Sleet Wheels

After making a quick stop at the bank this afternoon, I was crossing streets when I encountered a woman depending on a walker to get to the other side. Unfortunately, the city was smacked with sleet from all directions, enough to cause traffic to be more insane than usual. This increased the natural action of me walking beside her to lend a help even more, especially since the roads were toxic with slippery doom.
I was already on the other end for my destination until I decided to approach her.
"It's shitty out here. I'll help you cross the street," I told her, almost shouting to fight off the city sounds.
She didn't argue, for she probably figured that a hand would be most useful. She donned a humongous leather coat, with the top of her head shielded by a hat and her legs and feet by an oversized pair of pants and low-top shoes, a crime against the dangers of the winter season.
We didn't speak much. Our finals words were pleasant and she thanked me, but it was disheartening to witness a person, one in need of assistance, enduring so much by their own strength that it renders the journey of crossing a simple street to be impossible.
I named her Sleet Wheels, because it has a catchy ring to it.

The Woodman by Loyola

Shortly after a tense confrontation with a friend, I made my walk toward the Loyola Red Line stop to await for my ride. "I'll be there in six minutes," he had told me, so I took a seat right outside the train station and reflected back on the encounter with my friend.
Deep in thought and utterly distracted, I looked up and attempted to find something that would take my mind off things. An interesting character of the hipster trend soon walked out with his peculiar wooden bicycle. He was either an employee or the owner of a wood shop - an ad for one in particular was placed on the side of a wooden container behind him, atop of the bicycle's seat. And the bicycle itself was crafted almost primarily in wood, with metal components to hold the necessity wooden parts together. An innovative machine, the Woodman's choice of transportation had caught my eye, and I was finally intrigued by a hipster and not coated with annoyance and malicious thoughts. A full beard tied at the tip, buttoned-up patterned shirt tucked in underneath tight blue pants, and noticeable boots echoing the cliché hipster fad. My encounter was short-lived, but I was glad nonetheless to have witnessed this man.
I named him the Woodman for obvious reasons.

My Twin

It was a week before Thanksgiving when I encountered her on the public train. We were both heading toward the airport, no delays and at a decent pace. Before I focused more on her, my initial glimpse was star struck, as if I was staring into a mirror, only to see the female version of myself. She had long curly hair, evidently her hair was more lengthier than my own; leopard-stylized glasses; a book in her hands; striking beauty altogether. I sat behind, feeling a strong sense of familial connections, like a long lost blood line, blind to the family. Hence, it wasn't a romantic interest by any means. Instead, I felt like I had met my twin. No words were exchanged and no eye contact was met, merely the presence of me and her. What could have I said? Who knows anymore.
The time had arrived for me to depart, and I took one last glance at her, awaiting for the doors to open. The connection was temporary like a rare winter in the south, and I didn't know when I would see her again. My thoughts had ceased as soon as the doors had opened, leaving behind that inexplicable occurrence.
I named her My Twin, because she looked a hell of a lot like me.

No Wipe

Normally, I don't write about fellow college students, mostly because debbie downers on the sidewalk or on the CTA are far more fascinating than those with struggles at hand during their higher educational years. But today, while awaiting for a friend to depart from class, I had witnessed a fellow student walk passed me with tears dripping down to her chin, eyes opened wide. She didn't dare wipe away her tears, not one bit. She expressed her sorrow to the world, and nobody, including unfortunately myself, seemed to care. Only now as I reflect that I would have offered her a hug.
We all have those days: we tear up over something horrendous, so painful, that our emotional bottle bursts open without us twisting off the cap. We all know someone who's been through that tough shit. Sometimes we question our duties on what to do when they're down in the dumps, and sometimes the best that most of us could possibly do is hug them.
As a resident of Desolation Row, I leave you with this: whenever you witness this person, think of their torment, because we've all had those days. Whether it may be a stranger on the streets or a close relative, we all need that hug, from one human being to another.

Mo's Deadpan Request

The nicotine withdrawal would kick in soon after skipping a couple days of lighting up a cigarette, and I figured that it was time for a new pack. Unfortunately, it would be at a gas station up in Niles after I dropped off my brother for his sporting tournament. At this particular gas station, I inquired about the price for a pack of Marlboro Reds, dubious as to whether or not I wanted to make a purchase. Without showing any emotion, he asked for my ID, even after I merely asked for the pack's pricing and not the actual possession of it.
"I just want to know the price," I told him, yet he persisted, the bastard.
I gave up my ID and he asked about the name and birth date. He asked with a face like he had seen his own dog being mauled by a pair of vicious characters who had a personal vendetta against him, and I'd like to imagine that his former wife had cheated on him because he no longer "was a man". This cashier really grinded my gears, up to the point where I took my ID and left, finally saying aloud, "I just wanted to know what the fucking price was, asshole."
I went back into the car with malicious images, mentally cursing at the bastard for providing such a futile and rough time for a simple question.
I named him Mo because he reminds me of a neighbor I used to hate with a passion.

The Turtle's Desperation

En route to the airport, I was casually holding a pizza box that now only contained three slices after devouring half of it and giving away one to some grand hag before hoping on the train. A bum had caught sight of the box, which gave him this invisible obligation to approach me and ask for a slice. He had reeked of mad piss, a shaggy beard that was in deep need of a cut, and thrifty clothing from a year before today's. The scent was too strong, too vicious - I gave him a slice before he could articulate his request for a slice. This time, I didn't feel bad for him, as I usually do with the homeless folk. I felt anger toward him. I'm not well-aware of this man's past, but there seems to be a bleak ambience of avoidance that eventually just builds up after encountering a great number of bums. Half of them were sincerely asking for assistance, while the other half (the scum of the planet) merely adventured for cupidity and total advantage of the ones who try, at least to some extent.
I gave the bastard the cold shoulder and exited the train, no longer interested in being surrounded by that stench and by that failed seeker.
I named him Turtle, because he reminds me of those fucking Ninja Turtles who love pizza.

The Grand Ol' Daddy

Surrounded by another crowd of peculiar strangers and the fulfilling lights of the train car, I sat by myself as passengers entered and exited between each and every stop, all while I read a book to quickly kill time. The predominance of my counters on public transit are usually met with some sort of substance, a particular ambience in the air that captures a moment like your favorite scene in a film. And when I met the Grand Ol' Daddy, I knew that it would another one of those cases.
Surpassing a grand elderly age, he stepped onto the train car with a suitcase and an arched back that made it nearly impossible to walk straight without complication. A neighboring black man saw Grand looking for an open seat, in which where the black man gave up his seating for the elder individual. All Grand Ol' Daddy did was smile and look down, as if he was nervous around the company of complete strangers. But who would conduct some harm onto him, though? The man could barely walk!
When I had finished perusing another chapter, Grand got up and departed the train car, all without uttering any words or imperative eye contacts. He never went to the airport; why did he carry a suitcase?
I named him Grand Ol' Daddy because he reminds me of someone from my past.

Thomas Without Possessions

Once after a long day of work and annoyance toward the ugly parts of society, which has kept me usually malcontent, I walked away from the school campus to smoke a cigarette before proceeding on to worse or better things. Just when my afternoon was running along smoothly, a homeless man, Thomas, asked me for one. Immediately, I had told him "no", mostly due to my numerous past experiences with inquiries by homeless folk in pertains to my tobacco. He soon walked over me as I continued to say "no" to him, yet he persisted. Once he invaded my personal space, he asked me to take a whiff from it. I had told him that this was mine, and when I'm done I intend to toss out the filter and whatever remains within in. Still he persisted, until I finally told him, "Okay, I gotta go. Whatever, man."
A few days, I saw Thomas on the steps somewhere in the downtown area. He began to speak to me, then I quickly interrupted him and offered him a cigarette. He gladly accepted it as I sat down next to him, opening my Marlboro Reds and thus providing one for him. He expressed his gratitude, then I got up and departed, delving into the potential horrors of the night.
I named him Thomas, because he reminds me of someone from both my past and mind.

The Lonely Consumer Says Thank You

This time, I was lucky enough to witness the arrival of The Lonely Consumer, who had appeared with his usual attire of broken glasses, casual clothes, and something to peruse while eating his meal. It would be the last time I would get to see this mysterious man, even though it is entirely my fault for never introducing myself to him since he was a regular. The only time we made contact was when he jotted down a short list of tunes to put on for the restaurant's music. Marvin Gaye and Chuck Berry were the only ones I could recall, each followed by a particular track that I've also lost my memory to. When the impromptu tracklist was set to go, I walked by The Lonely Consumer to tend to my work, when he said, "Thank you", with a kind smile - that specific smile that shows that you've made someone's day just a bit brighter; if I left the restaurant with anything good, it would be the tiny yet heartwarming moments that are often looked by.
As a resident of Desolation Row, I leave you with this: if you see that smile, you've done good. If you don't, then make it right.

Bruno, with hands buried deep

Too many depressing-looking travelers lurk within the train cars of the CTA, there's no doubt about that, but there tends to be one person here and there who greatly showcases their sorrow. A man named Bruno sat himself alone by my left side. I was too indulged with my reading at the time, so deep that I refused to look up and survey my recently added temporary neighbors, that I didn't bother to look over at this man in time to see him before his mood changed. It was then he collapsed into his hands; poor old Bruno, with hands buried deep with sorrow - I did not know what to do. Normally I would ignore a stranger's sadness due to our recent acquaintance, yet the sympathy was too atavistic that I had to move away, for I felt his pain... and thank goodness I didn't hear his cries.
I named him Bruno, because he reminds me of someone from my past.

Weary Ruben

After a lengthy night of playing cards and a tedious morning of collecting books for my courses, I stumbled upon another individual whose identity was blocked by sunglasses and a distance between me and him. I got distracted at one point when a moronic bastard behind decided to blast her music through her cheaply purchased headphones. I couldn't read the book I had in my hands due to her insolence and disgusting existence, which lead me to observe my surroundings to fill my frustration. I saw him with those black sunglasses, those shades that could hide anything relative to the window of the soul; I was right. At one point, he removed his sunglasses to lean against the hard window for comfort, yet all I saw was weariness and exhaustion within those eyes, troubled by heavy bags and the upper eyelid sliding down halfway, close to collapsing. I knew he was in no good shape, but I can never find the strength in me to walk up to someone like Ruben and give them a hug; everyone needs love. But I am merely a stranger, an idle bystander existing in your essential lifetimes for solely ten seconds or less. Why was this young person so sad, so tired? Was there family troubles at home? Was he fired from his job? I have no idea, and it scares me to say that I'll never know.
I named him Ruben, because he reminds me of someone from my past.

Dear Bethesda

First and foremost, congratulations on the impending release of Fallout 4. With so much potential on the horizon and all of your fans screaming in anticipation, it's great to witness the unleashing of another adventure into the Wasteland. Second, and this is the primary purpose of the letter, I would like to personally thank you for Fallout 3. It took me a while to discover what exactly it was, until my father purchased a copy for me back in grade school. I remember it as if it was yesterday: I sat in my room watching a television show, when my father enters in the room with a brand new game I never heard of before. Without hesitation, I popped the disc into my 360 console, and became wholly enthralled within the initial ten minutes of the game, featuring Ron Perlman's voiceover for the opening sequence, meeting Liam Neeson before the dear mother passes, and being rushed out into whiteness before celebrating your one-year-old self.. Then the game played out beautifully thereafter: venture out into the Wasteland by age 19, trekking amongst the D.C. ruins, fighting against sadistic raiders and crazies, committing either insidious or peaceful acts toward humanity, and motherfucking Three Dog from Galaxy News Radio. I couldn't stop myself from playing it over and over again. Now, years later, I'm beginning another adventure in the Capital Wasteland before the new installment arrives, and I thank you, Bethesda, for literally developing a game that would entice, excite, upset, anger, and motivate me all simultaneously. Fallout 3 is my most favorable game to play whenever boredom strikes hard, and I can't wait for the Fourth. Thank you for the music, for the Wasteland, for the Vaults, for hiring Liam Neeson, and for all the adventures that have passed and for those to come.
-C. Anthony Rivera

P.S. As a resident from Desolation Row, I leave you with this: we all have that favorite video game, film, album, book, etc., that bring us a new perspective on things, get us worked up to a heartfelt addiction, or might even save us. It's important that those people are aware of the accomplishments that occur within us; without them, there would be no connection between the artist/developer/producer/writer and the audience.

Michael, a loner among us

While waiting for a mate of mine to meet up at a nearby McDonald's, a distinctive stranger stood by me, twirling his fingers and adjusting his glasses as he stood idly by. I couldn't help myself but study him for a bit (a bad habit I'm slowly developing). The hairs upon his head were slightly maturing into a bald state, where dark spots are just now beginning to appear. Buggy eyes were showcased due to the large size of his glasses, in which he would, as aforesaid, constantly adjust. Yet his most peculiar aspect was his tendency to check one of his fingers. I, too, glanced over at his finger that he was so eager to frequently play with. A sad disposition, I would suppose, for his silent lisp and gigantic lower mouth would slowly move as diminutive syllables of lost words were spurting out, entirely indistinctively. As with many tourists, visitors, and residents, I have no notion as to who exactly they are. Random scenarios pop into my head, sad and terrorizing lifestyles plague my imagination, but reality seems to make it all anchored as it abides by its casual state of existence. I never got to see this loner among us - my friend arrived approximately three minutes later, leaving me to part ways from the stranger, albeit I didn't see him enter a bus. That aspect was never witnessed.
I named him Michael, because he reminds me of someone from my past.

The Lonely Consumer

He sinks his teeth into the well-cooked meal he is fully prepared to pay for, embracing each bite as if his life depended on it. One hand is focused on his meal, and the another is dedicated to holding a page he's reading from a indistinguishable book I cannot identify. As this individual sits upon the counter alone, he never utters a word to another passerby or a helpful hand from the restaurant staff, yet he indulged himself into his own desolation, not focusing on the importance or vitality of the breathing and ever-growing population - just his own. He would frequently observe the atmosphere of the area, but no words dared to come out; his eyes did all the talking. The most upsetting aspect was his emptiness - no one sat near him, like a neglected classmate in high school during lunch period. I never saw him enter, nor did I see him leave. Either he was swift in entering and exiting, or I'm going insane.
I named him The Lonely Consumer, because he reminds me of someone from my mind.

The Dirt Wanderer

After a long night of traveling back and fro across the city, I decided to call it in and head home, ignoring the fact that it was past midnight and the trains would be flooded in scum, the homeless, nocturnal travelers en route to the airport, and slackers of the youth on their way to cause trouble to their fragile bodies. It was a day where I didn't have my headphones for music and a book to peruse, so all I had were my powers of observation and cognizance, although I was already sickened by the sight of these fiends. Yet one caught my attention, usually due to her dirty knees and loose mouth. While aimlessly reading the advertisements held up high on the train, my eyes caught her, mostly locked onto her knees: slightly red but mostly coated in dirt, in which a filthy assumption was conceived, even after glancing at her lips, soft and loose in structure. Above all else, she seemed completely out of it, mayhap under the influence of something, or weary from the long day she endeavored and endured. Since I was on the Red line portion of the public transportation system, I had to conduct a transfer to another line, meaning that my encounter with this Dirt Wanderer was cut short. As I got myself prepared to depart and transfer on over, I looked at her one more time and left.
I named her The Dirt Wanderer, because she reminds me of someone from my mind.

Disappointed

She looked down at her lap, then at me, then back at lap until her eyes met the shades of the nearby window, quiet in dark contemplation and at a loss for words. Tears ran down her wonderful face, and her eyes became red as pain worsened in her stomach and especially within her heart. When our eyes first met, there was an instant connection that was begging to be worked upon; now when they meet, it was merely time counting down until departure. Little did I know that this would be the last time I would see her ever again. I didn't kiss her, I didn't hold her close, and I never got a chance to utter those legendary three words. Before I could say anything else, she jolted from the bed and gathered her things in a swift fashion, aware that my presence was like a plague, and she didn't dare come closer. At that moment, I needed to hold her close, but she just walked away. I sat there for a good five minutes, realizing that I am a monster. I'll drink to that.
I named her Disappointed, because she was.

When karma strikes

In order to blow off some unnecessary steam accumulated by the departure of certain individuals, I drove over to McDonald's around midnight to punish my body with chemicals induced into a burger (you've heard the stories, especially the involvement with pink slime, I'm certain). With a static radio and low traffic, the wind blew against me in adequate velocities as I proceeded down Harlem Avenue to the nearest famous and somewhat notorious fast food joint. As I pulled up to the drive-thru, a notion quickly fired, realizing that I wasn't that hungry at all - I ended up with a McChicken sandwich and some fries, and two receipts. I paid for my own meal, while also offering to pay for the person right behind me. Of course, there was mild bewilderment (with a flabbergasted face) from the drive-thru employee, but eventually he said that I was good to go, so I drove off, knowing that my rare good deed was committed.
Here's where it gets interesting. The day after, a couple of mates and me stopped by the local 7-11 to purchase a few rounds of Slurpees for our weak bodies to endure. Once we reached the front to pay for our drinks, a late-thirties, early-forties, gentleman offered to pay for our items. With great and sincere gratitude, he told us to stay in school and all that junk. Eventually I shared my McDonald's experience with them right after the Slurpee mission, and one mate, Sandy, said, "Dude, that's good karma right there!" This lead to an epiphany: karma does exist. I didn't believe in it before (such hope I once possessed), but this slight connection and chain of events proved my faith otherwise.
As a resident of Desolation Row, I leave you with this: do good for people, for they will eventually do good for you.

Sentimental value always prevails

Some time ago, an item of certain sentimental value was burned to a crisp while being manipulated as the center point for a bonfire, but not by me. This particular item I once had was given to a dear friend, whom I believed to have had my trust. Eventually, as typical college and youthful drama occurred, this friend used the item as a somewhat brick of wood to ignite a bonfire to burn everything we once shared: old photographs from our happiest times, tiny gifts, and essentially anything related to me. When this bonfire was discovered, this friend of mine was with me when I asked this friend where the item was. To this, the friend said, "Oh, haha. Yeah, about that - it's gone. It was used for a bonfire to burn all of our stuff." I couldn't help but feel slightly broken by this revelation, knowing that this item (which was my first copy of Watchmen, the graphic novel by Alan Moore and Dave Gibbons) has been disintegrated into blind thin air. In turn, this friend attempted to rectify the fatuous action by purchasing another copy of the book for me, yet clearly there is no comprehension for anything related to sentimental value.
As a resident of Desolation Row, I leave you with this: if you have acquired something of value, either personal and/or importance, try not to give it away. The inner value reflects only you.

Bianca's somber ride

It's fairly easy to point out who seldom takes a trip upon the CTA. Sometimes it could be the asshole who hogs up both seats in order to keep their belongings safe, secure, and close to them; mayhap they're frightened by the sight of unwanted wanderers nearby, sauntering in between the continuous rows of passengers and asking for change or to sign some counterfeit papers about a basketball team; even the standing individual by the pair of doors could be riding the train for the first time. Once you notice someone of this kind, you could tell that their CTA cherry has officially been popped.
I recently downloaded a massive game onto my phone: Fallout Shelter, which has kept me pretty preoccupied for whenever time needs to be eliminated swiftly. But a fresh rider caught my attention after completing a collection in the game; big buggy eyes of cognizance and irritation, hands folded in the middle of her lap, and the constant gesture of looking back and forth, you could easily presume that this was her first time on the CTA, mostly due to her disgust of looking at the homeless and anyone who sat right next to you. The fear in her eyes were uncanny, as if a child was lost without her parents in a shopping mall. I didn't spend much time looking at her, for I was still distracted by my mobile game, that and the train had finally reached my stop. As I got up to exit the train, I glanced at her for the final time, and the agitation remained within her.
I named her Bianca, because she reminds me of someone from my past.

Cycle Sam and the pass

Us youngsters tend to ignore frivolous matters whilst sauntering down an open sidewalk, where few cars drive by, several children are outside passing a ball around, and seldom encounters with oncoming strangers, who usually stare at you for quick second and then away as if nothing had occurred. At times, you will come across an individual breaking the law by riding a bicycle along the sidewalk. She was approaching her middles ages, with soft wrinkles now beginning to appear upon her face, yet she possessed a kind face; so kind that you couldn't be rude to her, but merely show her the utmost kindness that the world can offer. Without abiding by the law, she chose to ride her casual bicycle on the sidewalk, possibly cognizant of the road rule for when it comes to bicycles (basically right side of the road). With doing so, she rode passed a group of four young adults, but she had to slow down in order to safely pass by. Neither of the young people stepped onto the grass to avoid collision, so she then had two options: ride the grass, or slow her adrenaline. The latter occurred, and she had to sacrifice one foot as a stopping mechanism to avoid hitting us. She smiled, and said, "Excuse me," yet none of the four individuals didn't dare move aside. No one got hurt, for Cycle Sam, still possessing a smile, continued her journey to somewhere I will never know. One of the youngsters looked back at her, but didn't utter a single word.
I named her Cycle Sam, because she reminds me of someone from my mind.

Finally saying farewell

She used to mean everything to me: the softness of her lips, the warm embrace of her gentle hugs, and the glistening and starry look in her eyes whenever she expressed those three unforgettable words, those legendary words that are represented by the warm feeling that's been shared throughout this world and throughout all of history. A whole lot of things were accomplished under our belt, such as hanging out with each other's groups of pals, dinners with families, sleeping over due to lassitude, and the list goes on and on until the nerves stretch far enough to feel almost complete. But yet, complications and differentiations arrive, challenging the pair of us to the edge of emotional breakdowns, anxiety, fear, and the excessive potential of letting it all go. You can call it the usual ups and downs, comes and goes, and any other particular phrase you can conjure up by thinking about it quite often, but to me it was a challenge and a war with feelings, a never-ending course of obstacles, sacrifices, risks, victories, failures, and white flags. This thing we had, this bond we shared, it was just attempted a tad too deep; eventually, it had to come to a close, collapsing of the curtains.
There are some things that I wish I could take back, but it's history now. I moved on from her, yet I still wish the absolute best for her upcoming days. And just recently, we said goodbye.
As a resident from Desolation Row, I leave you with this: sometimes love may seem like a complicated mental and physical trek; even though it isn't right with someone, it will be right with someone else. Don't lose hope because you have a broken heart, because there's somebody out there to pick up the pieces and hold them together. You may call it finding love again, rekindling from a shattered love, or whatever the hell you're comfortable with saying it as; don't lose yourself because of the breakage within you, there's always someone to hold you together, and to keep you away from despair.

Mr. Jack and the smiling family

Without a book in my hand, I tend to observe my surroundings, mentally marking down potential ideas for my crazy, imaginative mind, a habit I've developed ever since I was a child in order to escape the horrors of man-made reality and devastating boredom. Some time ago, I looked over at a family of four posing for a photo around the kiddie area: a man, wife, and two little girls, all smiling and holding each other close, as if their love was strengthened by the physical presence of all into one admirable pose, no sense of bitterness or rancor. The one that caught my attention the most was the father, Mr. Jack, who immediately looked at his wife, and his face brightened with affection and relief, knowing that he was content with his life and choices that he has made. I couldn't help but smile at this, acknowledging a person's happiness puts me in a state of serenity, knowing that there's still good in this world. Shortly after, the family dispersed in pairs: the two girls went back into the kiddie area, and Mr. Jack and his love sauntered back to their seats after thanking the person for shooting the photograph.
I named him Mr. Jack, because he reminds me of someone from my mind.

Jason from the generation plague

There comes without a doubt that this generation has become outright bizarre and freaky in most cases, most in gratitude to the mindless and excessive internet postings about cheap relationship lessons, fifteen second videos of the youth trying too hard to be noticed, and some shit about our zodiac signs that we want and crave to believe in. Among these postings, I've discovered a term called "fuckboy", a growing plague targeting good-looking blokes who somehow are bestowed upon the aforesaid title by aggravated and fatuous individuals in charge of developing these posts. Whilst trying to relax in the resort's hot tub, I witnessed a "fuckboy": well-built body with those thirsty curves (some) women always fall over for, earrings on both ears, and that cursed jawline that faints the generation into a hurricane of uncontrollable hormones. Did I mention his eyes? His eyes, too. What broke me was his state of loneliness, for I always tend to witness groups of young men hunting for herb or women, and he was all by himself; of course I would look at him for a while. Was his family nearby, attending to the youth in the kiddie areas? Did his posse tick him off? Was he on this trip all on his own? The latter assumption might be a bit of an exaggeration, but I'll never truly know.
I named him Jason, because he reminds me of someone from my mind.

Michael, the fast food employee's annoyance

Amid the ambience of delicious smelling wannabe meat, sweaty employees flipping tiny burgers and stuffing bags of fries into the fryer baskets, and the short lines of hungry customers sorely eager to plant their faces into the quickly cooked edibles, I witnessed the breathing fiend of annoyance as I waited for my food. After placing in my order for a dine-in, I waited patiently behind the growing lines of individuals with wallets imminent to reduce in size. I wasn't alone, though, for my mother and other relatives were with me during this time. We were staying at a hotel resort for a small vacation we had all planned. When the resort informed my mother via phone call about our room preparations being finalized, we decided to ask the employee if we could take the food to-go. Thinking that it wasn't that big of deal, he made it seem as if it was an assignment from school that would drive any mundane and causal student over the rails with lengthy trails of questions and utter boredom; this asshole gave my mother a face of disappointment and contempt, yet no words were articulated. I didn't witness this face first-hand, but I sensed that something wasn't at ease, since his colleague kept staring at me with concern and curiosity. Eventually, a relative approached me and informed me on the diminutive incident, yet he held me back, knowing that I would've caused something. I looked at the employee with wonder, wondering why in the world would he be working at a fast food restaurant rather than squandering his futile days behind a computer desk playing an online game instead of expressing faces of scorn to customers due to a simple request.
I named him Michael, because he reminds me of someone from my past.

Lilianna looking out the window

Some time ago, I was hanging out with some friends on a summer afternoon, when the sun wasn't so kind and became so shy that it hid behind the abundance of light gray clouds, ultimately killing the vibe of seeking that hot beam of light from the sky. As we were all hanging out, relaxing to the sense of trustful company, I looked over at one of my friends who stared out the window - mayhap to seek a decent view of the outside, and all I witnessed was the look of ubiquitous beauty. I sat there for merely a few seconds, yet the universe made it seem as if it lasted for a much longer duration. As this happened, the sun decided to show its color and light, peeking through the window and into her eyes, glistening the bright hair from her head and ocean-like waves on the surface of her face, a calm current. When your mind ponders upon beauty, it's rather difficult to let it go from your mind.

I named her Lilianna, because she reminds me of someone from my past.

Interstellar and the colossal music

Whenever I have some spare time on my hands, I tend to do one of three things: sit back and listen to music (genre does not matter), play some video games while also getting enraged by my consistent failure to take down enemies via online, or peruse some articles and books. Today, before work, I decided to take another shot at the Interstellar soundtrack, beautifully composed by Hans Zimmer, since I usually cut it off halfway through due to conflicts with my dull schedule.
So finally I thoroughly listened to the score, laying back peacefully to the sound of the brassy keys from the organs and smooth transitions of the piano, feeling the love that was written and played within the film's composition. Space exploration, far away love that feels so close, and epic disasters, all woven into Zimmer's music. Very seldom do I feel so close to a score (dating back to when I first fell in love with John Williams's legendary Star Wars score), and now I'm mentally and emotionally addicted to this. It sounds so right, and it feels right.
As a resident of Desolation Row, I leave you with this: time is sorely valuable, whether you witness it or not, thus the time that you create is the only time you will have. If you have found something that feels right or it just sounds right (and you know it's a good thing), dedicate some of your time to that aforesaid thing, may be it a film score, a fascinating tale from literature, a new acquaintance who stands out from most of the crowd, or even the sound of a comfortable accessory for yourself, because you have a feeling that this is right. In conclusion, your time is valuable, spend it wisely for yourself, and for what's right for you.

Eddie and Susie on the CTA

It's a rather difficult task to read a book on the CTA for a number of reasons: the numerous victims of breathing pauperdom causing verbal chaos to the quiet innocence; amongst the destitution road lies heavy bumps that only a seat belt could sit someone without slight interruption; after every stop, the automated announcer reminds everyone everyday of the commonality whilst riding the CTA; obnoxious youngsters taking up the quiet space to discuss their plans for the night, palaver over wooden memories, and intoxications polluting their bodies. Some time ago, I attempted to read once again, until I became disturbed by the insolence of a middle-aged asshole taking up two seats just for himself. Stopping around Addison, an elderly lady found that there was an open seat, so she proceeded toward it, a slight saunter. As she tried to make the middle-aged asshole aware of her necessity, he deliberately ignored her, even after when a bloke told him to move so that she could have a seat. Eventually, she walked away, looking to find herself yet another seat that was given up by a young lad. I couldn't read my book any further; I found myself disgusted by this immoral act from this foul creature. I stared at him for a good fucking minute, possessing dark wishful thoughts.
I named them Eddie and Susie, because they remind me of two individuals from my past.

Jessica and Gabriel in the car

Around the evening of yesterday, I drove toward the nearest Bank of America in my neighborhood to conduct a deposit. Without concentrating too much on the idea of selecting decent music to stroll along to, I immediately drove off into the night to my destination, with the window down on my side to feel the cool breeze of wind. With one hand laying upon the steering wheel and the other on my knee, I observed my surroundings, only to find a fighting couple in a car whilst en route to the bank. Even though it was a small glimpse, there was no violence; they merely conflicted in verbal shit speak, mostly indistinctly. I continued driving, looking at my mirror to witness anymore action: they turned the other way without complication. The quiet street was filled with the noise from our vehicles, yet my head was a burning rage of an ancient memory, deeply penetrating my ludicrous youth and regretfully reminiscing.
Their names were Jessica and Gabriel, because they remind me of two individuals from my past.

Antonio from Gamestop

Not so long ago, I once met a bloke named Antonio at a Gamestop to return a title I wasn't satisfied with. Whilst browsing through the large selection of fresh installments, Antonio approached me with minor pleasantries. Fortunately enough for him, I was in a decent mood for some small talk. We exchanged miniature backgrounds, such as our education, living situations, and girls we were involved with. He seemed to be an all right individual, yet I could easily sense that he had a huge burden in his head; I didn't dare ask anything about it.
Ready to complete my purchase, he followed me to proceed with our little impromptu palaver, which started to aggravate me - I was just about ready to go back home and doze off into the rest of the day. Once we departed from Gamestop, he took out his phone and introduced me to a hooking up app, where icons of local singles and cheating whores would showcase themselves for sex (pretty much like Tinder, yet much more straightforward). He mentioned that I should try out the app, but I simply found myself annoyed and disgusted by the app's purpose, so I lied to him by saying that I'll probably check it out once I get home. Adamant as he was, and also quite clingy, he asked for my number and I gave it to him. Finally, I said my farewells and left, knowing that the guy was going to text me once I walked away. Till this day, I have no idea as to why I provided my number.
I named him Antonio, because he reminds me of someone from my past.

My girlfriend's family as a foreign film

Well, what can I say about my recent discovery? My girlfriend's family (they're Polish) is now being mentally represented as a live-action foreign motion picture right before my tired eyes. This amicable revelation was born when I sat on the couch of my girlfriend's family's house - well-structured home suitable for a small residence of four citizens - and I witnessed it all: I was the ignored audience of Polish individuals speaking in their native tongue with each other, with the kind exception of breaking the fourth wall. Yet I was slightly intrigued by this phenomenon, this luxurious front row seat of a movie without subtitles, but merely presented by the interpretation of the usage of gestures, emotions, general actions, and oftentimes a small homage to my native language, i.e., English. It's even more hilarious to keep in mind that probably half the family doesn't quite enjoy my company; could be for a number of reasons.
As I sat outside with the family, eating away the freshly cooked sausages and burgers, I pretended to have my plate as a bag of popcorn as I paid attention to what they were talking about: Papa Bear, with his slick sunglasses equipped, smiling and indulging in small talk with his mother and brother, Mama Bear giving me her dispositional face of content and conversing with her mother and my girlfriend nearly simultaneously, and my girlfriend responding in the aforesaid articulation of their language. With my sunglasses drawn and me digging into my small plate of grilled goods, I couldn't do much but sit there, involve an endeavor of small talk as they break away from Polish, try not to walk away to avoid a sense of insolence, and enjoy the cheerful and energetic scenery of the block party that was being held under the burning rays of the sun.
Did I feel left out? Fuck yeah I did. *chuckle* But nothing comes in impeccable when you begin to flesh out to a new family; I suppose they just gotta get used to your presence, and vice versa.
As a resident of Desolation Row, I leave you with this: if it is meant to be, it will be...you'll see. Whether it be attempting to fit in with your girlfriend's family or whatever the case may be, just give it some time, and try not to stress yourself out too much.