Why Gemïny

Before the underpass. Before the crash. Before the blood and the sirens.

There was a dream — a viscously tarnished, perfect one — built from the finer things. I craved the luxury. The mint car (mint condition, of course). The million-dollar home. The private island. The jet. All the toys the predators keep in stock.

I nursed a fantasy carved by a biblically venomous kind of greed — a whimsy that sank its rusted green fangs into my periphery, until all I could see was a hazy illusion of grandeur.

Before the games… before the date-rape with Christina Hansen… a boy made himself a promise.

And honestly? I can’t help but laugh at it now.

See, I never liked school. Never cared for waking up early just to hear some professor drone on, then still having to read a 1,000-page textbook just to understand ten percent of what was going on.

Nah. First time around, I didn’t go to college for the “education.” I went to be the second coming of Hugh Hefner. To perfect the 20-man roster. To achieve maximum bravado. To become the Alpha (all that toxic masculinity horseshit). I told myself I was the “Child of Venus”… whatever tf that means. And I was devout to the cause.

Every second — every ounce of my lil stuttering self — was committed to the game. I studied it. Weaponized it. I wanted to be unplayable. Untouchable. Undefeated.

There’s a quote. One sec. Where is it? (Let us break the fourth wall.)

Ah — here we go:

     “I liked hurting girls. Mentally, not physically. I never hit a girl in my life.

     … The thing is, I got off on it. I really enjoyed it.”

      (Anonymous, 2006, p.1)

That was my mantra. Looking back? I was such a loser. Like, imagine being so scared of being hurt, so scared of being alone, that you end up an emotionally irresponsible sleaze.

Embarrrassssiinnnggg.

In that era, I felt… (there’s a meme for this — y’all can fill in the blank). I did my big one, FOR SURE.

Honestly, there was a moment where I had everyone fooled. To the point that when our star-studded whirlwind came to rock my world, people assumed our story was already written in the stars.

But the truth?

I was fumbling to the top like anyone else thrown into a world unknown. Sure, I understood the mental strats. I knew what strings to pull. I knew the perfect words for every tiff, insecurity, and bid for affection. But that lil boy with the stutter — sure as rain, he wasn’t in Kansas anymore. And emotionally? I had the maturity of a wet napkin. Like, genuinely, your local infant had more empathy and compassion than anything I was capable of at that grown age.

(Again, embarrassing.)

And yes — naturally — I won. A lot. I reset the board so many times, gauged my prey by the throat so many times, left so much carnage on the field that, genuinely, there’s little — if any — evidence I ever left the romantic war room with an L.

But that doesn’t change the facts. I was a pathetic loser. A fucking squid. And I’m never living that down.

I’m never recovering from that Valentine’s Day over the river — sushi in hand, vomiting absolute nothings about all the things I “needed” to achieve before I could choose her.

All the money I had to make.

All the things I “must” have.

So frivolous.

Yeah, I’ve said it before — but fr, sorry to that man. I do not know that man. Like… yikes.

Because I knew.

Way back at Kaminsky’s… I knew.

Things could’ve been different if I wasn’t a sniveling coward — if I’d been genuinely nonchalant instead of performing a wannabe, bear-built facade.

And the worst part is?

I knew.

All the way back to that night on the roof…

I knew.

In my head, Hollywood was my wish fulfilled.

Just knowing her was a tragically ironic contradiction between my self-belief and reality. Ironic how everyone thought I was this confident, fuck-it, arrogant prick… But look at him — the kid I was:

In shambles.

Bothered.

Very chalant.

An all-devouring void, hidden behind a faulty, obsidian-opaque mask.

A farce.

I knew things could’ve been different. Three little words. Real effort. A listening ear. Releasing my ego. (All free btw.)

But I guess, in hindsight — what’s a whirlwind without the mess? 

What’s a storm without the unfortunate beauty of chaos?

Put a pin in that.
 

For now, dear diary, that’s enough reflection.

Because before all of this…

there was a stalker.

And an infamous brick.

So, ladies and gents — if I may — I now present to you: Our First Night in Hollywood.