another year-long moment, and I can actually see it in your eyes—you understand. You don’t say it, but you understand. And as I’m rising to my feet, you pull me back down and hug me for the first time in what’s probably been months but what feels like a lifetime, and I want to tell you it’s okay. I want to tell you I’m sorry, and that it’s not over yet, and that I’m glad you didn’t die, and that I wish you’d stop smoking pot to soothe yourself, and that you don’t have to scar your outside when you’re scarred on the inside.
I want to tell you this, but I don’t. I don’t have to.
Go get some sleep, you say.
And then you release me.
Sleep is proof God loves us and wants us to be happy. Benjamin Franklin said it was beer, but I think it’s sleep. Now don’t get me wrong, I love a good beer, but let’s be honest, what’s better: waking up with one bitch of a hangover and a bad case of the shits, or waking up refreshed and realizing you’re not quite as dead as you thought you were? And let’s not forget, sleep is more important. That might be hard to believe, but think about it. You can go your whole life without a drink, but try and go one too many nights without sleep and you start climbing the walls.
You tell me I look a little outta sorts and then clap me on the back. Real hard. The force almost sends me hurtling to the floor. And then you tell me you’ve got some weed and ask if I want any.
Most people I know think weed is great. Or at least relatively harmless. I used to be one of those people. Then I smoked it. And let me tell you, it is anything but. One doobie and I was about ready to go streaking down main street, preaching the doomsday. That shit makes you paranoid. Every car you see is a cop car. Every person who passes you by is a government agent who wants to kidnap and torture you. Every fear you have is multiplied by ten and the world is going to swallow you alive.
No thanks, I say.
You shrug. My loss.
I look at the counter beside the couch where you sit. Your car keys are there, next to your cell phone and a book on Kurt Vonnegut. And So It Goes, it’s called. I dig Vonnegut. Slaughterhouse-Five was the bomb. I’d never really thought about getting unstuck in time but I think it’s one of the coolest things I’ve ever heard of. To experience life in no particular order. To see the past as the future and the future as the past. It makes a lot of sense when you think about it. Time is relative, after all.
I watch you roll yourself a thick one and light up. The smell of weed wafts through the air. I gag and try to scoot out of the way. You notice my discomfort and laugh. I’m such a pussy, you say. Can’t take a bit of second-hand grass.
I flip you the bird.
As you bring the joint to your lips and smoke it, I catch glances of the scar on your wrist where you slashed yourself after your girlfriend dumped you. And here you call me the pussy. Maybe I’m insensitive, or maybe I’m just not in-tune to romance, but that’s always been weak in my mind.
You see me eyeing that scar. You look down at it yourself and say, Sometimes I wish I’d gone through with it. That way you wouldn't have to take care of me the way you do.
And you know what I wish? I wish I could stop caring. I wish I didn’t have to lose sleep, worrying that you’re going to open a vein or decide to take a little joyride that ends with you in a ditch. I wish all this caring didn’t wear my body out. I wish you could see that it has. I wish you’d stop acting like everything is a-okay and you don’t blame me for keeping you alive. And call me selfish, but I wish you’d stop saying shit like “I wish I’d gone through with it” because, you know, that really fucking hurts and sometimes I wonder if you say it just to get a rise out of me.
I want to tell you this. I want to scream it in your face. But I don’t. I do what I always do: shake my head and roll my eyes like it’s all no big deal.
So it goes.
I’ve come to accept that she’s gone, you say.
That’s nice. And have you come to accept that she’s not worth your life? I don’t say this.
You continue, so casually: And you know something? You look really old.
I wonder why. This I do say.
I’m serious, man. We’re the exact same age and we’re identical, but you—you falter, trip over your words; it’s easy to tell that you’re stoned—you look about fifty years older. How is that possible?
I shrug. Gee, I dunno, I say sarcastically. Lack of sleep may have something to do with it. Excessive worry could factor in.
God, you're being a douchebag. I almost let that out, but I stop myself.
Look at me, you say. You spread your arms out on either side of you, your joint—now a stub—still clutched between your fingers. Look at me, you say again. Bet you never took me for a lover-boy, huh? Bet you never saw me as a hopeless Romeo.
Hey, I cut in, at least Romeo thought Juliet was dead.
True, true.
You take one last hit from your joint, then stagger over to the door, open it, and toss the joint out onto the lawn. You sit back down afterward. Lean your head against the back of the couch and close your eyes.
How do you feel? I ask.
I’m dope, you say.
I can’t help but smile. No shit, Sherlock. I mean are you okay?
Stupid question. Incredibly stupid question.
But your answer catches me off-guard: No. And I don’t think I’ll ever be.
There’s a moment of silence between us. You sit perfectly still, and I start to think maybe time has frozen. But then you speak. I don’t think I’ll ever be okay with her gone, you say. I don’t think I’ll ever be okay with losing her, or losing the part of myself that loved her.
Another pause. You bite your lower lip and look at me: But I think things will get better.
Is that the dope talking?
You chuckle. Maybe.
A third pause. This one longer than the first two. There are a million things running through my head. A million things I want to say. But I wait for you to do the talking.
I know you care about me, you say. Sometimes I wish you’d stop… for your sake.
A tear pools your eye.
You know, you can’t sit in judgment of me. Your voice cracks. The tear falls. It journeys down your cheek and hides under your chin. I know you do, but that’s not fair. That’s not fucking fair, man. You think this is bad? You hold up your wrist. Flash me your scar. What about what you’ve done to yourself? What about that, huh? No sleep, barely any food, all your… all your worry. You flash me your scar again. I didn’t even want to die, man. More tears are falling. You’re full-on crying now. I didn’t even want to die, but you… you’re killing yourself. Over me. You’re killing yourself over me.
You bury your face in your hands and sob.
I don’t know how to react. I wish I could get unstuck in time like Billy Pilgrim and go back to when we were kids, when we used to switch places on people because we were so identical it wasn’t even funny, and when the only things we cried over were skinned knees and too much homework. I wish I could travel to the future, when we’re both old and missing our glory days and this is a distant memory we’ve all but forgotten. I wish I could travel to when we were floating in the womb, wrapped around each other, and everything was warm and peaceful and time didn’t even exist. I wish I could live any moment but this one.
But I’m no Billy Pilgrim, and this is no book written by Kurt Vonnegut, and time might not be real but moments sure as fuck are and I’m not escaping this one.
And so it goes.
I walk over to where you sit, slumped over, sobbing like I haven’t seen you sob in a long time. You didn’t even sob this much when your girlfriend left you, but you’re sobbing this much for me, and to tell you the truth, I’m not sure what to think about that. So I don’t think, I do. I sit down next to you and gently clap you on the back. I keep clapping you on the back until your sobs turn to sniffles and you start wiping your nose and dapping at your eyes.
When I finally speak, it feels like we’ve been sitting here for hours. For years. For centuries. It feels like I haven’t spoken in so long I barely know how to speak, and my words come out in a barely audible murmur: I need to sleep. My voice sounds different too. It’s the voice of someone who’s lived far longer than I have. I barely recognize it.
And neither do you because you stare at me for another year-long moment, and I can actually see it in your eyes—you understand. You don’t say it, but you understand. And as I’m rising to my feet, you pull me back down and hug me for the first time in what’s probably been months but what feels like a lifetime, and I want to tell you it’s okay. I want to tell you I’m sorry, and that it’s not over yet, and that I’m glad you didn’t die, and that I wish you’d stop smoking pot to soothe yourself, and that you don’t have to scar your outside when you’re scarred on the inside.
I want to tell you this, but I don’t. I don’t have to.
Go get some sleep, you say.
And then you release me.
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Decided to go with no quotation marks here. Compliments of Cormac McCarthy, author of The Road and No Country for Old Men, and Hubert Selby Jr., author of Requiem for A Dream. If you can't see where the dialogue begins and ends, read the piece out loud. I challenge my readers to find it. 
And in case anyone doesn't know, the "and so it goes" line is in reference to Slaughterhouse-Five by Kurt Vonnegut. Excellent book. Highly recommended.
And in case anyone doesn't know, the "and so it goes" line is in reference to Slaughterhouse-Five by Kurt Vonnegut. Excellent book. Highly recommended.
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Slaughterhouse-Five is the shit.
Btw though, *You're being a douchebag.
First thing I read after stockpiling lit from the people I watch for like two months, and it's fucking incredible. The lack of quotation marks really works for me. Really felt this. 