Empty bottles- c2, Pepsi, 1.5 coke, mineral water- cat shits, roach shits, dead roaches, half-dead roaches, dirty clothes, mismatched socks, crumpled scratch papers, cigarette butts, unwashed coffee mugs, a dusty fan, left-overs, all scattered around my room, my guest-room’s-bathroom-sized room. I’m not a neat freak, obviously. They say your own room embodies your self, it defines you. Bullshit. But true enough.
Dark purple wall, purple curtains, checkered linoleum floor, exposed bed with no pillows, piles of discs mostly incubus, books- college books, fictional, sci-fi, self-help, computer-related, photography/film books, and lots of different kinds of dictionaries- posters, pictures, torn pages from guitar one magazine, a finished cross-stitched portrait of a girl picking up tulip shit, shoelaces-different kinds and colors, glow in the dark stuffs, all glued up in my wall. A 17” tube, black computer, moss green fan, and a garbage can. A mess. Everything is broken; my computer is slower than slow coz it’s fucked up with some Trojan virus shit, my TV isn’t working, my bed smells like cat piss- I don’t even sleep here because of roaches, big ones, flying ones. But I spend every day just sitting here, typing, smoking, thinking, reading, writing, despite the smell, the appearance, everything. Just like loving a druggie. Just like being alone with a mentally ill person. Despite the situation, I still love going back here, spending my time here, alone, without ever having to change or to fix anything.
When I was a kid, during summer vacations, I used to read dictionaries of all kinds before I go to sleep. In alphabetical order. Then one night when I was having a hard time pronouncing the word euthanasia, I went down to talk to my mom about it. “E-yut-han-na-si-a, mercy killing.” I said. Then my mom laughed. “ It’s yu-thaneiy-sha.” Then after knowing the right pronunciation, I found myself repeating the word over and over before I go to sleep forgetting that there are thousands of unfamiliar and hard to pronounce words I still have to read. Euthanasia. Euthanasia. Euthanasia. Mercy killing.
I read every dictionary I can find in our bookshelf. Every dictionary I can buy with my allowance. Because I want to know every meaning of every words-unfamiliar, foreign, profound- I hear and see everyday. So that when I grow up, I wont sound dumb like “what are you talking about? Nihility what?” so that I myself, too, can give meaning to every words I say, or give words to every thought, and feelings, I think and feel. I wanted to be prepared, coz I know in the future I will meet someone as smart as Einstein, or as poesy as Shakespeare, or as deep as Brandon Boyd. But when I started having my period, I forgot everything about it. I only read dictionary once a month, whenever we had unit test in English. I forgot about it because I started to become conscious. I forgot about Einstein, or Shakespeare, or Boyd. I forgot about euthanasia. And started thinking about shallow things like branded clothes, shoes, pop stars, cell phones, crushes, and suchlike. I didn’t want to be smart anymore, I abandoned my dream to become this person who knows every meaning of every words, who gives words to every feeling or thoughts that no one else but him can explain. I forgot about lexicons and lexicographers. All I ever wanted then was to fit in. and I did. At least temporarily.
Friendship. It can make or break you. I thought friendship is just drooling over boys, sharing corny and made-up secrets, sharing dolls and caboodles, watching tear-jerking movies and chick flicks, and laughing like crazy. Fact is, it’s not just that. It’s about giving up your personal life. Your individuality. A risk. Like jumping into a cliff without knowing if that someone you’ve trusted will catch you or just leave you. Like shooting an unloaded gun into your head, even if you know it wouldn’t kill you, yet you’re still terrified to pull the trigger. A sin. A vice. Like partying with criminals. Like getting drunk. Like getting whacked. Like doing drugs. Like murdering someone. Carjacking. Cheating, stealing, getting high, getting stoned, and all the evilness you can think of. And when the party is over, when you ran the fucking out of drugs, beer, someone to kill, everyone you’ve smoked with, gotten drunk with, gotten stoned with, are gone. Friendship is just friendship, just a word full of phoniness. Nothing special. Nothing to die for. Just a word. That means nothing.