Never Enough

Ch.1

Here we go

You where never good enough for him and you still aren't! Why don't you face this pathetic little fact. He likes skinny artsy chicks, and no matter how much you suck that tummy in, your never going to be that. You are destined to be the lesbian cat lady. Shouldn't he admire that I have some self respect and that I want to be liked for who I am or should I just get the liposuction and boob job done? This is how women start to think when they've had too much chocolate and not enough sex.

~

Henry led me to him. We walked down a dirt road for about a quarter mile, passed the usual half dead drooping trees near this deserts sad excuse for a river. This town was kind of like Dawson's Creek, had it been hit by a hurricane, followed by a economical depression, proceeded by great rains of infected needles. It was an old duplex, typical to this area. "Apartment three, here we are," Henry said. He gripped one of the green spikes on his head and twisted it around his index finger as he usually did when he was nervous. "Don't be nervous for me," I said. Before I could even knock, the door swings open and my fists almost bash someone in the face. "Whoa!," a familiar voice exclaims. "Hey Henry, who's your friend?" I turned to him, looking at him crossly. It was Billy and he didn't remember me. I squint my eyes a bit more in case he didn't get my pissed off point across. "Mina Car crash!"

It was Carblanch, and though I recall kids calling me this in middle school, Billy never did it and I was disappointed to hear him do it now. I was never quite sure if kids started calling me this because of my grotesque demonstrations in art class or because I wasn't to fond of brushing my hair. But when I held up my painting of a dead rat in a trap, cheesy guts and blood splattered everywhere, Billy was the first to cheer. "You said paint something real".

He hadn't done much with his life. He had grown into a skinny hippie type. His skin had gotten old and leathery and there where winkles round his neck, but you could tell he was still a child no older than 26. He didn't have a job and hadn't gone to college. He was still that sweet kid everyone liked. He laid around his mothers house like he was still 16, playing video games, little random trays with seeds and sifted through weed everywhere. His mother endeared him. The women had a way of looking me straight in the eyes. She always had this look of suspicion on her face, even when doing something as simple as vacuuming or offering you a cookie. I think she