Title: Fire Island

By: All for You Remy

Summary: I hate smokers. I smoke. I hate boys. I pick one up. I hate parents. But I still have 2. I hate losers who slack off. I've become one. I hate stalkers. But I have one.

I hate people who smoke; I know that for a fact. And to be honest, around the age of 17 I promised myself never to smoke a single cigarette. It was a killer, you know. Smothers your lungs and a whole bunch of other horrible stuff. And I wasn't about to die from some heart attack, I mean, you know how shameful it would be for your mother to receive a call stating that your son died from smoking one too many cigarettes due to amounts of unrequited stress and mental angst? That the fact that since they never experienced the pure joy of having their father push them on the swing has taken a superior toll on their emotional physic. The very fact that if maybe the father had spent a little more time in said child's life they're probably be around right now?

But yeah, I hate smokers.

So as I light up what seems to be my third one for today, flicking the lighter out after fishing around in my pocket for a good 5 minutes and inhale the deadly smoke I have to pause, letting it stay trapped there and wonder, how many more packs am I going to consume in my life? By the slight jiggle in my pocket as I walk I'd say about at least another 3 good lights in the pack in my back pocket but from there on out, it's a mystery.

I was only here for one day so far, crashing in a cheep hotel off to the side of New York and already I was smoking myself crazy. I mean, I knew I was a wreck. Anyone could've told me that. I mean, my hair was disheveled and dirty, a stark honey colored blonde, my eyes were red with dark bags under them from the late nights that I worked shifts at the diner between school. My clothes? All I had was my uniform from school, a white shirt, striped red and black tie and black pants. That's all I had to wear.

The sky was a brooding dark purple as I shuffled through the hoards of people who I will probably never see again and try and make it across the street without getting ran over.

I would be so lucky.

That was the thing about New York, you either get killed, molested or ran over.

My friend, Shari, told me about how she had met this guy once, who she dated who later turned out to be a convicted molester who was on the run for days. Shari was a vivid character all her own, but I had my own issues to deal with.

I needed cash. I was desperate for cash. But I wasn't resulting towards anything drastic.

I remember last week I was reading this story about this whole twisted family and how they all came together to overcome many issues. Like this one kid was an artist who was secretly in love with his best friend. And then his best friend's kid was abusive to his best friend who happened to be a suicidal prostitute. And all this other crap and the author just pissed me off with her on again off again humor and cheep jokes. Real life is nothing like that; there are no interesting plot twits, no main characters, and no blank spots to fill in.

Life is the bad picture that you take when it's raining. Or the extra exposure that the camera expels. No, I'm not bitter, but my doctor may say other wise. All I know is that I needed to get to my dorm room, pack my shit up, and get out of there before nine or they were going to kick me out.

It all began when I had a little misunderstanding with one of the deans. But I'm not going to delve into that, mainly because my splitting temples and sore throat are already groaning, and I haven't even started yet.

Hitching my jacket, a faded blue one, over my shoulders I finally make it to the dorm and in record time too, just as it started to rain. I kicked open the door and made my way down the never ending hall of all these Betty and Tom students until I got to my dorm room. I flicked on the light, tossed my books into a small duffle bag and swiped my roommate's credit card off his desk before turning around and getting the hell out of there.

I had no where to go really, it's quite pitiful that I got kicked out of college, not because my work was bad, but because of my supposedly unruly conduct. They could all bite me, and I told them that after the minor altercation. Maybe that's why they kicked me out.

Or maybe it was because I slept with the dean's daughter….

Maybe.

Chewing on the end of my cigarette, still firmly in place, I got the hell on out of there and slammed the doors behind me, never to see this school again.

I'm driving down Times Square now, watching all the blinding lights and flashy signs of stardom and fame and love and luxury and all I want to do right now is spit. Spit on every single one of those idiots who believed this shit, that they really could make it somewhere, that buy some miracle, they'd be making a difference. Like these shitty gutters and homeless shelters don't have enough of those can do losers already.

I flick my cigarette out the window and smile a little, because I know that this is practically the end of my life right here.

My friend, Shari, remember her? She gave me the keys to this car right here, this tiny horrible compact automobile that is now holding me captive. She told me that she didn't need it, ever since she converted to Christianity things have been put into a lighter perspective for her and everything is clear.

Last week she tried to be a monk.

I think that I'll drive out of state, maybe to Mexico or something, pick up a hot Latino or start a band and travel around the world. I'm 22 years old, damnit; I should be able to do as I please.

Maybe I'll go to Paris; I heard it's beautiful there.

I'd just even die, so I could see Paris.

But hey, you never know, I have the rest of my life to do so.

I can make fun of myself, you know. Oh and who is the main character here? And things will get interesting.