His name is Carl, but that's all I'll ever know.
In the blur that is intoxication nothing is connected. Nothing stays in chronological order. What seems like present is really five minutes ago just catching up to you, and beyond that is nothing more then a footnote to the present situation.
The whiskey wasn't all Tami gave me.
Each passing car is now a spectactle. headlights blur to an intense fusion of color and disappear leaving behind an impression on my retina. No longer m I worried.
Everything is as it really is; static.
Tami is off to the side of my vision playing with a trashcan that was inside the post office; the one that's always open. The can's contents are scattered across the vast area of asphalt that serves as the parking lot for the buildings here.
Also: a bar that serves ribs and a store that sells crafts, both match the gas station and post office so well. All four buildings are empty. This late in the night and everything is empty. The four buildings that make up this town are nothing more then darkened windows and littered asphalt. headlights pass with decreasing rythm.
What makes this so pathetic is that 'this late' is only 9:30.
Tami throws the trashcan and lets out a mad laugh. Which brings me to Carl.
Right now nothing makes sense, so I call the California Youth Crisis line. It's a free call from the pay phone, it's a free entertainment; and it's so much more fun then kicking a trashcan.
"I'm not allowed to divulge personal information."
The conversation started off pleasant enough. Carl answered, told me his name and asked how he could help me.
I told him he could talk to me; I'm so lonely.
"We're not that kind of service."
But it is a crisis. Here I am; alone.
"Are you suicidal?"
I doubt it.
"Then what do you need?"
The truth is, I need alot of things, but right now Carl, rich-voiced savior of mine, you can help me by talking to me. Tell me about your life.
"Our policy prevents me from doing so."
Conformity. Routine. Rules. Full Circle; even salvation has the hinderance.
Carl won't tell me about his family.
He won't tell me if he's ever been alone.
Does he know what's it's like to not have a future? Ask him and recieve: "Sir, I can not discuss my personal information."
I hang up, apologizing for wasting poor Carl's time.

Now we're walking down the highway. What's left of the bottle's contents Tami sips at timidly. My vision is so blurred I don't dare drink anymore.
Projectile vomit is such a buzzkill.
Behind us, in the alne farthes from us, lays the trashcan. It's metal body dented from where Tami kicked it repeatedly. The summber breeze, such a contrast from last night, plays with the trash in the parking lot. A ballet of litter.
Already the phone is a distant memory laying a few hundred feet behind me, the gap widening with every step. "Today sucked." I'm not sure if Tami's talking to me or herself. "Joe found me at school. He told me he was losing it and wouldn't be able to see me for a while."
Headlights flash and images of Tami's significant other driving off into a forgein area are burnt into my retinas.
"He told me that he was sorry, kissed my cheek, and left." To add emphasisi on the word 'left' Tami waves the bottle, liquid inside sloshes against the sides of the bottle.
It's almost uncanny how our lives coincide. Tami's love leaves her for no reason; my family is dissolving.
We've turned a corner on the highway, ahead of us is a dark straight area of the road. We can't really see it, the moon hasn't risen yet, but it's there. We've walked this road numerous times. So many memories, so little revelance.
"I kind of knew some was going to happen. His suicide attempts have increased. He's talking to me less, unless it's about how bad his life is."
In the distance a light mist illuminated by headlights appears.
"He never asks what's wrong in my life."
I would ask, but I don't need to. Her fears, anxieties, they're all mine as well; I wasn't lieing when I said our lives coincide. However, I know Tami needs to vent, So I ask.
"There's alot of stuff going on. I have all this pressure from parents. 'Get a job' they say. 'Get new friends' they say. 'Wake up' they tell me. It's so insane."
The headlights inch forward.
"It doesn't matter what I want, it's all about the future for them. They just don't care about the present. No one wants to let us be the children we are. We're not allowed to grow up."
Silence.
A sob.
I think Tami's crying.
"Don't they realize that our lives could end tonight?"
The headlights stray in my sight and images of Alishas's corpse are burned into my rentinas.
"I feel like I missed something in my life where I was imbued with a sense of urgency to be like everyone else."
It would appear the routine has a glitch.
"Why aren't we allowed to live like we want to?"
The sobbing becomes regular and we stop. I take her into my arms and let her tears soak my shoulder.
In the darkness below us the bottle shatters.
What can I do? I'm trapped in the same feeling of helplessness as her. Can i tell her that we'll be alright and not be lieing to myself and my best friend? The truth is, people like us are the nightmares that society forget. We don't have the right desire to fit in. Earning enough money to pay for several cars and a maid isn't our driving motivation in life.
is this supposed to be our fault? Is this supposed to happen? My question is: what's worse, refusing to dream, or not being able to sleep?

Tami's tears continue. The headlights are inexorable. Life continues. In their approach to us, the lights dance over every bump on the road leaving trails of color on my eyesight.
Times like these, I feel like the paper boat caught in a flood. It's all I can do to stay afloat, but now I'm trying to dodge the trees along side of me. It's only a matter of time before I tear. My emotions are vague feeling of helplessness.
The headlights bounce and images of a dream are burned into my retinas.
In this blurred coma of a temporary existance I am lost. Tami, a person who I always go to for help is crying. Our search for hapiness is like chasing butterflies in a firestorm. All around us the world is raging, seeking to destroy us.
All we want is that elusive hope.
ALl we want is a fucking butterfly.
Aparently that's too much.
Metaphors are confusing me.
The headlights are here. In my vision they sparkle like a crystal with a flashlight. Whoever is driving this spectacle must be able to see us now.
And maybe it's my imaginatio, or the mixture of alcohol and whatever it was that Tami gave me, but the lights seem to be slowing down.
I can feel wetness on my chest and I remember that Tami is crying on me. I kiss the top of her head.
It's going to be alright.
But it's not.
The lights start to glow read, blue, and purple. I'm tempted to ask Tami what it was that she gave me, but I can't form the words.
Too late do I realize what's going on.
Too late do I realize that no matter what you dream, you still have to wake up to this worled.
Too late do i see that seven pointed star.