*
To the person who said
'rooftops for night stars,
balconies for day clouds'
- fuck you.
Ok, maybe I made up that quote right now, but you get the point.
It's so much more freeing
to just get up in the morning
sit on the roof of your house
in that old ass shirt you slept in,
when your hair is having its own
mini party on your head,
and just be able to be
you
in the most natural state that
you
are.
That's all I have to say.
- Jo Lee Daniels, January 31st, 2015, 7:21am
*
I finish scribbling down my sudden mental rant into my notebook I've held on to me since I turned 13, from when I first comprehended that if there was nobody to talk to - write it down.
Don't even bother to go back and correct your grammar or punctuation or whatever,
just.
write.
it.
down.
I place it beside me onto a towel and yawn. A song plays from my phone without plugging the earphones in, and I made it just loud enough only for me to hear while I laid back.
Relax, Jo.
" If it hurts to breathe
Open the window
Oh, your mind wants to leave
But you can't go "
Relax.
|
I dreaded wasting Sunday nights before finishing last-minute homework, but what could you do. Always was a procrastinator, always will be.
I pull myself off from leaning against the window frame and go back to sitting on the floor to continue my homework that was chaotically sprawled across the low table.
After half an hour of typing out the most confusing and impossibly difficult to even make sense words for an essay, I proudly press 'enter'.
"Perfect", I look down at my desk, "Now I just have to e-mail Craig the draft for him to re-read... ugh."
I lay down on my back, mumbling curses into my hands.
Why are essays a thing?
Why?
Just why?
At the sound of a door opening outside of my room, I sit right back up.
Damon.
What if...
I pick up his footsteps leading to his room and before he could go, I call out, "Damon!"
"..."
"..."
"Yeah?"
"Can you come here for a minute?"
"Does it involve any physical acts of violence towards me?"
I laugh, "No, it doesn't. Unless you piss me off."
"Guess I'll take the chance then."
I rummage through the papers, searching for the one task sheet when I hear him walk in and close the door behind.
"Hey, if it's alright with you, can you do me a small-"
I peek at him from my laptop, just to see yet another shirtless-and-fresh-out-the-shower-Damon in this week.
Why is he always shirtless, damn it?
"Shit, can you not?", I turn away.
"Do what?", he asks with that cheeky smirk.
"You certainly know what."
"I certainly don't."
"Just come here down already."
He sits down next to me and I feel his shoulder press against mine, as he glances through the stack of papers. I end up feeling revealed in my position, regretting wearing a only a shirt and shorts.
But I guess sitting next to a half-naked wet Damon made comparing a little easier.
"So... why'd you call me?", he sets down one of the papers.
"Right, well... I was wondering if you could read through my first draft of an essay and tell me if I have all of the things done from this checklist", I place the laptop and checklist we were given at school in front of him.
He cautiously studies between the paper and laptop while I fidget with my fingers.
"You... wrote essays before, right?", I ask but sadly expect him to reply 'no, I had other people do it for me'.
He glances up at me and to the laptop.
"I did. I was just looking at the topic you wrote it on. I wrote about this myself last year in History class, as well."
He points at the screen with the cursor, "The introduction starts here?"
"Yep", I nod.
"Okay, I'll try my best then."
"Take your time", I sit back, "Oh, and thank you, by the way", but he waves it off as if it's nothing.
Great. Now I had no idea what to do.
Should I sit like this?
Maybe like this?
I can make some tea? Coffee? Koolaid?
Finally choosing to 'casually' rest back against the wall behind and sneakily observe his always changing facial expressions as he looks from the paper to the screen in thought.
I learnt that he has an adorable habit of sticking the very tip of his tongue when he saw any errors. And when he got flustered or didn't understand some parts, he'd furrow his eyebrows and slightly pout, kind of tilting his head to the side like a cartoon character.
By this point, I didn't worry of the water dripping from his hair onto the carpet, it was actually creepily intriguing. Like watching a slow race of rain droplets on the car windows when it rained outside. My eyes went lower and I noticed a tiny writing on his collarbone.
A writing? Tattoo?
"Is that real?", I suddenly speak, getting him to look at me, so I pointed at my own collarbone, "The one here?"
He looks down at the writing and laughs, probably forgotten about its existence and was only now reminded of it.
"Yeah, it's dumb. Just for the fun of it", he says, his voice low.
Still curious, I lay back again and wait for him to finish.
He was done a few minutes later and, surprising me completely, even gave me a detailed explanation of the good points I wrote and which lines I should correct to make them sound more persuasive.
"But overall, it's pretty good. Well done", he nods to me with a genuine smile and puts the papers back on the table.
"Thank you so much", I sigh, "You saved me from a lunch detention with Ms. Posh Bitch Abby."
He shakes his head, smiling with those freaking dimples again "No problem", and takes off the towel that laid around his shoulder. I wondered my eyes to the same tiny cursive writing imprinted above of his left collarbone.
"When did you get it?", I motion to the tattoo.
He brings his fingers up to feel the writing, "When I was 16."
"16? How were you allowed?"
"I wasn't. But my girlfriend at the time went to the parlor to get hers, then persuaded me to get something as well. Mind you that I was high as shit that night, so of course I agreed."
I would say I'm impressed, but figured this was a norm for him, "Then how was she allowed to get one?"
"She was 21"
oh
"And had an entire arm of inks already, so it didn't matter to her as much as it did to me."
I bite my lip, looking at the ink and then him.
He laughs, "You look like you really want to touch it, don't you?", and I shyly smile.
He takes my hand and brings my fingers up to it when I unexpectedly felt bumps instead of smooth skin, and he chuckles at my reaction.
"The artists who did it was a pro in being able to make the words pop out in a 3D-like form. So the letters slightly stand out as if it's real writing, see?"
I slowly trace my fingers over each letter, connecting the pieces to make up into one sentence:
Reality is a dream fabricating yesterday
"Reality is a dream fabricating yesterday",
I read out loud, looking up to see his friendly hazel eyes, the dimple smiling on his left cheek, "That sounds beautiful. A little cheesy for what I thought you'd get, but it's nice."
He places his hand atop of my fingers, next to his neck.
"Thanks. I think so too. Though my ex, the girlfriend at the time- yeah, she didn't like it", he laughs, "Thought it was 'too depressing'"
I unintentionally roll my eyes, "Screw her. The world is a ball of nothing but depression anyway. I like this phrase, it speaks the truth", I sigh with a shrug.
Shit
Realizing what I had stupidly said, I take my hand out of his and hold them to my chest in embarrassment.
"Wow, sorry, I didn't mean it like that", I nervously laugh.
But find him staring at me, a visible hint of a smirk forming on his lips. I groan at his expression and let my hands down to my lap.
"Great. I'm the cheesy asshole now, as always", I mutter.
He leans in closer to me and places a sweet kiss on my cheek.
"That makes the two of us then, doesn't it?"