Below are the 3 most recent journal entries recorded in inkedandetched's LiveJournal:

Saturday, October 1st, 2005
4:07 pm	I am not a smart girl by any measure, but I do take part in small pleasantries. My slight taste for the absurd just makes life more interesting. I'm sick of adjectives. He didn't smile at me while I examined him. I glanced wildly back-and-forth between Dylan and Michael. Dylan stood there with the same grin from before plastered on his face. Michael didn't have the ability to smile. He wasn't looking unpleasant, just not nearly as cartoonish as his counterpart. I sighed, my head rolling to the side as I worked out a crick in my neck from my previous position at the steering wheel. Looking down, I decided to break the pregnant silence; "Listen, I..." "It's cool. We didn't mean to..." "No, it's okay. Do you need a..." "Ride." Dylan said, his smile vanishing. I sighed. I gestured my hand upward toward Michael. "And him?" "He's gotta come, too." I decided not to ask questions anymore. I walked around to my passenger side and unlocked the door. Dylan followed behind me and climbed into the car. Michael, still standing ten feet from the car, stayed where he was with a blank expression, his hands wringing in front of him. Dylan called out to him from my car as I was getting in. He then leaned over to me as I was getting back in, "He's shy. You'll just have to excuse him." "Right," I said as Michael climbed in the seat behind Dylan. "I actually have a meeting this morning, guys, so where are we going?" Dylan took out a cigarette and motioned to Michael, rubbing his forefinger and thumb together. Michael handed him a lighter. I looked behind me as I backed the car up, put the car in drive, and placed my foot on the brake. I turned my head toward Dylan and raised my eyebrows. "You don't have a fucking meeting this morning." He shook his head and sat with his smoking hand positioned above his elbow on the window. "Where are you going, Dylan." I said, with quiet annoyance. Michael was staring at me from the backseat and I switched my head to him. "Where are you going?" Michael continued to stare without saying a word. Dylan reached down to the shift and put my car into drive. I looked forward, took my foot off the brake, and started going forward. "Fucking interruptions." I muttered to myself as I turned onto the street off of my apartment complex. I headed toward the highway. (2 Comments |Comment on this)
Sunday, September 25th, 2005
11:42 am	Jury and judge, I had always been my own worst enemy. I took the stairs slowly down to my wreck of a vehicle and opened the extremely hot door. Ouch. The car was hot and humid. It was almost as if the heat from the outside came from the heat stored up in the inside of the car. I didn't start the car. Instead, I sat there with my head against the steering wheel, allowing the heat to penetrate my forehead. I must have been there for a good five minutes before I heard a slight tapping on my car window. At first I thought it was a stray branch, or something falling from the trees above. I waited another minute, my forehead pasted to my steering wheel, while the taps became progressively louder. "Damn, maybe she's dead?" "Fuck no, I see her breathing. ERIN! Erin! Wake up!" My head jolted up so fast that my forehead was sore from the sudden suction it seemed to cause with the heat of the vinyl steering wheel. I stared, bleary-eyed at two figures outside of my car door. One was a very tall, average-build man in his late twenties with a goatee and thinning light brown hair atop his head. The other was shorter, thinner, with curly brown hair and stubble and huge eyes. The taller figure put his face to the glass and mouthed, "Can you hear me?" in exaggerated movements. I quickly opened the car door and slammed him in the face. "What the..fuck, Erin, come on you know me. It's Dylan. Come on..." I glowered at the figure, now rubbing his nose. The thinner one, who had been standing quite a ways back, now retreated a bit further. "What the fuck do you guys want? Who the hell is that?" I pointed at the shorter man standing a ways away, "It's 8am! You're never fucking up at 8am." Dylan, having stopped rubbing his nose and, looking around for his friend, stepped up to answer. "Well, we were in the neighborhood and wanted to stop..." "You're fucking drunk, aren't you?" He laughed loudly and nodded. His friend came closer. Dylan looked at his friend, then at me, and smiled a little. "Erin, this is Michael. He lives in your complex. We were just, you know, taking a walk." I took a longer look at Michael. He was a timid-looking young man, buttony features on an extremely small frame. His curly hair stood out slightly from his head. He had stubble that darkened his face. I had never seen him before, which didn't surprise me much since I didn't get out of my apartment very often. (Comment on this)
Thursday, September 22nd, 2005
11:29 pm	When I think back, it seems a lot simpler now than at the times I went through. I woke up early that morning. The two alarms went off simultaneously. One squawked with a horrendous and uneven beeping, and the other played the radio cautiously through snowy reception. "...Hahaha and Jill, what day is it today? That's right, it's SATURDAY! Saturday, folks! What are you doing up at 6am. Go back to bed, you crazy..." Slam. Shift to the left, where the bedside table was. I lifted my head up slowly, like cradling something awful and concealed in my hands. I sat on the edge of my bed for a while, hands to my side as I contemplated the real time. I always put my clocks ahead, but drug-induced grogginess never allowed me to do the math quick enough to determine the actual time. I figured if I didn't get up now, I never would. I walked slowly to the kitchen table in my cramped loft of an apartment and fondled the table slowly for my cigarettes. I found the box and pulled one stick out and held it to my mouth. The lighter rested next to the box and I lit up quickly, taking a breath and a drag so quickly that my head spun from the new intake of air. I sat down at my desk which was located next the table and slipped my cigarette into the ashtray labeled, "REMEMBER THE ALAMO" printed on it in big, gold letters. My computer was humming lightly atop the desk. I stared blankly at the screen for a few moments. If it wasn't one drug, it was another. I used vicodin and muscle relaxers to find sleep at night, diet pills to find energy during the day, and packs of cigarettes in between. The occasional drink helped me loosen out of my tight outer shell, but most of the time I was uptight, careful, emotionally charged and weary. The recent pills and narcotics didn't help as much as the string of boys and crafts and eating and not eating. The fucking was great, but I still slept alone with my pills, woke alone with my cigarettes. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Finding myself making progress that morning, I stood under a raining shower of hot water and sudsy eyes. Once dressed, I applied my glasses newly-fogged from the shower's steam. I put on my jeans that were too big, my shirt that was too small, and headed out of the door around 8am or so. (Comment on this)