A Stupid Flick

donovan post

A Guest Writers’ Week post by Donovan Smith

We were locked in an argument coming down the steps of your front porch. I don’t even remember the topic, I just remember you being mad that I didn’t open your door after. Childish of me.

The ride there was like so many others we took that summer. I hated giving you the cord. The thought of jocquees squealing through my speakers made me nauseous, though I knew the harsh sounds of Nirvana b-sides, odd future, or satanic metal would do the same for you. I jumped track to track through Because the Internet in search of middle ground. No complaints, but no conversation either.

You were dressed for passion. Short shorts and a loose fitting shirt that cut off right at the belly button. I didn’t know you neglected a bra until we were already seated and it pissed me off. I was possessive that summer.

Jealousy couldn’t beat out my lust though. I copped a generous feel during a makeout session that was probably discourteous to the other moviegoers. It was an R rated movie; they’ll get over it. We had done much worse in the same theater.

You didn’t know I had already seen the movie with another girl the week before. We were “broken up”. You didn’t know that girl was my ex either.

It was a funny, stupid romantic movie. I didn’t plan on enjoying the movie or the date to be honest. Whatever I was mad about had already eaten up all the reserved space for happiness in the thought region of my brain. While I recycled my laughs to meet yours, there were times we looked at each other and your eyes met mine, holding my gaze with an entirely different pull. Softness. I was wearing you down that summer. I was too inward to realize that.

On the ride back you pressed the issue of us getting back together. I wasn’t into it. An argument we had multiple times before the date played out again at a much higher volume. I screamed. You laughed at me screaming. That pissed me off even more. I remember going above 70 on the interstate yelling at you while you giggled like an amused child. The thought of hitting you crossed my mind. I wouldn’t do it. I hated you with all I could gather, but I loved you even more.

You knew how to be mean and how to emasculate. Chalk it up to girl power. I could never match wits with you when it came to being hurtful. I never wanted to. But my uneven, mostly mute attitude always lent me a darker element. I made a comment about wrecking and killing us both as the truck barreled across the pavement. The words were sarcastic, but wrapped tight in dry delivery. You didn’t think that was funny. Neither did I, and seeing you become visibly disgusted with me made made me feel like the biggest asshole ever.

You didn’t want to go home with me anymore. I realized my mistake too late. I tried to lighten the mood and talk sweet. You wouldn’t let me touch you. It was silent when I pulled into the gas station to let you out. Your cousin waited in a parking spot to collect you and bring you home. I remember wanting so, so badly to hug you and cry and tell you I was sorry, but I couldn’t. Anger and pride and so much more underlying shit kept me from breaking down. You gave me a sarcastic smile when you stepped out and I finally moved. I flipped you off and drove away. I made my way home with no music playing and hot water on my face.

I never should’ve took you to see that stupid fucking movie.

Donovan Smith is a twenty year old from Chaneyville, Louisiana. He’s a depression prone young dude who takes refuge in twisting words in artful ways. Connect with him on Twitter @Lame__O and on Instagram @ _lord.nasty. 

It’s Not Complicated, We Just Like To Complicate It.

it's complicated

Fuck Facebook. Fuck it for making everyone on planet Earth believe that every matter of the heart can just be plopped into this category of utter and hopeless complication.

You and I aren’t a Facebook relationship status. We are people. And sometimes people have the grand and inexplicable impulse to destroy things. We get selfish and we get greedy and we get needy and we can only think about one thing, no matter how out-of-reach that one thing is.

I don’t think things are ever quite as complicated as we believe them to be.

You want me to provide you with a real life example. Turn my ambiguous “you” into a true story and yank my skeletons out of the closet. Show you my screw ups and tell you how many situations I have messed up, chalking them up to things being “complicated.” You want me to tell you that my stories are covered in sin, that I drink until my lips turn purple thinking about the men I have loved or liked or lusted after (or, in a few rare cases, all of the above) who slipped through my pretty little fingers.

All true. All there. Take note.

But, I had to stop telling myself that things were complicated. I had to stop using that as an excuse to behave like a complete and unadulterated jackass. At some juncture, I had to take ownership of how I felt, of the situations I put myself in, of my part in letting some things spiral entirely out of control.

See, things are not complicated. But, people? Oh, people are complicated as all hell.

Things are usually very simple. Black and white.

“We are friends; that would ruin the relationship.”

“No, he has a girlfriend.”

“This situation is going nowhere.”

“I don’t like him.”

“My friend already dated him or my friend already likes him or TERRITORY TERRITORY TERRITORY.”

Those are all things, unwritten and written codes we live by so we don’t litter our relationships with the filth of selfishness and short-sightedness.

Yet here we are, complex creatures, trying to live our lives by seemingly simple rules. And we just want to throw out that “it’s complicated” but it is so fucking not. No, we are the complicated ones. Every thing or relationship I have ever messed up in this life, I knew from my gut that I was messing it up. I knew what the run rules were and I knew at the very moment when I stopped playing by them. I knew exactly when I said something or did something or insinuated something that lit the torch. But, sometimes it felt good to stick my hand in a fire and get burned. Sometimes the burns remind us that our skin is there. Our heart is still racing. The heat still exists. Sometimes we forget. It shouldn’t require a burn. Unfortunately, it usually does. Life starts feeling so stagnant and colorless, and sometimes the wrong people remind us of the right things.

Stop saying it’s complicated. Stop reducing your whole life to a trite Facebook relationship status. It is not complicated. But, you, my love, are complicated. You are fragile and complex and sometimes stupidly selfish. You are hungry and you are human and fully capable of pure fuckery. You are animalistic and impulsive and unpredictable. Sometimes you follow your heart, sometimes you listen to your mind and sometimes you give in to your libido. You are beautiful and layered, a frenzied body of glowing contradictions. You are dynamic and ever-changing. At any given moment, there are 100 different truths inhabiting your tiny, beating heart. The things are not complicated; don’t give them so much credit. But you are complicated and will, by nature, complicate it.