IT FEELS RIGHT

AUTHORS NOTE: OKAAAAY. Here's Maureen's. It's a little mindless and jumbled, but I like it. So there. AAAAAnd. Yes. Review, plz. Because I LOVE YOU. :3. And review all your stories because I enjoy reviewing. Oh yeah. If anyone wants to beta (?) for me, that would help. I always love second-opinions.

BTW, CHAPTER STORY THAT'S NOT ALL ONE-SHOTS IN THE WORKS. 3

I've never been much of a smoker, until now. It feels right between my fingers and so right when I pull it up to my lips. I know it's bad for me, but it's not all that bad, but all that matters is that it feels right, so it's okay.

The snow's falling from outside in distant, intricate little flurries. It's beautiful, but I don't care. All I care about is that it's cold and my ashtrays almost full, but I don't feel like getting up. Rising from my relaxed position, sprawled all over the couch, takes too much effort. I gently blow a circle of smoke from my lips and watch as it spirals up until it's nothing anymore.

I miss Angel. I want her to come into the door and tell me to get off my ass and run after Joanne. Oh yeah, we broke up again. It's nothing new, I guess. It's a cycle. A cycle that never ends. Like the snow that falls outside the window and the constant puffs into my cigarette, they never seem like they're going to end. But they have to.

I remind myself that. They have to end. Eventually. Soon.

It's all because it feels so right, that I get myself in to this mess. The cigarette feels right, the sitting feels right, the i moping feels right, the flirting feels right.

That's the full circle thing here. That's all that matters. All that matters is that I lost Joanne and I feel like I can't get her back.

That's the problem. Feeling. I feel too much. It's all about feeling with me. I do stuff because I feel like it. Because my emotions take the place of my brain.

It's stupid. It's impulsive. It's self-centered. It's cruel. It's me.

When I'm in the moment, I can promise her the world. Lie because it feels right. Lie because it feels like the truth. My brain reminds me that, "Hey, bitch. You'll never stop flirting. It's who you are. It's what your emotions guide you to be." But the said emotions are too busy spinning pleasantly out of control to lesson to the very little sense I have.

So you get promises. Half-promises. Promises that promise that the promise will be broken. Promises that I really want to keep but can't.

No. That makes me sound like the victim here. Because I'm not. I like to think I am. But I'm not. I dump the small stub of the cigarette into the ashes, but I do not bother to light up another one. What's the point?

...what i is /I the point?

What's the point of all this? What's the point or anything? Why do humans bother to keep on going anyway?

Oh shit. I need to stop this. Or... Or I need to find something stronger then a fucking cigarette because apparently it's not working.

I can see Mimi's point. Once, when she was obviously high, she was telling me why she did it. Why she needed the drugs. She wanted to forget. She wanted to forget why she had to live and just live. It made me wish I talked to Roger about his addiction, or April. But Roger hates me and... And April's dead. And now it makes me wish I could talk to Mimi again, but Lord knows where she is.

Screw it. I light up again.

Oh damn it, Joanne. No matter what sort of distraction I put myself through it comes back around to her.

See, when it comes to men and woman, I'm a window shopper. I'm the little girl who comes in and tries on dresses for size with no intent on buying them. I just want to show-off how pretty I am. I cheated on Mark, I'll admit. But I never cheated on Joanne. Yeah, there's a word here, a touch her, but only when she's around. Only when she can see me and be jealous and be angry. I know what it does to her. I'm fully aware. But I flirt with change and a few other things to, because I know how it drives her crazy. And... and because it feels so right.

No. No. No. No. I'm not thinking about this. Not again.

I wish I was Cinderella. It's all so easy for her. Sure, her sister are hos but she's got a guy, a prince, coming over and saying, "Here, bitch. Take your damn shoe because I love you." And then they ride off on a carriage into the sunset and then happily ever after 'blah blah blah.'

It's not how love is. Love's more confusing. There's always a lot more trouble in 'happily ever after' then the actual story.

No. I'm back on it again.

...what? There's no more in this pack? What the hell? These are cheap.

I stuff the cigarette butt into the ashtray and stand up, looking out the window and wondering for a moment what Angel would of really want me to do.

And then I scoff, roll my eyes at the thought and run out the door. I'm going to need a lot more cigarettes.