The Little Black Book

The Little Black Book

By: Ryan Gonzales

It was an ordinary day. Another monotonous stretch of ever-present ingenuity with nowhere to really go. Easily contained within the confines of my imagination and impatience for a lack of understanding. I never thought I would ever get so desperate that I would start writing these thoughts and feelings down onto paper, yet alone on a daily basis. I was of firm belief that if I ever did, I would chronologically date the passages justly so. However, as I sit here drinking another cup of coffee, I realize I find myself desiring to make a jittered story of these sentiments instead, with no real end or beginning. In a sense, creating a canon for the avid non-listener. Either way, I know I have come far enough with these thoughts that seeing a therapist is certainly not out of the question.

Some days the frustration of an embedded embarrassment actually makes the anxiety worthwhile. At times, I feel the urge to spill mustard on my own shirt so someone will come talk to me. I'd gladly thank them for letting me know and ask how their day was going. Hopefully well. Look at me just ramble like a normal person. A man with no real friends, so he uses the only means of communication he still has left... A Little Black Book.

Gleefully, I await the day my creations speak back to me in one way or another. Affirming that I still exist and didn't accidentally manifest death in my chronic silence as an adolescent. Though I never did mind because it never really mattered. I recall amusing myself in History class at the fantasy that I will never be the past in anyone's future. Maybe being sent to the nurse's office for laughing at an apparent nothing was the first red flag that I should have considered. Perhaps if I would have acted sooner, these fettered confessions would not currently be occurring. I'm only worried that my instability will always recur, and I won't be able to afford the surgery or medication.

I must pace myself with the anticipation that I too can create my own reality and not be deemed “the kooky kid in the corner.” Even more so that I consider myself as such. A reason is only as good as the excuse you give it, or so I’ve heard. Bending the perception between what is right and what is only misunderstood can be confusing. Especially if that person never developed the emotional maturity to comprehend being alone for long periods of time. Only the attractive survive this social construct of mental infertility without scars to share with themselves.

My shelves reek of a rancid accumulation of misplaced Domino’s Pizza boxes and half-eaten bags of popcorn. I was once ashamed someone might come over and judge me as disgusting, but that day has since passed. I feel rushed to a completion to be a whole person. After all, my mother always wanted grandchildren. I suppose disappointment is just a part of nature. I only know that we are creatures of habit and my habits chose my path. I’d tell you about my father… if I had one. I once had a younger brother, but he is no longer with us. No condolences are required.

No one ever talks about the amount of pride it takes to wake up in the morning and operate. Perhaps that is why I enjoy my cup of coffee so much. It never calls me four letter words or insist that I am making everything up when I say that I’m not ok. The swirls in the creamer somehow makes everything make sense to me. Almost like the universe fits inside this mug that I hold ever so closely. Today the barista didn’t put enough sugar for my liking. Such is life, I guess. I’ve learned to accept what I cannot control.

The folds in my face that generated from years of muttering observations under my breath, has resulted in wrinkles in all the wrong places. Reminders of the things I’m not proud of. My age is not important in this context. It is just what I notice whenever I attempt to replicate my sense of self in a picture. It involuntarily tells the truth that does not make me happy. If I could change one thing in this world, it would be my heart’s anatomy. It’s difficult to fathom laughter without the emotional backlash that comes after.

At times, my curiosity eclipses my ability to think positively and I can’t help but wonder why none of this is for me. Where do aspirations come from? What’s the price of purchase? I noticed the vision board in my living room was oddly left blank. There is no explanation as to why. The crazed network of fine cracks in the paint of my bedroom seldomly make me feel better about my situation. It leads me to believe that I’m not the first to stop caring about their surroundings. Maybe that’s not such a bad thing.

Enthusiastically it appeared to me that somehow the past is incapable of defining the present, without reconsidering the nature of both sides and the conversations between them. That night I dreamt for the first time since I can remember. I cannot recall the plot of the plight that unfolded. However, I knew nothing would ever be the same again. The pressures of a never-ending cycle perpetuated by stimulants and chronic fatigue suddenly lost its appeal. It was almost as if I found myself in a final chapter of an epic work of fiction, where somehow I was the main character and the reader simultaneously. I woke up the next day and decided to order tea with lemon instead.

As I was attempting to overcome the lack of flavor from the beverage that I had become accustomed to, a man stopped to ask what I was writing. I described it as a diary of sorts, but not so feminine. He didn’t find my humor very amusing. He had a vintage grin that struck me soundly and a calming eloquence to his presence. Immediately I felt comfortable to tell my story. Although, as I look back, it was more reminiscent of playing the fiddle for a well-dressed Devil.

He listened attentively as I recited my autobiography and “mmm’d” continuously as if auspiciously affirming that he was enjoying it. There were moments his eyes confirmed that he understood, and possibly even felt the same. Concurrently without hesitation, I began to notice the swirls in my cup of tea didn’t have the same hypnotic effect as my usual mug of Joe. Before I could finish my thought about my undiagnosed ADHD, he interrupted with a proposition. “How about that Little Black Book become mine?” he asked. I counteroffered with an inquiry about the discussion of an agreeable payment. “$20,000 and my sincerest compliments,” the gentleman said.

Knowing my tendency to overthink good things into eventual regrets, I complied and took his currency while admittedly burying all the questions that arose from my subconscious. Righteously, I couldn’t help but wonder why all those words held so much value to him. Then I realized I never even got his name. To this day, I’m still not sure if I sold my soul.