so about saturday night…

 

I was supposed to go to a “bad art” party.  I was invited to a going-away party.  I was also invited to a “let’s all sit around and listen to me be depressed” kick-back.  I was invited over to a friend’s house for hookah.  I did none of these things.

Instead, I made up several conversations in my head with the people who invited me to said functions about why I couldn’t come, or why I was uninvited.  And then I drove my car West on Bell Road out into the desert where no one knows my name and no one with any sense lives.

I drove on a barren road, under the cover of darkness (it was cloudy out) and parked on a turn off.  I got out of my car and proceeded to walk, alone, into the desert.  The air was chilly and dry.  This “super moon” everyone was talking about was, sadly, not visible due to the cloud coverage. 

I kept walking until I got to a point that, when I turned to look behind me, the road was distant enough that any lone traveller on it would be a duo of tiny yellow dots.  It was really quiet.  Almost eerily so.  At that moment I wished I was either high or drunk.  Alas, Babylon, I was neither.

I tilted my head up.  Took in a deep breath.  And I screamed.  At first, it was nothing but the sort of angry scream we’ve heard on movies dozens of times.  Inside I felt like a small boy who went suddenly radioactive and exploded in a sleepy neighborhood.  All this pent up rage and anger; it was so much that it felt like if it could be focused into a single point, it would trigger a large explosion.

Once I was out of breath, I stopped and panted.  And then I screamed again.  This time, it was actual words.

“I hate you, Joe Vega”
”I hate you, God”
”I hate you, Mom”
”I hate you, Dad”
”I hate you, Corey”

And then, when it was all over, I slumped back to my car.  I sat there for a moment or two, hands on the steering wheel, trying to collect myself and actually feel what just happened.  Nothing.

I started my car and drove back home.  Nothing changed.  Nothing magical or wonderful happened because of my little tantrum.  I could still feel the stiffness in my chest.  I could still feel the burning rage settling in the back of my mind, dormant and waiting to be triggered again.  And most of all, the hollow, empty, alone feeling remained center of it all. 

I got home, told a lie about where I’d just been, went to my room and attempted to write this out.  I couldn’t.  Instead, I watched porn and failed to respond to it.  I listened to 5 minutes of Bill Maher, but found it numbing.  I tried to write something not related to what I had done, but couldn’t find words.  I turned on Netflix and fell asleep to some mind-numbing teen show about aliens in Roswell and their “tragic” lives.