My friend, Avery, says I should put something better as the title. But, I don’t know what to put. I mean, you guys don’t know who I am, or why I’m here. You might think it’s just Avery doing this, or something. She thinks you’ll get it. But, for all I know you could be riders of the slow bus. We haven’t exactly met, have we? So, I figured I’d put you all on a low curve and spell it out for you. If you handle it alright, next time I’ll give it a better title.
If there is a next time.
I don’t know about this journal thing. Seems like a waste of time. Avery seems to think having some sort of outlet for my feelings (the exact word she used was “rage”) will do me good. She said it’s not magic, though, and not to expect typing a few sentences here and there to screw my head on right. Just for that, I’m letting HER field all the comments left here. That’s what she gets for shooting off at the mouth.
So, anyway, I’m Resonance Murphy. I’m twenty-two. And, yeah, I still live with my mother. I don’t like school, jobs, or society in general. If it turns out I like you, you can call me Res. If I don’t, well… I guess that’s not the best way to welcome you to Avery’s old blog. She might get pissed if I drive you all away in the first day.
Speaking of getting pissed, I need to. Badly. See, I’m standing in the middle of a road and one of those wheel loader things has been scraping up all of the life garbage behind me and pushing it forward. Until now I’d managed to move ahead just enough so that mess piling up behind me never touched me, but the road has suddenly dead-ended. And I’m standing up to my neck in shit. If that’s not reason enough to get shitfaced, well, I don’t know what is.
A few months ago, life was good. Well, it was fine. Decent. No big complaints. Now, everything’s screwed up. I’ll spare you the soap opera-y details, but, the short version is I’ll soon be moving away from D.C. to the Delmarva Peninsula (that’s that weird tongue flapping off the side of Maryland and Delaware). It’s totally backwoods. No more clubs, no more hanging out with my best friend, Spider, no more salons, decent places to eat, no more life as I know it. Yeah, you’re probably thinking being twenty minutes from the beach is hardly an exile. Well, maybe for you. I couldn’t care less about oceans or sand. I don’t surf. I don’t sunbathe. In fact, I don’t venture into fresh air until the sun has set–and then only if every surrounding square inch is covered in concrete.
My mom’s already on my ass to change my look so I can find a job in overall-land. She thinks blue dreadlocks are going to get me unwanted attention, give people the wrong impression. I’m thinking it will give them just the right one. Besides, who the hell cares what color my hair is when all there’ll be for me to do is de-beak chickens or shuck corn?
I could stay. I think about it. Hell, I daydream about it. It’s the one thought that lets me get up in the morning. Even so, I know I’ll leave in the end. Something is making me want to go with my Mom. And it’s not just about Dad, or the cash-cow leaving me high and dry (but, if we’re being honest, it is a factor). Mostly, though, it’s something else. I keep having these dreams, and the other day, when we first visited Tyne–
Nah. I told you I’d spare you the drama, didn’t I?
Enough bullshit already. Moving to oblivion. Finding a crappy job. And that’s the end of it.
East Hell, here I come.