January 1, 2008, Tuesday
It was night until the mischievous sounds came. Everyone's awake, my heart's beating far away from aching. It's a strong, buzzing alarm that Wayne forgot to turn off.
"The alarm," Harry said as his voice increased into a furious tone. "Turn it off."
I stood, and couldn't catch a hold of myself. The bathroom—I had to release what's inside of me last night. Every risk that I have partake in, and it's my terror to be strangled in another hungover. I ran as I bumped into Fiona's shoulder.
It was loud, her vomit. I can sense she's relentlessly gone from the wind. She's whispering a bunch of times, "Fuck it." As she finished, "Sorry, Rode. Your turn now."
This must be an after-effect—too outrageous to hate it but can't misunderstand the fun out of it. It was a delightful moment where everyone's drunk-texting with someone (besides me). "Charlie, I'm sick. Can you check?"
I took a detour and it's Jade, "You're not. Must be stress—have fun getting relieved out of it by vomiting."
"I feel piping hot but thanks," she entered the lavatory.
Wayne interrupted Jade, "Is everyone sick?"
She said, "Hey, I got in here first."
"Who cares? Puke on the other side."
"Where the fuck—shit," she paused then continued to grip out of the uncontained substances in her body until she couldn't anymore and released it over the sink.
Harry looked unsatisfied, "Wayne, give her space. Will you?"
"This is my space, and this is hers," he looked up with vomit in his mouth.
"Make sure to clean up your face. You should see what we're seeing right now, Wayne."
Jade laughed, "You're right. Your face isn't all-American anymore."
Moments later, here I am, outside the house. Sitting in the middle of the winter season—breezing and unbothered mindset. I was escaping the cold but the cold can't trap what's inside of me; the warmth of the snowsuits. All dressed up like a kid making snowmen with his sister at a younger age with no detailed memory of it. I can't be fatigued over it because of Julie.
The spirit of boredom is alive in this time of season—all of them are on their phones. Communicating with their loved ones, and the most detached ones—and God knows what. Reducing the redundancy in my time: I turned to my typewriter. A gift I received a few years after my graduation. Thanks to my publisher, Adrian.
Typing the first words—I can sense laughter inside the living room. It's the light and it's what brings them together, the television. The snow—being enthralled by its captivation is barely enough to become an inspiration for poetry. Seemingly not knowing how to construct or analyze the hologram of it. Olaf is a sweet snowman, who reminds me that whenever I do something wrong—there's the good out of it. After all, he's created without thinking of it.
In an instant, everyone stopped for their amusement. I fled across the scene and saw everyone reading my book.
I looked at them, "Is that 'I'm a part of it,' what's going on?"
"Nothing, we're just bonding over your alluring plot," Fiona answered.
"But that's not my best book."
"Well, it is for me," Harry quickly answered. "There's the villain, the whole story of the main and side characters, and the captivating plot."
Wayne added, "That's something, isn't it?"
"Whatever it is, I'm loving it."
Jade said, "It will be more comforting, if you're here, reading it for us page-by-page."
"Oh, we're doing this. If you say so," I said, holding another copy and trembling in fear without having to pace everything.
After reading a chapter of the book, I headed upstairs and plotted out a poem. How everyone complimented me reminded me of our graduation days. It's stuck in my mind and I can't let it go forever.