Inked > h.s au {DISCONTINUED}

chapter 2

a.n. Heyyyyy it's Marissa, just wanted to let you know htat to the side is a picture of Lennon, there were a lot of better ones, but I had to use that one because it didn't get stretched. Ilysm to all of our readers

<3- M.xxx

CH. 2

I like art.

I like the way that I can make long brush strokes turn into thick, long hair and the way that I can easily re-create beautiful scenes with just a few colors and a paint brush. I like capturing movements of dancers, or chatter between friends. Or the way that I can turn a scowl into a smile, just with a few extra lines.

But then there’s real life: the real picture, the real strands of hair, the real reason for loss and tears. And I guess that’s why I like art: to escape.

Too, I like to think that the things that I make a bit of a difference. I like to think of it as better than the pictures of “abstract” paintings of straight lines in hipster art museums or random black and white pictures of rain. (Although photography is great, really. Just not my deal.)

Not that stupid drawings of random couples or paintings of air balloons are going to save anybodies life, I muse.

Anyone could hear Piper come up the stairs, really. She’s always wearing those black clunky boots and stomping all over the place, and she’s always talking to someone on the phone about not wanting to waste her life and do you think I could convince Simon Cowell to adopt me?

I’m slumped over on our ratty couch when she comes in, hissing (she does this a lot, I’ve noticed) and says, “I know you don’t like me, and I could really give less than two fucks about this, but do you want to get a taco?” Her cigarette is half-hanging out her mouth, and she’s breathing a bit hard because our dorm is on the top floor and the elevator is broken (“It’s cheaper,” Piper had said when I asked her why on earth she would volunteer for a top floor room). The Jungle Giants is still playing on my computer and I just- “Um, no thanks?”

“C’mon,” she says, pulling out a lighter and grabbing a Red Bull from our small refrigerator, “I’ve been your roommate for almost a week and we’ve already been drunk in the same room. I’d say we’d have gotten to, like, third base already if we were a couple.”

“No, you were drunk and then you threw a bottle of beer at me,” I say, scooting closer towards my bed as she plops on the couch.

“God, shut up. What I’m trying to say is, it’s a taco emergency, and how lame would I look if I'm eating a taco alone in my car? Just come on. I promise I won’t try to steal your pencils anymore- or whatever your drawing majors are so scared of.”

“It’s illustration,” I say, rolling my eyes. I could roll my eyes forever at Piper. My eyes will probably get stuck in that position after one semester.

“Whatever,” she says. “Grab your shit.”

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“You got no friends to call your own,

No one ever calls you on the telephone,

All you ever do is bitch and moan.”

“God,” Piper says, sitting at a red light on a rather empty street. In Savannah, there aren’t a lot of cars anyway. It’s nice; you can just sit and see without the noise of the traffic buzzing in your ears. “What is this crap?”

“It’s the story of your life,” I tell her, “San Cisco saw your life and just said, ‘Dear me, Piper Jemmings has such a boring life, we just have to write a song about it.”