So goodbye Summer- and hello University. I leave in a week- as in, in a week I will be in my new single room in Toronto. And to be honest? I'm not all that nervous- yet. I probably should be, I should probably be terrified but more of what's going through my head is "Do I have everything I need?"

I think I do.

...I hope I do.

...shit.

fuck.

fuck this fuck you fuck trying fuck hurting fuck wanting fuck being fuck this fuck that fuck him fuck her fuck wanting fuck longing fuck belonging fuck listening fuck caring fuck love fuck hate fuck friendship fuck giving a damn fuck being someone fuck importance fuck excitement fuck muse fuck belonging fuck this fuck that fuck me.

reflection

i started this at midnight- just for reference.

Looking back onto my free writes over the semester, I see a slowly developing process. At first, it’s easy to see how unsure I was about what I was writing. More than anything, my free writes were like journals- recollecting on my life, showing me how I felt. My life felt more and more like a story the more I read it. However, as I passed on over time, the development is clear. Looking at the flow of entries, I see how my writing changed to develop stories and theories, opinions and thoughts into small, poetic pieces. Each paragraph resounds into a different part of me, and I can remember exactly how I felt each time, how much my heart ached, or my mind soared to argue. My feelings developed from angry moments where I recollected about my day into ideas about the world around me, my writing style losing etiquette, but in a way I was very comfortable with. And while I may have lost that skill, to a degree, it relaxed my style of writing. I feel so much more confident about all that I write about, having the ability to write at any spur of the moment and be proud of my work. It’s why I put my work on a blog. I am proud of my work, and I want to share it with everyone- I want people to see what I feel and have thoughts about, and watch my work develop as I do the same. My voice changes over time, and I think I want to continue this- I want to watch my voice and style change over time, and see where it takes me- which is why I’ve decided to do a free write once every three days!

final free write.

i was trying to find one more free write- one more little thing i could show you before i had to go.

and all i could find was:

"I dont have any specific entries, but I know there were angry one

The pages were ananymous, and looking back they were the type that couldn't really be defined from each other"

I have decided to continue for three minutes. i had promised myself that i was going to write in a journal, a long wonderful, beautiful binder full of all sorts of things- pictures and drawings. i never really drew with my free writes though- the art in them often lay in words. and so i decided why not just use the art i love the most? this is my blog, and this blog holds solely my work in writer's craft. why? well, why not? they share my opinions and beautiful words, everything i've felt and thought of- characters i have created and examined, things i have observed. if there is one thing i enjoy it is that.

i am reflecting- i promised myself i would do that at midnight for memories sake.

my everything is purple and pink in here- i remember when it was blue and green, painted like a garden. i remember when my mom painted it, with a roller covered in sheets and paint- it smelled like turpentine for weeks. but she did it because i loved it. i painted my room myself, it's a bit of a shoddy job but it brings me memories too- i stopped talking to my best friend for two months because of this paint job, she wanted to go to the mall.

hey jess? you were a stupid kid. but it's okay, cause i cried and apologized for being mad. and i used to be dumb and sing opera. we all have our flaws.

love and appreciate more than anything else, and adore everything it is that you do. admire all, never hate- never despise. love, love above all other things- holy fuck do these words befit the music i'm listening to right now. it's amazing.

thanks james horner, you're a right ol' pal.

i listen to soundtracks when i write because i think they add more depth to my emotion- does that seemw eird to anyone else or is it just me? i'm sometimes insecure. this is a good, final free write though i think.

...shit. i didn't even start the timer. oh well.

pink writing- sometime in march.

Im not really sure what to write about in here, I'm feeling kinda weird. People need to shut up. Uhm, okay. my name is Caitlin, but on the attendance Im called Cait. I don't know why but I kind of dislike being called Cait. I was called Cait at Bateman, and its like my name on facebook, but it feels weird here, now. Emily Bruno forgot about Bateman, I haven't been able to. I wonder what life would be like if I was still at Bateman.

march 3rd

I am ridiculously angry. You know what? I HATE BITCHES. Stupid bitches who think they rule the world. A and D can go be freaks together, I've had enoug of them and their better than SHIT.Seriously, all they do is contribute to the stress and drama, and then when we get tired of their clique-y bitching and turn on them they get butthurt and bitch at the weaker people who will take it. Fuck them, seriously. They sit there on their high horses and tell us to stop being so high school? WE'RE WRITING A BOOK, GET THE FUCK OVER IT. It's not personal, it's not about you, we just don't like where you're going with shit. So stop harassing your friends, being two-faced bitches and GROW THE FUCK UP. Oh, and if you don't? I'll fucking kick you off the author list, take out your input and your words. You have no control, nor will you ever. I am in charge, and this is my story. So frankly, STFU or GTFO.

I feel a bit better now. I am sleepy though. I want some food and cake. Will this end? Where are the chocolate strawberries? I am afraid about tomorrow.

february 27th

Im really feeling in a good mood today; like I'm unstoppable or something. its nice, because I know there are bad things out there- people who are angry, but I don't care! I worry my app to Kings may be too late- Mom will kill me. Reminder to print off that today, mhm. Hm. I am trying to think of three essays I have done. English, english, history, are they good enough? I need my transcripts, or something like that... and I need those STAT. I wish I could just do it now! Cause I don't want to write. I don't even really want to go to Kings, but I have to apply... early modern studies, WTF is that? ugh, good mood ruined. And that'd be a great ending, but no, no. I want to get into the classics- Ancient Greece and Rome. Mythology, culture- I adore everything about it. Please, please let me get accepted somewhere for the Classics- please? I'm smart, and I'm working on my organization

sometime in february- the ink is still purple.

I don't know what to write today, but I'm feeling pretty good today., I love Ella Fitzgerald, and not just the singer. The sweet little cupcake bookworm friend who would rather read Alice in Wonderland than watch any film. Innocence in the form of a little girl contented with novels and books, who chooeses to explore rather than endure. One life to live, so live it full, happy and content. Don't let dungeons stop you from being free, don't let loving someone stop you from being close to them. Its weird when your best friend wants to kill you, I think. Really weird. Even weirder when your best friend is sixty, and looks nothing of the sort. I enjoy ballet, and not cooking, ice cream and novels, being cozy and not being alone. The colour yellow is a great colour, I can't wait until the summer. I don't want to costume anymore, but I still want to? Why are these always a journal for me? My ideas are mulling.

blue.

your eyes always seemed so much nicer than mine. now, the thing about your eyes though is that even though they are much nicer, they are poorly kempt. i always noticed that while your eyes were a bright blue, you had a terrible unibrow to match- just like every other male i know. is a tweezer that feminine? i'd much prefer to see you with kempt eyebrows- it'd make your eyes look so much nicer. your eyes are nice and white, not like your teeth (which are awfully nice as well) but like how eyes should be. they have veins in them, which is good because i don't know where they could run off to otherwise, and they have the nicest irises. they aren't purple irises, but they are most certainly not brown- poo coloured, like mine. my eyes are brown like poop, and yours are bluer than the sky. it's nice to look at, especially because your hair is dark and lovely. they contrast and it makes me pleased. the pupil in your eyes is nice and dilated- but not to an extreme because i dont want to talk about addicts and addiction, and drugs and influential things save my teacher think i'm some sort of crack head myself. but your eyes are nice, demetrius. they are very very pleasant.

i once had a dream that everyone in my world was a little bit missing and they forgot all about me. once upon a time i woke up and realzied it was true. that eveyrone and everything would move on quite easily- i've had very little impact in my life.

my mother called me rude today, i suppose that she's entitled to her own opinion, but it was a bit of a dick move in all honesty. would she like it if i did the same? i would get kicked out of my house. this was only a minute long freewrite, but i guess it works well. i wonder where my paycheque is. is that how you spell it? the letter q is so unloved. but only by the u. i sometimes believe the q and the u are the king and queen of the alphabet- q is the queen, and u is the king, always protecting her. unless those strange words come around, those vile ones- i don't even know any of them off the top of my head- they're that vile.

i wish i was that innocent in other aspects of my life, not just alphabet crime.

What would you do if you grew up without a smile? I would be so sad, and upset. No one would even know if it were so either. If I cried people would think I was just either sad, or overjoyed. What if I were in pain? If I had no mouth, I would not have a tongue, so speaking aloud would be extremely difficult. I would not be able to laugh, or scream or whisper or sing. I wouldn't be able to kiss, or reassure anyone that everything would be okay. If I had no mouth, I would look funny as well, cause everyone would know something was missing. And frankly, I wouldn't be able to eat either. So none of this much matters, for I would be dead. I never really realized how important my mouth is to me- it makes me glad I treat it well with proper oral hygiene and an occasional floss as a nice treat. Oh little mouth, you are underestimated but so powerful. Thank you mouth, lips, tongue and teeth, thanks to you too.

...and now I will treat you by eating pie.

i don't want to be a hipster, thanks.

what is the point of a freewrite? why do we do things like freewrites? what makes them so special? are they here to advance our writing skills and develop our minds, to determine what is right and just in our heads- to make sure we can self-edit on the spot? i guess that's cool, but sort of monotonous. isn't half the art of writing saying something on the spot without making sure if it's corrected? it's an honest, unedited truth of that single moment, not a moment where everything is changed and altered in one's head to look right.

you know, i never thought i'd say it- but i think i hate the way things are going. i mean, sure- i'm happy where i am, with my friends and all that? but that other world i delve myself into is falling apart. how is it that seven people can manage to be so hateful and hurtful towards one another, and make each other feel like such shit? man, i just realized i totally edited earlier. i was going to call writing bullshit, which it's not, but i felt like it. there, now it's down. full honesty, right?

two year olds are called the terrible twos, but i don't think epople have a proper word for what the eighteen year olds are- fucked up? stressed to shit? a bunch of lying, cursing crazies? that works well. i don't have forty-five dollars to spend on a nice trip over to the world of limo-land, and i'd appreciate it if epoeple didn't screw me over every two seconds when it came to it. i don't like bitches, i don't like bullshit, and i just summarized most of my school's population so unfortunately i think i may not like you. i mean, i want to like people? but if you're a dick, you can screw off. sorry.

i just disconnected from the internet, apparently. i don't like writing free writes on the computer but it works, i suppose. i have more things to write this way and i can feel what ifeel. its not about how fast i can write, because god knows i can type quickly- but it's more about the lack of expression. is it cool when i bold something for everyone to see? HERE IS MY BOLDING TO SHOW I AM MAD.

socio is a bitch.

see, that shouldn't have been bolded. italics show personal thought. PERSONAL THOUGHT? hello, this is my free write. i should italicize EVERYTHING.

see what i did there? i changed the typography- a very avant garde, hipster thing to do.

...good god, my life is going down the drain.

cursing doesn't make it feel okay.

fuck ultimatums.

fuck giving your opinion, because god knows that doesn't matter anymore.

selfish, selfless, get the fuck over yourself!

i've felt so much of this disease, and it's more overwhelming than i ever imagined.

sometimes i feel like maybe i understand the others.

i just want peace, and love, explanation and time.

for someone to just, be reasonable and for others to listen.

i quit.

i quit being part of this madness, and this nonsense, i want things to be good and happy and okay and wonderful and if that's me being a naive mother fucker than fuck you- i'm six.

i'd much rather be six and happy then eighteen and wanting to die.

you all make me so mad, and you are too stuck up your own asses to fully comprehend it.

thanks for asking me how i'm doing, assholes.

i made paper once.

when i was young, and i mean like, really little- i was a crafty kid. and i mean like, really crafty. i used to go to crackpot art studios and i would paint porcelain stuff, and it'd be really wonderful. once, i went with my mom and i painted a plate, she made me a frame for photos. i still have the frame, and my mom has the plate downstairs in the basement, hidden underneath some blankets so it doesn't get destroyed. the crackpot art studios had a camp during the summer, and when i was eight or something around that age i joined it. we made all sorts of weird stuff, like- i recall making a bank that was shaped like a fat cat. i made a hole for the coins and everything. but unfortunately, because it's me, i forgot to hollow out the cat, and so all i had by the end of my week was an ugly cat shaped fat blob with a slit in the back. i cried, i was pretty upset.

another time we had to make our own paper, and i recall having a lot of fun with that. we got to throw a lot of pieces of construction paper together and put it into some goop- it was really cool. they had these like, basket almost like things... like what you sift for gold with, and we put the paper in there. i only made like, three sheets- i wonder what happened to them.

one time we also made these hand prints in sand, that molded. i actually have no idea whether i was in the camp at that point, nor do i really have any recollection of making it- but i know that one time i was sick at home, and this hand print was used as a door holder- the maids were cleaning the house. and here i am, sitting innocently in my room when i hear a loud crack and an "oh shit!" i was amazed- maids swear? turns out one of them had dropped it (god knows how) and cracked it right in half. we have the pieces, and i swear my mom wanted to cut those ladies in half and sue the bits left over. but we just have the pieces lying around.

maybe i'll make her a new one sometime soon, that would be nice.

but all in all i have concluded i would be a terrible artist- because in the long run everyone can paint a piece of clay, everyone can make a fat cat not-bank, everyone can make paper, and my only accomplishment in this world was destroyed by the maids.

...life's a fucking bitch.

i'm extremely spoiled.

sometimes i feel really bad for my dad. he's not the nicest guy sometimes, and he only gets to see me and my sister so often, but i suppose he has his reasons for whatever he does. my sister's a total bitch to him, see- it's completely unfair. she takes control of him, and takes advantage of him. he tries to do whatever he can to make her happy, because he knows that he and i have too tumultuous of a relationship for anything to really be mended. but, ergo, because of this, my sister takes advantage of the poor man. we come to his house, and admittedly, we don't spend all that much time with him. i've analyzed that on my part, and that's derived from all sorts of issues between me and him. my sister though, argues those opinions of mine. she takes everything she can from him, and sits around in the basement on the computer or watching her life sift away in front of the television. and while admittedly, i immerse myself in these sorts of things a lot at his place- it's ridiculous the things she does. today, she said she had a sore throat, and so she decided to eat ice cream and watch tv, after my dad told her to go lay down. warning her, i told her it was a bad idea.

...later on today i got a call from my mother asking me to call my sister because she was in a fit. turns out my dad got furious with her for ignoring his requests, and got extremely upset. she said she didn't know, and that it wasn't her fault... it was ridiculous. moving on with this story though, she was speaking to me saying that she needed something for her throat, and said if it'd be a good idea to ask our dad to go out and buy mints for her. i told her that was mean, and slightly abusive- she said she didn't know what i was talking about. so out he goes, and he returns with halls, which is a good idea! little does my father know that my sister hates halls, though. and so she starts groaning and complaining about how she just wanted plain mints- how halls don't work, and only last for ten minutes (good luck with those mints then, child). anyways, she complains to my dad which upsets him even more- he's the man who made us an entire lobster meal all on his own.

...and tells her that if he does such a bad job of raising us, she can just go to our mom's place to live.

and so she calls my mom to ask to do so.

now my father and i have had our own issues, but she's leaving because he's upset with her for not getting her what she wants. seeing what goes on in the other house, she doesn't act like this at all.

i'm so sorry for my dad, he's had to raise the most spoiled brats in the world.

Racism doesn't make you a rock star. I don't like you because you're not who I want you to be. I wouldn't like me if I met myself. It hurts to be mocked, it hurts to be hated, it hurts to be loved. Everything hurts so SHUT THE FUCK UP NICK (topic unrelated) and start living. If you're really so sore go buy yourself a hot tub or take a bath - quit bitching about what's right and fair. I like seeing justice served, but it often makes others sad. Does that make me a bad person? I'm not blind, deaf or dumb- does that make me bad too?

Is it wrong to be normal cause that is fucked up. Being average is fucked up- everyone treats the majority like a bunch of dicks. I'm not a dick.

art.

Have you ever wondered what it's like to get punched in the face really hard? Like, to the point where blood is just, like, pouring from your nose, and you can't see straight, and all you smell is that salty red shit smell? That's art. That really, really fat chick with the short blue hair that could really use a straightener? She's art. The way your food is laid on your plate, with the lima beans just sorta stuck in there with the carrots, and those little bits of corn, and the peas? The type of handwriting you use when you write something, the colour pens you use, the way you wear your jeans, the perfume you spray, the way you walk, you talk, you eat you breathe you sing you dance you lunge you prance you lounge while watching TV you sleep with your entire body curled up because that's the only way you feel safe anymore because he left you and now you have no one to cling to at night because his body isn't next to yours and he doesn't much care about it while you try to find the pillow that still smells like him? That's art too.

Because you are art, and I am art.

Life is art.

ed Have you ever wondered what it's like to get punched in the face really hard? Like, to the point where blood is just, like, pouring from your nose, and you can't see straight, and all you smell is that salty red shit smell? That's art. That really, really fat chick with the short blue hair that could really use a straightener? She's art. The way your food is laid on your plate, with the lima beans just sorta

i don't dress up anymore because i am not six years old, either.

i want to go back to summer,

where all i had to do was go outside, and smell the smell of new mulch, and wear shorts and and not care.

i liked hearing stories about the latest shin-dig at timmy's,

where my evenings consisted of screaming out the window to passers-by.

i need summer,

because summer is where i am free, and there is no number that judges how good your vacation is.

i need summer cause i could go for a breather, and this cold thing and i aren't really getting along too well.

sitting in libraries listening to songs i loved in august reminds me that august was amazing,

and that i am glad that things have changed.

i'm glad i've moved past that part of my life.

i hope you all get past yours.

THE CHURCH OF THE NEW MILLENIUM

I am a person who is of the pseudo-Catholic religion, as in the sense that I believe in God, but in a different way. I don’t go to a church every Sunday; I am much more than that. I don’t simply eat the body of Christ in those stupid little crackers (made by nuns), or who drinks bad wine they call his blood- no. I am better than that. I am a disciple of our time, knowing that God is in more than just paper flavoured crackers and cheap alcohol.

Every day, I go to the McDonalds down the street from my house, and I order a super sized fry and a large diet coke, no ice. This- this is God, this is his reigning light shining down on me, and every single bite of that crispy golden fry is a sign from that wonderful man upstairs saying “Honey, I meant for it to be this way”. The Golden Arches that lead into this majestic place are like a sign that this is a temple, to be admired and appreciated- beloved, even. For this place is like no other. It provides us all with a place to go, delivering us quality, delicious food that is ready in a single instant. And what everyone doesn’t seem to realize, is just how right I am.

Whenever I offer my ideals to the Vatican (in a lovely, self-addressed, recycled envelope, might I add) I get no response. I send letters to my politicians, to my teachers, to everyone I know- and I’ve only gotten one reply. I sent a letter to my best friend, Sonny, and he told me I needed to stop tripping on acid. Sonny’s a dick, he knows acid isn’t holy. Nothing is holy like French fries.

I suppose this would all be much more logical if I explained this in further detail, and let me do so now. French fries and diet coke are truly the body of Christ. In Church we are told that they are gifts he sacrificed, that every one of his disciples recognized this. That all is to eat, and drink, from him, and show admiration, for his body is a release of our sins. Frankly, I’ll be honest with you all. Whenever I strutted up to the altar, and my priest put that piece of cardboard crap on my tongue, all I could ever think was “Fuck, this tastes terrible”. Not once did I ever feel good, feel nourished, and… forgiven. But when I walk into that McDonalds, and I wait in line, I see everyone else feel the same thing as me.

Each person goes, and they order their combo, and as they sit down with their tray, and eat that fry- their faces change. A look of sheer bliss emits from that forty something woman who’s clearly had some troubles at home because she cansmell that fry with just her eyes, because she feels satisfied. Nothing else matters when she eats that French fry, nothing at all. It’s just her, and that piece of golden heaven. And what better way to wash it down than with the drink of the people- the drink of America! Diet Coke. I mean, even Lady Gaga knows it, she wore those cans in her hair not for product placement, not for the money- but for the religion she’s spreading around the world. My religion.

I’ll openly admit that Ronald McDonald isn’t a saint, nor is the Hamburger Caper really a Judas of our time, but what I’m getting at is more than that. This franchise, this… set of churches, one could argue, supply us all with everything church offers us, take out the prayers and discussions of Jesus. But that’s probably a legal thing, these places get gun fights all the time for getting orders wrong- you don’t want to implicate Jesus into that little mess. But here we have our little altars, our trays of redemption, hymns of the Top 40 hits running into our ears. Children laughing and playing… this is what religion is to become. It’s a Pop Culture phenomenon, the Church of the New Millenium!

Everyone will join me when they understand how right I am, how wrong they’ve all been. They’ll turn away from this Pope, and they’ll look to me as I create a revolution. This French fry is the body, this carbonated heaven is the blood- delicious, delicious redemption for every sin I have ever committed. And Sonny? Sonny can fuck it.

——

“Yeah, sir… that’s as far as he got.” The EMS medic said simply, turning to look at his superior with a sort of amused expression. It was one of his first calls of the night, an issue with a teenage girl at the local McDonalds.

The older man gave a soft sigh, taking the set of napkins from the younger’s hands. “The Church of the New Millennium, McDonalds a temple? The servers said he was a regular, but they never mentioned anything like this.”

“Well, what do we do here, sir?” It was an awkward situation, that was for sure. The girl was no older than seventeen, and here she was, collapsed against the bench in the restaurant, half leaning towards the floor, half still in her seat.

“The manager said she’s been going here for years, every day ordering that same thing- a super sized fry and a large diet coke.”

“No ice.”

“Don’t be a smart ass. It was inevitable she was going to die if she kept going, her arteries clogged and she went through cardiac arrest- what is one to expect here?”

The older man looked to the younger, eyes darkening slightly in displeasure. He should’ve known what had happened here, the signs were obvious. For crying out loud, she was over 300 pounds, and sitting in a McDonalds, they’d gotten a call about a cardiac arrest.

But the younger man still looked confused, and laughed faintly. “No sir, I knew that. I was referring as to how we would get her out of the bench.”

Looking down at the obese corpse, trapped in its altar, the younger man thought it’d be best to leave her where she was, leave her in her heaven.

i'm getting phone calls from the insurance people again

i want to walk up to you, tell you i trust you, and then have you carry me off into some sunset.

but every fool knows that sunsets are just things we watch.

you are just an alcoholic who smokes too much, with a beard and an attitude.

being a film student does not make you indie.

everyone lately wants to know what my social insurance number is, but i don't see why.

what insurance do i need to be social? here's some money, so if you can't communicate, you won't die.

that's like life insurance, if you die, we'll give everyone else money.

but really money's the only thing cutting us all down in this world, its what prevents us from living.

i want you to let go of your vices, to stop talking down to me.

i'm not twelve anymore, i'm almost an adult, and no amount of laser tag will change that.

i dress up, sure- but i am ten times smarter than you ever were, and i'll prove that to you.

i feel monotonously unchanging, but everyone's moving along around me.

i feel social, which i suppose is why my insurance is coming up. in case it backfires.

luckily no one's been calling about the life stuff, so i should be good there.

you are not running my life, so i don't need any money.

otherwise, i swear you would kill me.

365 days

recipes, autumn, and pumpkins remind me of the smell of my house in the fall that one year when we went for drives all the time. my entire house is mostly brown, and orange- its a fall house.

in the spring it seems awfully strange to live in it, but the upper floor is a moss green colour which fits, i guess.

it reminds me of the stuff we pull out of the pond when its getting too thick, and i end up getting bruised knees covered in rocks and mulch which my step dad keeps throwing shit at me.

not shit, no. not poo. its called algae.

my room reminds me of the summer, but it also reminds me of some persian dream. paisley prints, gold orange and magenta glittering all over the place.

i sit in here and i remember falling into the creek when i was trying to walk across, and my best friend laughed and fell in poison oak, and we spent the next two hours contemplating how to fix the mess.

the basement is the winter room, because its sort of blue. maybe the living room, because its april second and we still haven't taken down our tree.

celebrating christmas every day just makes me lose the sentiments for it.

...did i just ruin christmas?

You know what I don't understand? Two faced liars. Two faced fucking liars. I hate people who think its okay to complain, and get butthurt over things that they caused, and when the shit goes down they take their high horse and complain about how they've "had enough". If you've had enough, get the fuck out. I don't want you here if you're going to ruin my fun, my life.

The least any person should do is take responsibility for their actions. If you say one thing, or bitch about one thing, at least open up to it. I hate you and your group you've created, your little club of holier than thous that think they can control the world, and then tell people what to do. GET. THE FUCK. OVER YOURSELVES.

So not in the mood for the world right now. People are greedy. Greedy mother fuckers. And if you're not helping, you'd best get out of the way. Or else, you get ignored- right?

Right, that's exactly right.

I'm going through a Looking-Glass complex issue, of sorts. Everything every person is saying to me is affecting who I am.

MY NAME IS OPHELIA

This is a piece I was working on for Writer's Craft- inspired by a creation of mine, this is Ophelia's mind at its best.

He makes me smile in the things that he does, of that I am positive. Whether it’s the way that he insists that he is always right (Even though I prove him wrong every time), or the way he looks to me when things go wrong- he makes me smile. Even when he cries, so upset about the losses he’s faced; I smile. I see this man in front of me, taller than I am by what- four inches? I see him crying! Glassy blue eyes, hidden by his hair- a brown mop that grows much too fast- with little streaks streaming down his cheeks! Sometimes they leave marks, because some days he’s out working God knows where. Half the time I hug him and wonder why he always smells like dirt, because he used to smell like that Russian place he works at. A heavy smell, but warm; overpowering in a good way. But now? Now he smells like rain, cigarette smoke, dirt and alcohol. Those crying baby blues seem overpowered by heavy lids, common when he isn’t high. His voice has weakened so much in defeat- I walked by his room just a few moments ago and heard him whimper. His voice used to be the one I heard bellowing my name when I got in trouble, like when I accidentally mixed all his work shirts with his plaids and dyed the white shirts a murky brownish shade. That’s when he’d make me give up my money, or else I would be the one in tears. Now it’s like the tables have turned. I held control over the pale man, the emaciated body I used to know. I control when he gets a hit, when those sweaty, shaky hands get to hold a syringe. I smile because of the things that he does, I smile knowing I control his withdrawals. I hold the money- I hold everything in my hands. I smile because his smile is gone.