But baby you can't go home again. The first chapter (i consider the previous post a preamble, if you will, an introduction into the life of Cassidy Carter) below.

---

On this particular night, I was half asleep on the couch by the time Jones decided to make an appearance. Some dumb movie with a bunch of explosions in it was playing in the background. He’d wanted to see it, but he was so late that I got bored and started to watch it by myself.

It was lame, but that’s penis for you. Make something go boom and they get hard.

Jones was towering in my doorway when I noticed him. Smirking down at me with too shaggy brown hair and stubble on his cheeks. He had a pizza box in one hand and and Blockbuster bag clutched in the other-- A bribe so that I don’t rag him about feeding me to the wolves (also known as: my mother). He usually came by and bailed me out of having to spend an evening with her, but he was a no show that afternoon.

“I brought food! And some flick where a dog dies. It seemed like your type of movie,” Jones joked, tossing me the bag. The temptation to roll my eyes at him was too much to ignore, so I gave in. Bag in hand, my second impulse was to check out what movies he was trying to coerce me into silence with.

“Ooh, Marley & Me!” I bounced on the balls of my feet at that revelation and hurried to shove the DVD in the player. My sleepiness was all but completely gone at that point--I loved movies when the dog dies. They’re horribly depressing. And delicious, like eating an entire tub of Ben & Jerry’s. Yum.

My bare feet on the cement floor of my garage bedroom, however, are not, and I had to bite back an annoyingly feminine shriek at the cold. I had a tiny blue shag rug, but investing in one bigger four feet would’ve probably been a great idea.

But I wouldn’t, because I’d find it too much of a bother. I went through two winters freezing my ass off out of pure stubborn reluctance to shop for a coat. Jones finally thrust a hoodie on me last November and I liked to pretend that the reason I wore it all the time was that I was cold, and not because I liked how I looked in his old clothes.

I still felt the bite of the cold cement, though, and took a half assed, embarrassingly uncoordinated running leap and landed with a loud “Oof!” on my couch. And Jones. Mostly Jones, if I’m honest.

In all fairness, he flopped down on the leather seat like a split second before I left the ground in my leap, so it wasn’t like I could reroute my trajectory or something.

He groaned something underneath a face full of my dark blonde hair and after a second, I deciphered his meaning to be something like “I’m suffocating under your hair, dumbass.” I laughed.

“Better?” I shifted my head up and pulled my hair to the side, giving Jonah room to breathe. I’m surprised he didn’t just shove me off the couch. He has before. Asshole.

Because I am a considerate and thoughtful person, I moved my body a little so that I was just in his lap, and not on his lungs. The whoosh of air back in his mouth was followed by a glare I spotted reflecting in the mirror duct taped on to one of my walls.

I shrugged back at him and pulled his arms out from his sides. My amusement for the moment included playing with his fingers, apparently. My grandmother used to say that you can tell a lot about a man by the state of his hands. His are large, but nimble. Rough like someone who thrives on physical labor. Good hands.

Jonah’s snarly expression faded after a second, and he just stared thoughtfully at the two of us in the mirror. I don’t know what he was thinking, but it looked moody, so I tilted my head back and butted his chin to snap him out of his daze. He grunted before finally breaking the quiet.

“We gonna watch that chick flick or not?” Jones cocked an eyebrow.

“Ha! Sure, after you explain why you abandoned me like a little bitch tonight. And after I gave you head, too, you nerd!” I  hit him lightly with my open palm. I’m mostly unbothered, but I am curious. He doesn’t normally flake, especially when he’s getting laid.

 “…Maybe you just give shitty blowjobs?” The joke that flew out of him was so unexpected that I actually burst out with a laugh and didn’t even smack him.

Jones normally doesn’t like to talk about us having sex unless we’re actually in the process of having sex. Actually, even then he just sort of mumbles and makes really adorably noises. I slept with a guy that squealed once. Soooo disturbing. Never underestimate the value of good noises, let me tell you.

Anyway, he normal gets all grumpy when I mention it, whether it’s because the actual thought of it freaks him out or if he just hated that it was one argument I usually won.

I didn’t really think about it too much, because the sex was fucking delicious. Something about Jones in bed is just… Well. I would totally make a porn tape if he was my costar.

If he’d just stop acting like I was eight, and not eighteen, we would’ve been fantastic. He’s not Hugh Heffner’s age for God’s sake, he’s twenty fucking four. Although, when I thought about it, Jonah probably had the same chances as Hugh Heffner as to any venerable diseases. I’m kidding, mostly.

I slid to the other end of the couch, back propped against the arm of it, and stretched my legs out to rest in Jonah’s lap.  “Nyet, bitch. I give great BJs and you know it. Now, topic at hand: What riveting activity were you up to today? Inquiry minds want to know,” I teased. At this point, my desire was piqued by his avoidance of the topic.

“I hung out with this girl today—Aimee. She works at the dealership with me.. I think you’ve seen her. Short, with big boobs?”

            “Oh my God, ‘Aimee’? Did I miss the time machine back to 1982 or something?” I started laughing. Jones grinned but shook his head. “No, she’s hot. Shut up, Cas,” he waved his hand. I smirked, resisting the urge to mock his choice in girltoys.

Jones tended to go for the hooker  type. Which was weird, because Jones couldn’t stand stupid. Whatever. Jones was stupid. And so was this stupid Aimee girl. I bet she had cracked out prostitute hair.

            “So you flaked on me to fuck future girlfriend number one hundred and three?” I  scoffed, slapping my foot on Jones’ face. He smacked it away, making a face. “I didn’t sleep with her! God, Cas, I’m not a slut!” Jones was indignant. I  stared. Seriously? Not a slut? And there really IS a Santa Clause! IT’S THE APOCALYPSE, PEOPLE! Alert the media!

Pause.

            Blink.

Rewind.

            “Manwhore say what?” My eyes were probably as wide as saucers, with eyebrows imbedded in my hairline, but… It was like a drug addict claiming to not believe in chemicals.  Jones frowned, pouting. His lower lip even stuck out a little, and he crossed his forearms stubbornly. I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing.

            “Jones, sweetie, it’s no small miracle that you haven’t gotten chlamydia yet. In fact, I think herpes was invented in your honor. Give up your delusions already, you may as well have your own street corner and give cunnilingus for quarters,” I informed. The smugness I had at coming up with that insult was only mildly tampered by a stab of jealousy.

 “You’re such a bitch, I’m good for at least a dollar!” Jones started laughing. I dodged his hand as it flew across the couch to flick my ear.

“Hey, you flaked on me today, I’m allowed to be mean. I had to deal with my mom all day today and you know how she gets,” I explained. Jones made a face. He hated my mother, emphatically so.

 The first time I’d dragged him to a family dinner, it was Thanksgiving, and he muttered insults under his breath the entire evening. The only reason my mom didn’t replace his head for the turkey was probably because the turkey was already cooked.

“Sorry, dude, but your mom is a bitch. And Aimee is hot, so, can you really blame me?”
“Not really. So how good is she in bed?”
“We didn’t do anything, I just took her home after we hung out.” 
“What, you mean you really didn’t bone her??”

My eyes bugged out, and I immediately wanted to lay back from the shock. For Jones, that was pretty much unheard of. I was probably the only girl he’d ever fucked that he didn’t fuck within a week of meeting. And now Aimee, out of thin air.

What an idiotic name, by the way. I mean, what the fuck is that shit? I’m so glad I missed the eighties... Big hair and stirrup pants are so not my thing. I think all the LSD they were ingesting in the disco dens caught up with everyone and their little orgy offspring by 1985. FOR SHAME AMERICA. FOR SHAME.

Jonah’s talking again, but the rampage against the eighties distracted me from his chatter.

Because obviously, women’s shoulder pads are much more interesting. I bet Aimee liked eighties trends. It’s in the name. A rose by any other, blah blah. Shakespeare was such a drone. I bet he was a repressed gay man. They usually blather on like that. Just take Whitman.

“…She’s actually really sweet, Cassidy. You need to meet her! I’m going to church with her on Sunday, you should come. Or, you know,” He gave me his best kicked puppy expression and I  just snorted and tried to kick at him.

“Uhm. Yeah. Not going to happen, dude. You know how I feel about church, Jesus is dandy but his fan club has rabies. I can’t believe you’re dating a groupie!”

“Will you at least meet us for lunch after? Pleeeeeeeease?” Jones reached over and started jabbing my sides while begging. I let out an undignified screech and cried uncle, agreeing to meet Aimee. “Okay, okay! You win, loser. Lunch,” I caved. He smiled. “Was that so hard?” “Yes.”

But I don't fucking know. Maybe I should just leave the whole damn firefight while I've still got a little left to burn.

---

I was fortunate to have a friend once, one of those bare-your-naked-soul kind of friends that rip each other's hearts out while screaming I love you at the same time. The kind of friendship that is beautiful and tragic and wonderful all at the same time because you know it's the sort of thing you only get to have once, like your virginity but less bloody. And when that sort of thing gets taken away from you involuntarily, it hurts you in a way that’s so fundamental I don’t know if it’s possible to really recover.

When Jones left, he was here one day and gone the next. It was like he died, but nobody ever held a funeral. Nobody ever even noticed, honestly. Nobody except for me. How can someone just leave like that? No goodbyes, no sorries, no emails or texts or postcards. The only reason I know he’s not in a ditch somewhere is because Jonah told Sam and Sam told Kennedy, and Kennedy told me because Kennedy tells me everything because that girl loves to gossip. Anyway, he told Sam that he was leaving, and Sam  told Bobby, who gets a note now and then, with no return address. The bar has them on display behind the counter, but I’ve never read them.

But I was his best friend, and he never even told me he was going.

The thing you have to understand about Jones is that he’s always had a habit of running from his problems if he can’t beat the shit out of them instead. And he’d never been one to hit me, though he claimed he had no problems hitting a girl. I doubt that, though. As angry as Jones got, if he thought it was okay to smack me, he would’ve. But the closest he ever got to physical violence was the first time he ever kissed me. And I think he only did that because he was so mad his thoughts were a little behind his actions and his body was saying it was either that or put another hole in his living room wall.

Sometimes I wonder if he wished he’d just chosen the wall.

My name is Jamie Carter, and the way I’ve always worked is pretty simple. I wake up every day and I laugh and I glare and I scream and I cry and when that’s done, I go to sleep. Rinse, repeat. Be kind, rewind. I’m not a terribly complicated person.  I guess I’m one of those  people that just doesn’t give a shit about, like, ninety five percent of any given topic. Except for myself. I kind of dig talking about how awesome I am, but let’s be honest, that’s most people.

Jones has always been my exception. He was the person that made me care. And I didn’t mind that he was a trainwreck. So was I. Maybe that was the first sign. Two trains, one track. It could only end badly. But then, I guess it’s easy to say that in retrospect, when you’ve got a one way mirror into the past. At the time, the only moments I ever felt awake were when Jones was around. I didn’t give two tits about the consequences. For me, for him, for our relationships with other people. All I knew was that when it was good, it was very good.

But when it was bad, it was horrid.

---

I got: 15 filters, Canon coffee mug, two dvds, a fucking SICK 100-300mm f4.5-5.6 EF lens, annnnnnd, this badass:


I, of course, danced like a kid on Christmas morning! Ex.:



Which I promptly sutured to my equally awesome camera keychain with a working flash, to make this:


And then I did the same thing with my REAL equipment and played with the big lens to take these peektures!:




Boo yah, bitches.

Oh my God. John Barrowman, you are my hero.

Watch. Seriously watch. I'm still laughing.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WMncnFQkZ5w

How bad is it that my first thought after AHAHAHAHA was '...goddamn, he has some NIIIIIIICE legs!'

(for those that don't know, this is extra funny because he's been considered "too straight" for certain acting roles before).

WTF.

WTF WTF WTF WTF.


My brother's solution to the "Put the fucking toilet seat back down when you're finished" conundrum is to PISS WITH THE SEAT DOWN AND GET PEE ALL FUCKING OVER IT so that his sister SITS IN HIS PISS when she goes to the bathroom.

I am so disgusted beyond words. MY BODY FEELS VIOLATED.

Grossgrossgrossgrossgross.


*takes 4 hour shower*

http://www.dca.ga.gov/housing/Homeownership/programs/downloads/GADreamBrochure.pdf

^^ We should qualify for that program, which would then allow us to qualify for THIS PROGRAM. They basically give you $5,000-7,500 loan that you do not ever pay a cent on unless you someday decide to sell or refinance your home. It's a gift, more or less.

It would mean NO MORE FREAKING THE FUCK OUT over closing costs. We could actually pull it all off without flipping our shits.

I want to throw up I'm that happy.

So we had drama over this weekend with a house we wanted to put an offer on, and it flopped (at least for now), but my mom has consistently made me feel like SHIT over this entire process, because apparently I'm too controlling. Apparently saying that we should look at more than one house before leaping up to make an offer on the first one we see would be a good idea makes me a HORRIBLE BRAT. Nevermind that it already accepted one offer and had 4 backups, I'm solely responsible!!


And apparently I'm the reason she fucked up her billpays because I've "done nothing but harp on houses" for two weeks. Excuse me? Fuck you, you're the one that asks me EVERYDAY if there are any new listings, and how I need to email ABC to XYZ re: house hunt! I'm not the one that's wanted to drive to the other city three times in one week just to look at the OUTSIDE of possible houses! Fuck. You.


We fell in love with a house on Thursday that we wanted to make an offer on, and it sort of fell through, she's made me feel like shit the whole weekend because of that original house being sold. She's still harping that I'm the reason she didn't make an offer on it. What?? If you wanted to go balls out and buy the first house you saw, you're the one buying, I didn't tell you to stand around clutching your penis, that's your own problem.


And she keeps making comments that I'm pressuring her. Oh please, you're pathetic. I'm siiiiiiiiiiick of being blamed for giving opinions that SHE BEGS ME FOR and then being made out to be an ungrateful cuntrag because of them.


So I was trying to be neutral today when we looked at houses, but she just kept on nagging me about how didn't i love this and etc etc, and wouldn't back off, so I finally snapped and was like "No, I hate it, I hate all these fucking stairs." The stupid house in question was a too-tiny piece of shit house with a split foyer that has like 12 stairs on the OUTSIDE of the house, and then on the inside, you have to either go up another set of stairs or go downstairs to a dngy little den and office area.


Yeah, not gonna be fun with an eight month old baby in his car seat and his stroller and even just dragging in groceries would suck dick.


I loathe that house. I never wanted to go today, because she made me feel like SHIT this week about liking houses too much or too little, but she bitched and I had to come anyway, and then she wouldn't even just let me keep my mouth shut.


Stop fucking nagging me to share my thoughts if you're just going to get offended and bitter when I do! Man the fuck up and get some damn backbone. Make your choices and stop blaming everyone else when they're impulsive and end up upsetting you (my mom has a terrible habit of demanding my thoughts on something (example-- her vintage headboard/footboard), buying it after I say how much I like it, and then blaming me because she got it and hated it. Because clearly, I'm the 56 year old woman with the checkbook.).


And then we got home and I overheard her telling one of her friends that I'm "not allowed to come look at houses anymore, because beckah thinks SHE'S the one buying the house!"


Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuck youuuuuuuuuuu. I told her two weeks ago that I'd rather not be involved with looking at houses anymore because she keeps making me feel like shit when she demands my opinon and doesn't like what she hears. She MADE ME come with her today, and MADE ME share my thoughts about the hideous, tiny split foyer shittery.


Which, by the way, she only likes because of the list price and the fact that it's got new carpet. Nevermind that she's long-touted her hatred for split foyers and has whined about how she wants a BIG LIVING ROOM. It's also got a lot to do with the fact that she doesn't know how to NOT attach to shit and is still weeping inside over the probable loss of the Mcguire house, and before that the one on Donamire.


She's also unable to fathom that THE HOUSES FOR SALE TODAY WILL NOT BE THE ONLY HOUSES TO EVER SELL EVER.

XD Soooooo. Last night, I was in my room, and there was this box. So I was like, "HERM. I SHOULD LOOK IN THIS BOX RIGHT HURR." So I did. And I found pictures. Of me. Obviously. And the unopened Motel 6 bar of soap, from when my brothers caught their bathroom on fire and we had to be vagabonds for three weeks until repairs were done XD. Oh, and chapter one of the very first horribly campy and epic gay slash story that I wrote when I was twelve. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I was a penis groupie EVEN WAY BACK WHEN. Anyway, not the point, I didn't scan that in to share, just the pictures.


My obsession with ponies? LIFELONG. I was only four in the green tank top, but I was BOSS, bitches.

...I have no idea why I was spinning around with my eyes closed. And the picture with the face paint was Valerie Ortez's birthday party in the fourth grade, and that headband is from Girl Scouts, so I don't know why I was wearing it that day,



Oh dudes, so many things about this photo. One: Does it surprise a soul on this earth that I was dressed up as a princess? And I even accessorised with my very own hideously dressed handmaiden. And a kitten, apparently. Miaow! Two: Christ, I don't know if I was just THAT TALL or if Katie and Shelley were just really THAT SHORT. Both, I think. But damnation, look how long my legs were! I was only 7! Three: I can't believe I actually thought I was fat as a kid. But no wonder, I kept making friends with the snack sized humanoids. XD

And shit all over it.

So, Mom knocks on my door and is all, "YOU SHOULD NEVER BE MEAN TO YOUR AUNT ELAINE" sobbing, and then the revelation that my ultra Christian aunt has offered to help with the downpayment so we can afford to buy a house.

So, filter out her sudden revelation that my aunt walks on water (when two weeks ago, she said my aunt was crazy etc), this is REALLY AWESOME NEWS.


And then she takes that great reveal and wipes an adult diaper all the fuck over it. She's letting out big gaspy declarations at this point, and tells me that should my brother Jacob-- a felon, drug addict, schizophrenic bipolar manic of a brother-- need a place to live when he gets out of jail, he'll be welcome to come stay with us.

This is the man that has been in trouble with the law since he was 12 years old, who I grew up on eggshells with, who chased my brother Jamie around with a knife and when they were older, he fucking held a gun to his head. Sharing a house with him was torture. I can't imagine what sharing a bedroom with him was like. He was volatile and manipulative, could convince my mother he shat gold. He loved the mind games all the time, and he loved to hit you when he got angry.

He was the biggest reason for the ulcer I had when I wasn't even thirteen. If he wanted to talk on the phone when you were on the internet, well, you got punched if you didn't obey. He shoved my mother into the car door so hard once that it left a body sized dent, and then he smacked his head on the pavement before turning himself in and claimed my mother did it. He is by very defining trait, a predator and a harasser. You can't pass by him in the hallway without him cornering you with some remark; you can't even have your own food. He respects no rules or laws. He's capable of anything, but he's calculating. He's biding his time in jail because he knew he would have nowhere to go if he plead guilty to his current felony  and got out time served, and he also knew if he waited long enough our mother would crack.

We owned a house once. We lost it because Mom paid for his bail instead of the mortgage.

And she wants to let him come home, when we FINALLY HAVE ONE again?

She was sobbing that "YOU JUST DON'T WANT ME TO LOVE HIM!" But that's not it at all. She can love him all she likes, he is and will always be her son. But she should love me too, love me enough to let me live without fear. I broke down in tears when she let him come back when I was sixteen, and that was only supposed to be for two weeks. It turned into three months. The second day he was home he nearly broke my wrist when he refused to turn the blasting stereo down and I did it for him. I couldn't even leave my backpack unprotected before he stole my mp3 player out of it.

If he died, I would laugh in his dead white face and slip leeches in his coffin, I loath him that much.

Yes, I did just plagiarise the Cops theme. I'm just that boss.

Soooooo, I have this hamper, right? And it looks very very similar to this: