I dunno what to say or feel anymore. What a world. It just cheers me up that you guys are enjoying my writing. That just saves me a lot of the time. That’s really all I want is to hear that kinda stuff. So much has happened this passed week. Just feel like I’ve lost a lot. Someone I knew passed on. He was real. Just a really cool guy. Don’t want to go into the details, just not the right place. But I was at his house once and said I liked the posters on his wall and he started taking them down. He was going to give them to me. But I was drunk when I left and forgot to grab the ‘Reservoir Dogs’ one. YOU WERE AWESOME. YOU ARE IN PUNK ROCK HEAVEN NOW. ******
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Here’s more from “Demonic.” This is from the viewpoint of Phil when he was in college, dealing with his homosexuality, when the only friend in the world he had was an ice cream truck driver.

Part 2
The Death of Billy Goat Judas

PHIL

My college years sucked. That’s where my fascination in boys really started, too. I was twenty-one. I had a blue bag. It was ugly, I admit that now. It wasn’t anything like the rich kids on campus carried around. It wasn’t L.L. Bean. It was just a blue and white bag I found at the thrift store. The material was scratchy like a straw hat. That was the part I liked about it. I guess it resembled a handbag because of its bulky shape. These five guys on the soccer team were laughing at it. It was four o’clock in the afternoon. I remember the weather was mild. Fall was here. The air finally felt bearable. It promised to be a nice night to walk around campus. That was something I never did. I hung out in my dorm. I had a dorm mate but he always ignored me. That was best. He had big ankles, a weird-shaped face and always wore whatever everyone else did to try and fit in. He hung out on his bed all the time, headphones on, prepared for takeoff into his own world. I was right next to him and it didn’t matter. He tapped his pencil against his notebook as he listened to whatever was buzzing through his expensive Sony headgear. I drew pictures of young boys. None of them existed on this campus. I didn’t like the boys here. I mean there were a few crushes but it was nothing deep; just bodies. They smelled dirty but they were as boring as a clean sheet of paper. They showered as soon as possible. They played sports, got acceptable scores on their midterms, and smoked pot on cool, comfortable nights like that night I was pointed out and laughed at because of my bag.
It was just a bag. I think they were stoned, and Christian, the tallest guy with shiny teeth and blonde hair, whispered something to one of his friends and they both looked over at it. I pretended not to notice. I sat there and felt a rush of cold sweat sweep over me. All of the sudden I realized how alone I was. Everyone around me was where they were because of a specific immediacy. There were a group of people across from me watching the boys play soccer. The group consisted of female basketball players and maybe few they shared dorms with. They glared at me with neither disrespect nor concern. The afternoon felt stale, mediocre. The only thing that could change that was if I sulked in the fact that the dumb stoned jocks were making fun of my bag; being incredibly sad beat out being bored form me most of the time.
The only friend I had at that time in my life when I attended Michigan State for reasons now unknown to me, was Harry, a fifty-two year old Ice Cream truck driver. Our adventures together on Saturdays painted timeless pictures of fun against what would have just been a blank canvass otherwise. It was those afternoons that inspired the drawings I had begun. While others crashed for exams, had drunken sex, or belonged to the latest popular rape accusation in someway, I started a project called The Boys of the Demonic Hermitage Kaleidoscope. I didn’t know what the hell it meant but I loved how it sounded. The drawings were dark. I guess the project was supposed to evolve into a graphic novel of some sort. I was pretty sure no publisher was bold enough to sail it out into the market, so I didn’t even think about it in that aspect. It was just new and different. Most of the boys got sick from an ice cream cone. Some passed out in the park and weren’t found for days. By the time they were found, their bodies were twisted from the pain they experienced until their last breath left to float and pop like a bubble into the world’s air. Some were found with chocolate or vanilla smudged around their faces. That could come off as a result of the innocent love of ice cream or something dirty – maybe shit or cum – depending on the mind of the person viewing the pictures. Most boys were around the age of fifteen. I did a few that were younger but I was paranoid my roommate would stumble across them so I trashed them a while ago.
The last Saturday I hung out with Harry proved to be the best and worst time of my life. I knew I was insane. I never doubted my insanity. It was just who I was. I became numb to it. I was like a person so tired that I didn’t even need to sleep anymore. I won’t slow down because I’m nowhere…….that was always the voice speaking to me in the back of my head.