you are the big rocket launcher

"Jealousy is when you worry someone will take what you have. Envy is when you want what someone else has."

I am not a jealous person. I have nothing to give and therefore nothing anyone would want. I am however a very envious person. I envy people's happiness and their lives on a daily basis. I know it's horrible and an ugly emotion to keep harbouring but I honestly can't help it.

How do you deal with jealousy and envy? How do you keep it from consuming you?

I don't think it's much of a secret that I'm terribly unhappy 99% of my life. I think it's because I've never really found a 'home'. By that I mean I've never found a place where I am very, very comfortable.

Well, that's exaggerating. London and Lyon, in England and France respectively, are two places where I can see myself living and creating what I think of as home. Now, I am not sure what that will look like, because I'm not there, but...it's all I can think about. My ever spare daydreaming moment is me in one of those cities, and I will be unhappy until I get there.

J'ai commencé à étudier le français quand j'avais seize ans au lycée. Il n'y avait que trois choix chez mon lycée: espagnol, français et latin. Mes amis m'avais dit que le prof d'espagnol était un dragon et pourquoi étudier une langue morte comme le latin? Le prof de français était nouveau et moi, j'avais mon choix.

J'adore le français. J'ai continué à l'université, et j'habitais à Lyon, Paris & Nancy. Je veux revenir, mais maintenant je veux juste avoir le chance de l'utiliser au quotidien.

Si vous voulez une traduction...vous pouvez me demander.

Easter is always a fairly low key holiday chez nous. I've gone to a handful of Easter services at churches around the world (including a stunning one in France) but as I'm not completely Christian I'm not very up on the traditions. Both my mother and I are enamoured of the tradition of the cross draped with purple cloth during Lent. It's subtle and a wonderful tradition. I can still be moved by simple traditions.

I am still a spoilt only child though. I didn't ask for anything, but my mother still gave me an Easter basket, filled with some of my favourite things: sunflower seeds and beef jerky! We are not traditional.

( this is a large picture sorry! )

My life is in shambles about me, but at least I have this day and most all of next week to sit back and take stock. Mostly I am taking stock of failures, because I have no victories. I have a life full of failures and mistakes and nothing to show for it. I'm not even being maudlin. I am un-married, childless, mostly friendless (with a few exceptions) and, after the 5th of June, without a real job. I am in a city I hate, and have always hated, with no real chance of escape.

I am not sure what more to say. I am sorry for this. I wish I had better news.

Avancemos!

It has been a moment, and I have to update; I've signed up for the A to Z challenge here.

I will not be returning to the high school at which I am currently working. I am so used to moving and uprooting and leaving friends/acquaintances behind. I am disappointed in myself, but I am also very angry about the circumstances behind my leaving...

I don't have a lot to say. I am often tired, and often sad. Tomorrow, perhaps, will be a little less maudlin.

Until then,
D.M.

Isaac tossed the Ident-ease card at the teller, digging around in his pocket for his Nico-Stick. "How much per hour?" he asked as he pressed down on one end of the 'Stick, waiting for the familiar warmth against his finger.

"Twenty clicks," the teller replied, sliding the UV light over the card. "You have four hundred and twenty five clicks remaining, Mr McCoy." Isaac sucked on the end of the 'Stick, and nodded.

"Give me two hours," Isaac said, and the teller swiped the light again, and the screen lit up briefly: 385 clicks remaining. Thank you and enjoy your stay! Isaac just smirked and took the card back, slipping it back into the supposedly hidden pocket on his coveralls.

He walked into the building and removed the breathing clip from his nose; places like this usually had their own controlled atmospheres, unlike outside. Isaac continued sucking at the end of the 'Stick as he stopped at the bar. "Sugar Deuce, ancient," he said, sliding on the barstool and looking over his fingernails, frowning. Working near the core always left his skin peeling and his fingernails dirty. No wonder he had to come out here for a little bit of fun.

The 'tender slid across his rum & coke on the rocks and Isaac sighed. "Who you picking tonight?" The guy asked. Isaac shrugged and watched the ice float. It wasn't real ice; freezing was a pretty unknown technique nowadays, and there was no ice left anyway.

"No fucking clue. Don't really care." He shrugged and took two big gulps of his drink. Nothing. He'd need at least two more before he even felt anything. "Who's holdin' the aggro tonight?"

"You looking for Joyce. 280-A." The tender refilled him, and Isaac finished it off, his 'Stick cooling. He cursed and pulled out another; Nico-Sticks were expensive.

"Thanks," he said and got up after typing in his number so his Ident-ease would be charged for the drinks. He took the slider up to the next floor, and followed the glowing arrows to 280-A, rapping knuckles on the door.

"Please ring the bell for entrance," a woman's voice informed him, and Isaac rolled his eyes and pressed a grubby finger to the glowing white button next to the door. The door slid open and Isaac walked in.

Joyce was sitting on one of the low seats. He glanced up and nodded. "Hi. IE number?" Isaac gave it to him and Joyce nodded, pushing aside his hair and typing in his number onto the keypad that appeared on the table in front of him.

"Forty clicks remaining," the same woman's voice from outside said. Joyce nodded.

"What do you want?"

Isaac sat down on the sofa with Joyce. "Aggro. The 'tender downstairs said I should come to you. Whatever happens afterward happens." Isaac continued to suck at the 'Stick.

Joyce watched him for a moment, and then got up, leaving the room. He was tall, thin, and pale. Looked like he never left these rooms. Isaac wouldn't be surprised. Only people that could stomach outside anymore were cops and core miners. One look at Isaac and you could guess what he was.

Joyce came back and tossed the small metal box in Isaac's lap. "You a core miner, huh?" He slid close to Isaac and smiled at him, his lips parted and glistening. Isaac shrugged as he opened the box, slipping out the vial with the bright blue liquid inside and a new hypo-needle. Isaac hummed as he tied off his arm. Joyce busied himself with pushing at Isaac's coveralls but Isaac stilled him with a look.

"Yeah. Good money and I don't have to get my jollies off fucking with kids like the cops do." Isaac grunted as the pressed the needle into his skin and released the Aggro into his blood stream. Joyce cleaned him up. "You got a name, Joyce?"

Joyce shrugged as he returned to continue undressing Isaac. "Joyce's good," he murmured as he pressed his lips against Isaac's. Isaac bit at Joyce's lip and pushed him backwards against the sofa.

Joyce didn't struggle as Isaac pulled at his clothes; Isaac heard a rip but didn't care. Joyce grabbed at Isaac's neck and scratched. Isaac growled and slapped at his hand, pinning it down. He could feel how thin Joyce's wrist was; it was the Aggro, but he wanted it broken.

Joyce moaned as Isaac twisted him around and pressed him onto the sofa, pushing into him. Joyce pushed back against him, gasping. Isaac bit down on the back of Joyce's pale neck, and Joyce groaned, pushing back against him again.

"Fucking slut," Isaac whispered and pushed him harder into the sofa. Joyce whimpered, but nodded and pushed back against Isaac. Isaac smiled against the back of his neck and sat back to pull off the rest of his coveralls, letting them settle around his knees.

The thing he liked about the kids in white was that they always had the slick stuff somewhere in hands' reach. Isaac was cruising on the Aggro, wanting Joyce to break under him, but he wanted his own ride to be smooth.

He pushed into Joyce, twisting his fingers in the kid's hair as he did. Joyce moaned and pushed back as Isaac rocked forward. Isaac growled, leaning in to bite him again, pulling his hair to tug his neck to the side.

Isaac slid against Joyce, his skin sticky against Joyce's. He closed his eyes and continued to rock forward, groaning as Joyce tightened around him. They continued to fuck like that, rocking forward and pushing back. Isaac leaned down to bite at Joyce's shoulder.

"Touch me, please," Joyce mumbled, and closed his eyes. "Fuck, please. Touch me."

Isaac grinned against Joyce's shoulder and reached underneath him, his callused, scarred hands gripping Joyce's cock and stroking him, his thumb pressing at the head as he moved his hand back, and then up, along Joyce's cock.

Joyce pushed into Isaac's hand, and nodded as Isaac continued fucking him, rocking into him, tugging at his hair and biting at his pale, pale skin. Joyce groaned, knowing this wouldn't last forever, wanting it to anyway.

Isaac came without warning, shoving Joyce's face into the sofa. Joyce groaned as Isaac didn't let up on his cock, coming a few moments later. Isaac waited for a few moments and pulled out of Joyce. Joyce stayed still, his eyes closed.

He turned around and ran his fingers through his come, licking it off his fingers as he watched Isaac. Isaac nodded in approval, and leaned down to lick at his lips.

"William," Joyce said against Isaac's lips.

Isaac sat back, and furrowed his brow. "What?" He tugged up his coveralls, but Joyce stilled him, slipping on top of him. They kissed again, and Joyce held onto the back of Isaac's neck. (The thing about core miners, their hair was always in cornrows, or shaven. Isaac's was in tight rows, no chance of it getting caught up in something.)

They pulled away, and Joyce grinned. "You asked for my name. It's William."

The water is deeper than I remember, and colder than I would ever expect. The Pacific Ocean is vast, ancient, much less forgiving than its cold, grey, harmless sister. My strokes are strong and sure, but the board still seems heavy, fibreglass pressed against my sternum and my stomach. The cord attached to my ankle gives me some small confidence.

I grip the edge of the board and fairly fling myself up, wobbling a bit but gaining my balance quickly. The wave that brings my board in is disappointingly weak, but it is still exhilarating to ride it. My instructor Ian praises my stance and my ability to stay upright, giving me additional advice in his fantastically Australian accent--and all Australian accents are fantastic--and promising that the next wave will be 'a great fuck off' wave. Cursing still thrills my thirteen year-old heart, and I swim out strong.

The next wave is a 'great fuck off' one. It engulfs me, swallowing me in foam and salt and a great blue wall of nothingness. My eyes sting, held open by the force of the water, and I tumble and scrape along the floor, my board slipping and catching. I fumble to grip, to pull myself up, but the wave's children follow him, and I am tumbled again like so many awkward bits of flotsam. I finally pull myself up, gasping, clinging to my board. I am sure my eyes are red. My skin feels raw, but nothing is really hurt. I paddle weakly back to Ian, who looks anxious for a second--a whole second!--until he sees I am not hurt. He asks if I would go again, and I look back at the waves, the inconstant, lying waves, and I stretch myself along the board, and swim out once more to meet the sea.

[ “The future outwits all our certitudes” ]

There's a café right up the street from me that serves bagels and "New York style hot dogs". And I stand there in awe, wondering if this is what the United States is...pickles and sickly sweet doughnuts and A&W root beer? I have no idea what to believe: you can't believe your eyes; you can't believe your ears; your mouth moves so fast that the words seemed blurred like rain running in ropes down my window.

It gets dark so quickly here; it's not even one o'clock where you are. What are you having for lunch? What are you writing about today? I get sad thinking about your letters; so many other people read them and somehow it makes them better, knowing that people are trying to figure you out (like me). I get you sometimes, but other times I'm just as lost as you are.

Sometimes you don't know whether to laugh or cry and when you laugh, your heart explodes and you can't help but say yes, over and over and over. I have never been so free as right now, staring down the barrel of a long range rifle, dreaming of first class and pomegranate vodka cocktails. Have this weird sense of vertigo, wrapped up with a side of déjà vu. It'll all end in a crash and then we'll all be a little bit better in the morning (when it doesn't look so bad).

They entered a dream space of absolute light and insanity, and pounding bass. Daniel looked instantly in his element, a fluorescent drink in his hand in a very tight black shirt and skinny, skinny jeans.

"You would think he went to gay bars in his spare time," Khalid mused as they watched him seduce their mark, pulling him by the hips towards him.

Daniel didn't look like himself, obviously, but with the mirrors everywhere, they caught flashes of his lips curled into that infamous and predatory grin.

Connor took a deep breath and shrugged. "He looks like he's having fun," he said, moving out onto the pulsating dance floor and moving in with Daniel.

They kept the mark enthralled while they kissed, deep, Daniel mussing Connor's hair and Connor pushing up Daniel's shirt.

--

Daniel rolled up in the red and white convertible. "Come on, love," he trilled, and Connor rolled his eyes and hopped easily in the passenger seat. Daniel leaned in for a kiss, but Connor pushed him away with a smirk.

"My dad had a car like this," Connor mused, touching the cracked leather seat.

Daniel turned on the music, bobbing his head easily. His shirt was open at the collar, and Connor spied bright green hightops on his feet.

"Are we back in the eighties or something?"

Daniel just smiled and turned up the music, and they drove off into the sunset. Connor kept his hand on Daniel's thigh.

--

Limbo. What was it, in a man's subconscious?

Daniel had been locked in his brain for 3 days, which was something like 50 years, to hear his doctor. Connor had no idea what he would find as he slowly opened the door of the small cabin; the only one for miles in this desert.

Daniel looked up; he looked the same as he always did. Connor stood at the door, and he nodded for him to come in.

"Tea?"

"Daniel?"

Daniel looked past Connor to the open door. "No, I don't think..." He looked at Connor. "Is that my name?"

Connor sat down, and Daniel poured him a mug. "Yes, your name is Daniel..."

---

Connor woke at dawn, every day. He watched the sunrise, went for a jog, and then went back to work.

When he jogged, he would jog by many empty things; empty office buildings, empty malls. He could imagine he was the only person living at dawn.

When he returned, Daniel would always be asleep, and wouldn't wake for hours. The world filled up, and Daniel would leave. He would come back with the sunset at his back, with dinner, sometimes without.

"What happened?"

Connor looked up to see a gun in his face.

"Are you dreaming?"

Connor slowly raised his hand, but Daniel just stared.

"Are you dreaming?" Daniel voice was tight.

"Why would I dream a world where you didn't love me?"

Daniel brought the gun to his own head. "And that's where you're wrong," he whispered, pulling the trigger.

Connor grabbed the gun from his hand and shot himself.

They woke up, staring at each other.

"Do you?"

"Would it make it easier?"

"I'm not sure."

--

Connor tapped his foot along with the band on stage, turning to drink down his Newcastle Brown.

"Would you mind if I bummed a smoke?"

The man who asked was handsome, with straight cut bangs and blue-grey eyes, but when he smiled, his imperfect teeth stared Connor straight in the face.

"Yeah, no problem," Connor said, handing his pack over.

The other man settled next to him, and ordered his own beer, a Fat Tire.

Connor bothered with his cigarettes, and turned his attention back to the band on stage.

"What are you waiting for?" the man said to the back of his head, and Connor turned and blinked at him.

"I'll go home with you, all you have to do is ask."

Connor looked at the man's full lips, at his nervous tapping fingers, at the promise of broad shoulders.

"Do you generally come to dive bars to pick up lonely guys?"

"No, but did it work?"

Connor stood up. "Why don't you come find out?"

--

The day Connor broke Daniel's nose was by any means a normal day. Daniel was a dick, Connor was a bore, and everything was normal.

Until Daniel decided to make a crack about Connor's last girlfriend. In a strange turn of events, Daniel had to forge her for a job that didn't involve Connor.

"The damn town bicycle, she was," Daniel said.

"I'm sorry, what did you say," Connor said, voice soft.

Daniel raised his eyebrow. "What, are you going to protect her virtue or something, Sir Connor?"

And Connor flew across the room, grabbing Daniel by the collar. "Choose your next words carefully."

Daniel smirked. "Your girl was a slut..."

And so Connor broke his nose.

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