27
When I get home, the impulse is stronger than I can bear. It’s a wicked evil monster with long limbs. It digs its claws into me and I lose all free-will. I must give in to its wants. I must satisfy its urges. I power up my laptop and before I can talk sense into myself, I click away until I find Renee’s Facebook page. I’m looking for any sign, evidence of her infidelity. There are so many selfies of her… the woman really does love herself. Although in her defense, if I were that gorgeous, I probably couldn’t stop taking photos of myself too. I think back to the last time I posted a selfie. I think it was months ago, Tristan’s birthday. I’m what people call a ‘creeper’. I don’t post often, but I love to look at other’s pages. Renee strikes me as the opposite — someone who pays no attention to others’ accounts, but loves to post on her own, loves the attention, the adoration.
Well, she certainly has mine. And I derive a certain pleasure from the fact that she has no clue.
There’s no Grant in any of the photos… just a few girlfriends. These girls are like a scene fromSex and the City. I get off on scrolling through her feed and checking out all her amazing outfits. The woman should have been a fashion model — she can pull anything off. Although her style is a little more bohemian than my own; lots of dangling earrings and loose bracelets, funky prints, colorful scarves, and long skirts. And the heels are beautiful. She seems to favor very high ones with interesting accents — fringe, bows, buckles. Funky hats and handbags are also part of the esthetic.
Unfortunately, Renee Hall is never boring. Which only feeds the addiction.
I’m insatiable. I haven’t quite had my fix, and I move on to Joel’s Facebook account. The page has lost quite a lot of its appeal since we’ve become such great friends in real life. And he never posts very much. His Instagram is salon related and quite boring, unless you have a fetish for hair. I’m left feeling unsatisfied, like when you have sex and don’t get off. Although that doesn’t happen too often with Brian because he always likes to finish what he starts.
I turn to Ava’s page — she’s always fascinated me too. Such a beautiful young girl, yet so sorrowful. I want to dive into her head and know what’s going on in there. I want to help the poor girl.
She’s written a poem.
THE STORM
I’m heading towards the storm
And there’s some ally
speaking to me, telling me:
“You have to make it to the other side.”
So, reckless, I speed along
Tears racing down my face
But what if it’s wrong?
I can’t keep listening to this song
But I know that
I’m the only one that can win this chase.
I’m not sure when this started
I don’t know where this road ends
So my hands grip the steering wheel
Because he’s my only friend
Where do I want to go?
Who do I want to be?
At this point, I don’t know
I’m just tired of carrying this cargo
I’m not quite sure when this started
When I reach the end, who will I be?
I don’t want to see the rage in front of me
