Slim Charles my black credit card guy suggested we make our exchange during a Fashion Show some girl he’s fucking is putting on at Boulevard 3 and I’m here now and quickly realizing I’m way too sober to bear this rampa-room bullshit. The girls are walking clones of one another—fembots molded after countless episodes of MTV shit-fests like The Hills or The Real World where the general impression given off to the young budding teenage girls of the Americas is show off your ass to any horny greasy-haired fuck that has zero respect for you and maybe you’ll get dinner, be loved, or better yet, become famous. The guys at this place are mostly Queen, that or straight guys that may as well be Queen on account their general mannerisms and pathetic attempts to get fucked are in a word a disgrace to the male reproductive organ, and because of them, I’m ashamed to have one. The house music shaking the walls all sounds the same to me and is making my ears literally feel as if they’ve sprung a leak of crimson blood. The only upside I can think of is the free booze, problem is the only hard shit I can see is cut with Apple Flavoring and the beer they have is some pro-environment bullshit organic sludge that always goes down rough for me and if I were to have any right now, it would probably get my stomach all kinds of queasy being as I’ve been popping Adderall all day and haven’t ingested anything solid since the other night.
The place is absolutely packed and I can’t find Slim anywhere but I suspect he’s up on the tier level so I make my way over there – pushing some liberal bleeding-heart-type wannabe almost on his ass as he crowds me while pathetically trying to pick up on some big-titted blonde I think I may have done coke with months ago but can’t remember. Jesus, I can’t believe how hard the Adderall is still hitting me hours after seizing my self-medication procedure. My thoughts, although quite clear and focused, are coming at far too much a rapid pace and I silently wish I had a Xanax or an Ativan or even a Valium. Maybe someone will have one here? Who wants to bother with these cretins though? I can’t believe how many people (I’m sure I hate without even meeting) are crammed into this faggy club. It will take hours to find Slim at the rate I’m going.
I squeeze myself past a number of people—failing to be sucked into any type of conversation. This scene is one I was completely over years ago. There’s no allure between these walls for me now. While making my way through the club, still looking for Slim without any results worth reporting, I realize how easily one could sum a scene like this up for a greenhorn or someone that’s not from around these parts. All it takes is a trained eye. Each clique scattered about various parts of the club provides a part to the overall whole that is the mess I’m surrounded by at every turn—Outside by the ropes are the low-IQ fuck-twigs with absolutely no clue as to how the world works and swollen twots after selling the tender region between their legs to some balding middle-aged casting-couch asshole that drives a Saturn and promises to “launch” their careers. Over by the smaller bar outside the main room with all the free Bellini’s are the “Hipsters” (by far the worst group) each with the same jaded sense of anti-conformist fashion & shared pension for the same barber—armed with only a jagged razorblade and more angst and self-contempt than talent. Each of these “Scene-Queens” (as I like to call both the men and women of this clique) confuses themselves into believing they’re a unique, irreplaceable contribution to society—when in reality they’re nothing more than a fad, destined to be long forgotten when the next one comes to step into place. Don’t let the bangs and tight blackjeans fool you—these cattle are ordinary—borrowing from decades they never belonged to and could never understand in the hopes to craft something they’ve been lacking since day one… an identity. By the private booths is another group whose mothers should have done the world a favor by stabbing their children in the hearts with a straightened out coat-hanger while still in the fetal form… the Fasha-Nazis—who are basically a Xerox of the Hipsters only rather than jerking each other off through a mix of shit clothes, talentless and vain photography efforts, and cookie cutter music that makes Raffie seem like a real rocker; the fasha-nazis stick exclusively to fashion fads that come and go faster than a peepshow girl for a twenty-five cent John. They are also known to keep their cliques smaller and rarely speak unless whatever they have to say is, as they put it, totally random. Followed closely to the hipsters and fasha-nazis is the scenesters, aspiring filmmakers, budding producers, black kids from nice families who present themselves as coming from the Ghetto, white kids acting black, middle-eastern kids acting black, black kids acting white, ravers, candy-kids, and greenhorns… all surrounding me and contributing to a din (that added with the house music that still refuses to stop) is bringing me dangerously close to vomiting.
After wading in and out of large, sweaty masses of the above mentioned social groups, I finally get a look at Slim and his “crew” on the tier level (as I originally suspected they’d be). Although I can sit on the ground level and allow my inner-dialogue to run ramped with social commentary— I decide to let the surge of cynical remarks pass as I am nowhere daft enough not to attribute this sudden urge to observe surroundings that, under normal circumstances, mean so little to me I hardly expend enough energy to say I hate, to the Adderall I’ve been eating like white-chocolate. I grab the first Sierra Nevada I’ve been lucky enough to encounter since getting here and let it whisk swiftly down my throat.
Making my way past the main floor and over to the roped off stairway leading to the tier level, I bump into at least half a dozen sweaty twentysomethings dancing furiously to the ulcer-bleeding house music that pangs my eardrums at every corner. In bumping into these mindless drones, I can’t help but to feel a brief surge of sadness pass through me—born off a sense of not belonging. Although I can sit here and easily rip on the many inconsistencies and hypocrisies these cattle present at any given moment, the truth of the matter remains—these people are the 98-percentiale. They are, as they say, what makes the world go round. And in saying that, and cutting it with my logic, I have to succumb to the realization that it’s these people who allow the other 2-percent of the population (the group I like to consider myself part of) function and flourish. As much as I’d like to degrade these cunts for their lack of creativity and propensity to compromise and take the easy way out of nothing more than a shear need to survive (the PC term known as “The American Dream”), I can’t help but to realize that their bullshitting, their endless pursuits toward repopulation (by way of drugs, alcohol, shady business dealings, and second mortgages) is what makes the world go round. And in coming to that conclusion, I can’t help but to wonder if what I once thought made me unique and special (being as I’ve never fit the mold) actually makes me a degenerative contribution to the axis of the planet. Maybe I’m not the anti-hero I’ve always dreamed of being (and used drugs and alcohol to forget any thoughts toward the contrary). Maybe I am the eighth man out. Maybe I am a guest in the everyman’s world. Maybe they don’t need me. Maybe, after all this sacrificing of my morals and my soul in the hopes it will serve a greater good, I’ve alienated myself so much from the world, that whatever message I have to articulate when it’s all said and done will be so far removed from the everyday world, no one will ever understand my message (if that makes any sense?). Does that make all of my mistakes, shattered relationships, and scattered broken hearts all vain occurrences of a meaningless past? I immediately write these thoughts off as a result of the Adderall and assure myself things will be A-Okay once out of this dump… but part of me down deep can’t help but to whisper into my ear “This is not your world Donnie. You’re a stranger. You may convince yourself that you understand what’s going on around you… but the world, the majority, the number that matters, they could never understand you.” I feel like a monster and wish I had more Sierra Nevada to wash down the reality I’m faced with, when all of a sudden—
“The Doctor! How it is muthafucka?” Slim Charles poses while offering me a high-five in which I instinctively accept—still unclear as to how I got up on the tier level.
I compose myself, then ask, “What the fuck is that supposed to mean? The Doctor?” I pull a Lucky Strike to light. Slim Charles knocks it away.
“That your initials dog. D.R… The muthafuckin’ Doctor” Slim says with any amount of brotherly love a borderline sociopath can manage.
“Oh I get it” I say as I watch my cigarette roll off the marble floor of the tier level down to the generic floor of the main area below. “You’re giving me a nickname. Like a street thing. Because we’re like… homeboys.”
To this Slim and his posse respond with scattered laughter and words in which I can’t seem to allow myself to listen or comprehend. Despite the free-flowing pharmaceutical-grade Amphetamines still rolling through my system, I can’t for the life of me manage to focus on anything going on in the physical space I inhabit. I’m completely locked inside my own mind. Whatever it is that’s happening around me is merely background din free of any substance. I can, right here and now, feel myself slipping. The world around me is something scary and foreign. It’s never been more clear as to how much I don’t belong anywhere on this planet, if not the entire universe. Whatever business I have here at this place with Slim means nothing to me. These hustles, this shit I do, once had a purpose. The once was light at the end of the tunnel. All of this evil was once acceptable as it was to lead to an eventual goal. Now that goal is lost and forgotten. The person who once had dreams is gone. And I fear I’ll never find him again. I’m a shell. Whatever I do now serves only one thing for me – survival. Why should I even bother? What remains in my life to survive for? What’s the point? Tempted to dive face-first off the tier, I restrain myself, knowing full well these thoughts are born off a lack of serotonin in my brains after weeks upon weeks of drug and drink binging. If I can just maintain, I should be fine in a—
“… if you wasn’t my favorite white-boy-project” Slim continues on, removing me from my funk, “I’da done thumped yo’ punk ass two fuckin’ years ago. Believe ‘dat!”
Although Slim and I maintain eye contact with one another and I think I’m nodding along with what he’s saying and what goes on between us has all the necessary attributes of a conversation I simply can’t bring myself to respond to this man. I’m not here.
“Yo Donnie!” Slim says, snapping his fingers before my eyes, “where the fuck are you dog?”
“Sorry” I manage, snapping back to the scene, “I one could say I’m not exactly a happy unit right now.”
“I feel you. This aint my scene either. All these fuckin’ white boys and bitches rubbin’ on each other.” Slim says, completely missing the thesis of my previous statement.
“So why are we doing this here?” I ask.
Slim motions to a totally fuckable blonde chick – skinny, great tan, brown eyes, and perky tits – and says, “The girl’s showing her shit off to a couple peeps tonight. ‘Posed to be some big deal. What you gonna do right?”
“I guess once one of you people get a hot white girl you have to do what you can to maintain that.”
“Shit boy. When one of my people starts makin the cheese, there’s three things they go out and get day one: an Escalade, Ice, and a white woman. I got’s all three.” Slim says with a smile, then goes cold to say, “And you cool it with that ‘you people’ bullshit. That’s the same kinda shit I’m sayin’ gonna get you thumped.”
“Well I don’t want that” I say as empty as possible.
“Yeah… I bet you don’t. Come on clown. Sit yo’ ass down at my Tabe and let’s handle this” Slim starts toward a roped off table littered in bottles of New Castle and tumblers of what looks like rocking scotch.
I follow Slim and his posse. We arrange ourselves at his table. Down at the opposite corner of the tier, three fuck-twigs flowering the walls shoot me the fuck-me eyes – most likely wondering who I am and what I can maybe do for them in exchange for a fuck-fest.
Slim hands me a tumbler of neat scotch. I accept with a shaking hand. Why am I shaking? Adderall? Maybe a DT on account of not having enough to drink?
“Drink that shit. Shit’ll get you feelin’ right in a minute. Real talk” Slim says.
“Thanks” I say, realizing just how right he is. With one sip, the scotch makes its way into my stomach immediately and in true placebo-like form, takes me immediately outside of myself and back to what matters. My depression fades out, and I’m back to my old self. Those Scottish fucks know how to brew a whiskey.
“This is good shit” I say with a smirk.
“No doubt dog. You not gonna find this shit downstairs. Only that white girl shit them Sex and the City bitches be drinking.” Slim says.
The table goes quiet for a beat. I hatch the entire tumbler and without asking help myself to another that sits untouched on the table. Slim’s posse has been speechless since we sat down. It’s obvious they’re having an awful time. If feel their pain.
“So” Slim finally breaks the silence, “How’s about we get down to it then?”
“For sure” I say in ebonic fashion so he can understand me, “I’m going to need 4 full profiles and 6 basic”.
Slim simply nods his head. In the beginning stages of any transaction between us, Slim tends to never acknowledge anything I say if it suggests something illegal is taking place. He’s a smart criminal. Realizing my mistake I rephrase my need, “I mean, I need you to hook me up with four of your homies and let me take out six bitches you met at the club.”
“Four homies? You got a big partied planned? Usually you stick strictly to the bitches. You aint goin’ fag on us is you?” Slim laughs and his posse immediately parrots.
“I’m planning on having a big couple of weeks and then maybe laying off for awhile. It’s long overdue.”
“Shee-it” Slim says, “You know well as I do there aint no break in the game till you got no reason for it no more.”
“Maybe I don’t” I rebut.
“Always gonna be a reason for it if you aint hit your break yet. I wager that writing shit of yours has been in the backyard since you been worrying about survivin’.”
“Yeah maybe your right… but I figure it’s time to take a minute off and spend some time in my garage working again. I don’t know, lately I feel a pressing need to drop out of the game. In the beginning I was a writer doing this for cash. Now it’s gotten to the point I feel like a straight crook with a little writing habit on the side.”
“I feel you. After awhile the game gets you. I don’t gotta tell you how long it’s been since I got my black ass into a studio a laid out a track. Way I figure I gots to worry about today… there’s always tomorrow to get my ass in the studio.”
“Problem with me is” I say, “Tomorrow has been waiting to come for two fucking years.”
“I feel you. But as you always sayin’ to people, that’s a you problem. You want tomorrow to pop up, you gotta make that happen. That kinda shit, that don’t come on its own. You feel me?”
“Yeah” I say, accessing every inch of my will not to shake uncontrollably as Slim’s words shake me to the fucking core, “I feel you.”
“Then you gotta do what you gotta do.” Slim offers like a ghetto prophet.
I gotta do what I gotta do. Simple as the advice may be, it’s worth its weight in fucking platinum. Slim, in spite of his ghetto-rig bullshit style and personality, the guy has his way of ringing true in the simplest of forms. In my adventures the past few years, I’ve grown to have the upmost of respect for the criminal mindset. In a world (or in my case a city) full of backstabbers and double crossers – people unable to be genuine and put what is real out on the table. One can’t help but to respect a guy like Slim. With Slim there’s no bullshit, no broken promises, no shit to sift through. If a guy like Slim doesn’t like you… you know it. If he wants something… he takes it. Bottomline, if I had to choose between dealing with some West Hollywood douchebag who bombards anyone in whom he comes in contact with false promises and bullshit smiles – taking six months to eventually tell a person to fuck off; or the guy who sticks a pistol in your face and takes your money – I’d take the guy with the pistol any day of the week. At least the guy with the pistol tells you how it is from the beginning. There’s never any sugar-coated bullshit. To quote Slim and his contemporaries – They keep it real.
Reflecting on the underrated virtues of the criminal, I polish off yet another one of the neat Scotch tumblers sitting untouched on the table. I don’t know how long I’ve been reflecting – maybe a minute? But there hasn’t been a word spoken by a single person. I realize Slim’s waiting on me. I take his cue, reach into my pocket, and plop a roll of twenties equating a thousand bucks on the table. Slim prefers twenties. Says they’re easier to use on a night out. Party Coupons I think is what he calls them.
Without missing a beat, as if rehearsed, one of Slim’s cronies scoops up the cash, counts it quickly, puts it in his own pocket (as Slim never likes to take money himself) and says, “It’s all there dog. We cool.”
Slim motions to another one of his cronies and almost instantaneously presents a USB Jumpdrive before me. I take it. Place it in my pocket. I know the score.
“That’s all you’ll need.” Slim finally breaks from his paranoia and informs me, “That there actually has five homies and five bitches. Figure the fifth bitch is on the house… You intentions seem ‘aight so I’s don’t mind spottin you on the other homie. And I’m sure you don’t mind takin one?”
“Fuck no” I say, while at the same time realizing with an extra “Homie” (which is a full credit profile as opposed to the “bitch” which is just a single credit card number with cardholder information).
“My boy did something new with that there USB shit.” Slim says as he hypocritically lights up a Swisher I speculate is packed with weed. Part of me wants to light up a Lucky but I know he’ll tell me not to smoke and go on toking on his blunt. He takes a few puffs and passes the grass to one of his cronies, perfectly aware I never smoke the shit, and continues to say, “instead of just a regular text with the business on it, he done put on a file. For the five bitches, you got all the electronic data of the card. You dig what I’m trying to say?”
“I think so…” I offer, knowing full well what he’s trying to say as I’ve practically invented new forms of Credit fraud over the years but for business sake, sometimes I tend to humor Slim by playing the role of “stupid whiteboy”.
“You think so huh?” Slim says with a pretentious grin, “Well how’s about’s I fill you in just in case? With the data, you go get yourself a scanner and a card writer like companies use to make passkeys for their employee’s and shit – and you stamp that data shit onto a blank card – you got a fucking clone of the card. You can go buy gas and shit with the motherfucker. Thing is you gots to make sure you palm the card so the register motherfucker cant see you holding a motherfucking blank. You dig?”
“I dig” I say, “but you know how I operate – I don’t ever use physicals. But thanks anyway. Maybe I can pass the bitches on if I don’t and up needing them.”
“Yeah, Yeah. I know how you do” Slim says as one of his cronies passes a now half-smoked blunt back to him. He tokes then continues, “Speaking of which, I want to pull on your coat on some shit I’m picking up on the streets.”
Although he’s a rapper wannabe and appears to be just another rich black kid fronting the ghetto persona, Slim’s a consummate professional with an ear to the streets that’s second to none. With the above mentioned in mind, I lean in closer to express without speaking my interest.
“Not that it’s any of my business” he leans in closer to me and says in a ‘down-low’ fashion, “you wouldn’t happen to be rippin’ that white motherfucker Cal with that house on Laurel Canyon, would you?”
Just how and the fuck does he know, I wonder to myself, and who the fuck has his ear? I speculate Mel’s hick ass opened his big mouth but despite my need to flip over the table and throw a fit, I restrain myself and simply say calmly as possible, “What makes you ask?”
“You know me dog, how a man makes his tender is his business. Especially when it comes to you. We known each other since we was both green here. You may fuck a fool over, but you always straight with fam… I dig that. I just feel inclined to whisper if your ear if it’s warranted. You dig?”
“For sure” ebonics again, for his sake.
“Reason I ask, I’m getting feedback on a few fools that is tellin’ me that Cal motherfucker may be out on the streets writin’ a few checks his ass may not be able to cash if you smell what I’m steppin’”
“I may be familiar with the guy…” I say, obviously reaching.
“Well regardless, word is he’s out there doin’ a spell of talking to some Persian cats that may be a league or two above what he may be used to dealin’ with.”
“Persains!?” I say, unable to hold back a chuckle.
“I know, I know. But some of these motherfuckers aint no joke” He says.
“They’re fucking wannabes. Daddies-boys who watch too much BET. No offense.”
“I feel you. I feel you. At the same time though my brother, it’s the wannabe gangster who’s more dangerous than the real deal – these cats are the type that think they have something to prove. And when dealing with a white-bread motherfucker like this Cal, I’m sure they would have problem none in dispatching a motherfucker if he can’t come through with the goods. And not to speculate too much, if a guy like Cal expects to get something off you my brother, something tells me he aint gonna have when it’s time to give. You feel me?”
“Absolutely” I say, silently wondering to myself how any of this concerns me.
“Again I aint the type of man to jump on a mans commerce. Thing is though, if this boy is your next rip, and something happens to him on account he can’t come through” Slim pauses for a second, thinking how to craft his words or maybe even he lost his train of thought on account of the grass. Who knows. A bulb lights over his head and he continues on, “that kinda shit aint the sort of thing you want weighing down on your conscience in the middle of the night. You dig?”
“Yeah I dig you” I say, then coldly as possible and meaning every word I say, “But between us, my conscience is the last thing you have to worry about. Simply because there isn’t one.”
Slim laughs. Finally puts his blunt out. Hatches his drink. Leans in. Says, “You can keep fronting that shit to the Bev-kids. But I knows better. No one feels more than your white ass.”
“What makes you say that?” I ask, terrified how easily Slim is able to break through barriers I’ve spent years building.
Slim takes a beat to look me over. He fails to answer me – or very easily refuses to. He manages to chuckle again to himself and finally says, “Don’t worry about it. Just if you can, take the advice I’m shellin’. If this Cal boy here is your rip, cool. If you gotta take him, do your thing. I can only offer my suggestions. And if I was you, I’d at least tell the boy not to make any promises until he knows he can keep them. You dig me my brother?”
“For sure” I tell him, this time enunciating ‘for’ and ‘sure’ perfectly as to illustrate my whiteness and satirize the ebonic culture that has sadly become mainstream for White American Youth.
At the far end of the Tier Slim’s hot fashion designer girlfriend gestures for him to come over to her and chat it up with her pretentious Mac using and Jetta driving friends. I speculate she feels the need to show off her politically correct interracial relationship – cunt she is. Slim takes the cues from his whore-of-a-girlfriend and says, “Well that takes care of our shit. I’d chat around and shit but my girl be callin’ my black ass. I’d offer for you to stay and chill with the boys but something tells me you don’t wanna be with this herd here.”
Again, I think to myself, the insight Slim possesses into my soul continues to perplex me. What he may not know however, is whatever feelings of depression I dealt with when first arriving here, with hat tipped to the Scotch, are completely gone and forgotten. I don’t belong here… come on Donnie. Shut the fuck up and buck it. It’s great to be back.
Slim leaves and I can’t even remember if I said goodbye to him. Fuck it. His cronies remain sitting probably because Slim hasn’t given them instructions to do otherwise. To stay true to form, I fail to say goodbye to them as well and make my way toward the stairs.
The alcohol has made its way into my stream at full speed and already I can tell cognitively that the Adderall has lost its grasp on my brain. I’m more clear in a physical sense. Rather than sharp attention to the mental aspect of my daily doings, I’m completely in the physical space I occupy. The cunt-rags dancing around me do absolutely nothing to my self-esteem. The sense of not belonging – now completely non-existent. Rather than feeling like a minnow in a pool of piranhas, I feel like a shark; fully aware of the piranhas but unaffected by their presence. If in my way, sure I may get a few nicks and cuts here and there; yet at the same time, any of them daft enough to swim in my path will end up in my belly.
As I pass the security cat on the top of the stairs manning the ropes he offers the standard non-verbal “what’s up” nod to me in which I completely ignore. Waling down the stairs a group of fuck-twigs I sold coke to a few weeks back for three times what I bought it for attempt to get my attention. Again, I ignore them as well. The venom is back in my veins and I couldn’t feel better. The itinerary for the night has certainly changed. Now I plan to hit up a Ralphs on the way back to Brentwood where I’ll buy a steak and a six pack of either New Castle or Peroni or even some Stella Artois as a change of pace. In processing my beer choices, I come to the conclusion that a premium Belgian beer such as Stella Artois is actually the best option. With it’s Sprite-like crispness, not only will I be able to get drunk enough to pass out but I’ll also be able to negate the cotton mouth I’m currently experiencing out of a combination of both excessive lying and the ingestion of a large number of pharmaceutical-grade amphetamines.
This night, after a short chat with Slim and a little bit of business, has quickly gone from one extreme to another. Where I once wanted to silver-bullet it in the mouth, I now want nothing more to get shit-faced, maybe jerk off, and pass-out with the TV still rolling back in Brentwood. Unlike the fucking jackals all around me, I don’t feel the pressing need to go out every fucking weekend. A nice night alone at the pad is just what the doctor ordered.
Making my way past the main floor and out the front door my feelings of invincibility immediately subside upon the sight of something – or more like someone – Sonya.
I can see her ahead, like me, desperately attempting to get the fuck out of this place. With her is this okay looking brunette chick I’m almost certain I saw at Cal’s party the other night. Oh shit! Cal’s party… I’m immediately reminded of the last night I shared with Sonya and some of the feelings that overcame me the morning after. That emptiness. The feeling in the pit of my stomach when she confronted me on the bag of blow. The need and want to say something without knowing what to say… all of these feelings engulf me in a typhoon’s scale and I almost fall to the floor. She hasn’t seen me yet, but if and when she does, I wouldn’t even know where to begin. What do I do?
What the fuck am I even feeling?
As I watch her walk toward the exit, dressed so classy and strutting with such confidence, I can’t help but to be choked by a weakness that hits me right at the knees. I haven’t felt anywhere near this since I first saw Marrissa Tomei in My Cousin Vinny when I was in second grade. Could this be love? Fuck no. Maybe respect – just like I felt at the end of our Sunday morning together, but nothing beyond that.
I tell myself this is the alcohol talking… or maybe even the last remaining scraps of the Adderall ticking at my brain. Surly I’m not into this chick. I haven’t been like this since I’m a teenager. Plus, I can’t look around the fact that, as much I don’t want to admit this, Sonya is essentially a female version of me. And there’s no way I can be that into myself that I’m starting to fall her simply for that reason.
And then that gets me thinking again… There’s no way I can be that into myself? How could I have said anything like that after having had some of the thoughts I had when first walking into this joint? I don’t love myself at all. Shit, just half an hour ago I was wondering why the fuck I even bother trying to survive… why I even bother going on. I was ready to call it a day… on account I had absolutely no reason to live…
And then this happens. I see Sonya.
Everything is in slow-motion.
She turns around with her average looking friend in tow.
And Sonya and I meet eyes.
And she smiles. I follow suit.
And as she opens her beautiful mouth to smile upon seeing me, I can’t help but to point out to myself the following—
If I ever go back into the depressive funk I was in not too long ago, and I needed a reason to wake up in the morning, this is just the sort of girl to give me that reason…
Sonya (however it happened is beyond me) has become the light of a life eclipsed with darkness.
Sonya.
The light of my life.
At the same time however, I can’t help but to wonder, as great as all this feels seeing her before me…
… why is it I’m so fucking scared?
