Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 98992 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 495(@200wpm)___ 396(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98992 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 495(@200wpm)___ 396(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
“All of it, Collins,” he commands, pen being inched towards his fingers. “Say all of it.”
“I don’t know who I am anymore.”
“No,” the writing utensil is picked up, “you don’t.”
The heaviness of the horrible truth has my head falling forward in defeat.
His accusations while off book are accurate enough to warrant baleful reactions to roll around my mind.
Am I really any less pathetic than the reality TV royalty that sits in these chairs?
Am I really any better than the other people my age who walk the property claiming to be scorned by their parents and too self-righteous to take any responsibility for their own fuck ups.
“You wanna start learning the answer?”
I nod despite not lifting my head.
“Stop pretending you aren’t faking appearances to yourself by being here.”
This time I do look up. “And next?”
“You do like you did yesterday.” He angles the pen to a writing position. “You go back. You take another look at who you once were and decide which of that is worth keeping, which of that was real, and which of it was just pure bullshit.”
My gaze momentarily moves away, but my head nods yet again.
“Presley Morrison.”
Her name out of his mouth is fucking sacrilegious.
At this point, however, the same can be said for whenever it comes out of my own.
Shy of God himself, I am not sure if anyone could say her name innocently enough.
“Tell me more about her.”
With a sarcastic smirk, I remove the candy stick, pretend to ash it, and return it my mouth. “Why? Because she was my first?”
“Because that’s when you started to lose you.” Before my eyes can relocate elsewhere, he proceeds, “You abandoned a huge hunk of yourself in an attempt to gain something. Walk through the murk and the dogshit, and at the end you will know who the fuck Collins was and perhaps even who he truly wants to be.”
One set of fingers dig into the back of my hair to tug at the turmoil building.
Maybe he has a point.
Fuck.
Fine.
He always has a fucking point.
And it’s always a damn good one.
But, I believe, in my own mind, that losing Presley is where the foundation of so many of my fuck ups lie. I’ve already relived so many of our tragic moments time and time and time again that I’m not sure bringing them to the light is for the best.
I’m not sold on the idea that giving them light will help.
“What did you do after you broke up with her?”
“Unravel my entire existence.”
“Did you fuck around like your father suggested?”
A wretched taste of the memory tests my gag reflex. “I should’ve. I should’ve taken that time to stick my dick in anything that would have me. Things might not have ended up as shitty as they did.”
“Explain.”
“Pres and I…” Her name closes my eyes like a silent prayer meant to be lit by the candles of deities for greater ones. Shaking my head at the committed sin, I slowly start again, “There was this chick named Bambi. Bambi Summers…”
--
A couple days after Pres and I split, this…thing named…Bambi – actually named Bambi – landed in my lap. Literally, landed in my lap. I was fucking wasted at some party, and she was playing beer pong poorly, which is how she landed in my lap. Once she fell, though, she didn’t get back up. She just sat there and threw herself at me over and over again until my dick in her mouth shut her up. It wasn’t good. It took forever to fucking come. I immediately blamed taking so long to finish on having whiskey dick – not a total lie – to avoid hurting her feelings. I meant it to be a one-night thing, it should’ve been a one-night thing, but it was so easy.
She was so easy.
I need easy.
Fuck…I want easy.
I want anything that can help keep my mind off the beautiful one that I see when I close my eyes at night.
Cigarettes help like beer does.
Both are momentarily fucking soothing.
I want something with a longer affect, even if its not by much.
Bambi – whose name I hate to fucking say – is short – much shorter than my girl, er…ex girl –, slightly attractive – not who I used to go for pre-Pres – but thankfully, slutty enough that I’m getting popularity boosts and pats on the back for finally cutting the virgin loose. First off, the fact everyone knows she’s a virgin like there’s a goddamn text chain about it has me putting my fists through random walls. Second, I don’t want pats on the back for hooking up with someone who reminds me why it’s important to get my dick checked fucking regularly. And lastly, I don’t want a pat on the fucking back for unconsciously starting a godforsaken war that has everyone in our school taking side.