Guitar

Lance got his new guitar this morning, while we were staying home "sick". I'd been sitting on the couch: feeling stoned and grey and a little hungry, and he was on the family computer off to the side, looking up hockey stuff. We had started some sort of arguement (we're still at that egdy, cut-throat stage), when he turned to the couch, where his shiny new Zion GT Shoreline Gold sat, pristeen and shiny and said "ShhhHHH...Don't yell in front of the guitar." And he kissed me on the nose and took it downstairs.
If he could have sex with it, he'd have NO use for me.
JV

Allen's 17th

...I find it disturbingly awkward, being in the same house as someone I'm angry at: walking to school with them, playing gigs with them, eating dinner with them...especially when its their house, and you're the interloper.
Last night, I was staying in the extra room in the basement, and I thought I heard Lance sniffling in the next room.
Honestly, Lance didn't shed a tear EVER until he was about 16, and that was the year when everything fell apart, when I ended up in a coma and such...so I found it odd that he was doing it now. (And since the Coma Year, I've seen him cry maybe twice)
I kind of peeked out, and yeah, he was crying and playing a video game (Prince of Persia can steal MY treasure anyday), but it was on the Game Over screen and I asked him "what the hell's wrong." (I really got to stop casual swearing, I sound like I don't give a shit)
He looked at me and said: "How come nothing ever goes right?" and he indicated the screen, where the Prince lay, dead, in a volley of spikes, and I plopped down beside him and gave him a hug. It didn't really occur to me that we were in a fight, or else I would have walked away and made him feel bad (the spiteful bastard I am). He sniffed into my shirt, and made the shoulder all wet until he got up and went back to bed. I turned off the system and sat up for a while.
The weird part was next morning (this morning) when we acted EXACTLY the same, as if we were still in the fight, and it was like nothing had happened. I think I felt angry because of it, but I'm not sure.
Sigh....boring post, sorry.
JV


P.S Happ Birthday, Muto. >>>>>http://meandering-avk.blogspot.com<<<<<<

Nighttime

After this divinely twisted realisation of mine, I was listening to Feel Good Inc. over and over and over..."Take it all in on your stride, it is sinking, falling down; love forever, love is free, let's turn forever: you and me..."
I was concentrating on the music, my own special way of blocking out the depression and Lance and I had just been in a fight. It's hard to know where to go when you share a floor with someone and you storm out. I hate to worry Fran (Lance's mom, to recap), but I just took off, and I sat out behind the 7/11 and turned on my CD Player (yes, I live in the Stone Age).

He told me he didn't want to hear anything else about my death dream. Just out of the blue, he said it, while he was flipping through a guitar catalogue (a peace offering from his brother and his friends...Lori and Josh said it was a "good will mission", to end the mini-war we've been having). I was looking through The Bad Art Collection again...a seriously pitiable collection of art from genius Vasquez. (It was 2 bucks, why not?)
I kind of looked up at him, and as per my way, started a fight. I say (dumbass!) "So you don't want me to talk at all?"
He says, "I didn't say that. I said don't talk about your death dream."
"Why don't I just cut out my throat?" I cheerfully suggest (what the fuck is wrong with me, God?)
He threw his magazine down and asked me "Is that all you're going to talk about, then? Because believe it or not, I don't like hearing about your death!" and he stormed out.
THAT'S when I stop feeling spiteful and feel guilty. And I know Lance: if I apoligise immediately, he'll figure that I'm patronizing him.
I followed him anyway (was irritated to find that he'd taken off one of my socks, so I was half-bare footed) and he just turned around and told me that he though that maybe if I died, then I wouldn't want to destroy myself anymore, maybe I'd stop hurting him, and that he was really sick of dealing with me.
Word for word, my father had said the same thing last month (about being sick of dealing with me), so I dropped my apolegetic look and got really angry. I couldn't see his point at the time, and wished I had. I just swore at him, instead, put on my boots and left with my bag.

Anyway, I sat behind the 7/11 with my bag, containing homework and (thankfully) cigarettes and my CD on repeat, and rubbed my aching head (it felt like I'd hit my temple on the corner of a desk, but duller and more painful). I bought some booze and basically got tanked, and stayed in place until the 7/11 guy kicked me away, and then I went and sat on Lance's porch. For some reason, I figured he wouldn't come up, therefore it was a safe place to be...I reason poorly when I'm drunk. Instead, a visiting Lori (previously mentioned, he's recently married to Ian) sat out with me and just sighed.
I was going to say something to him (I won't say what, it was awfully rude and I was awfully drunk), but Fran pulled me inside and put me to sleep on the couch. I can't help but figure she would always take Lance's side (I mean all the time, I was definitely wrong on this one) because she was his mom, but she seemed to be pretty nuetral and that made me sleep easy, for sure.
Anyway, I fucked up, but I'm never to speak of the dream again says Lance. (I remember back in the day we used to call him God, and aesthetically, oh yeah. While I'm still mad about the breakfast thing, let me say this: He's a fucking idiot. He's airheaded and stupid and he can't even read well!)
The breakfast includes me getting drenched in cereal, so fuck him: HE was wrong there.
Love
JV, bastard