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At least not boys our age. The younger girls wanted older boyfriends and the older girls? Forget it, they wouldn't give us the time of day. So Kyle and I mostly just talked about which girls were hot and which ones we wanted to have sex with and later that night I'd jerk off in my bed thinking about Jocelyn.God! Fourteen sucked. It didn't help that I was so little either. Kyle was growing, his voice was already deep and he was a lot taller than he'd been just the previous summer. He was a good looking guy; brown hair cut short, brown eyes. Once he hit fifteen he'd get a girlfriend, I figured. That was like the magic number. But I was still just a hair over five feet tall and not even a hundred pounds yet. Like eighty-five maybe, with my blonde hair kinda long because my mom thought it was cute. I didn't mind that so much, lotsa cool guys have long hair and I wanted to be a rockstar if I ever got a guitar. My eyes are blue and I was a good looking kid, except I looked like I was. I am walking through everyday life, yet I am still invisible, still adrift. I work, I eat, I mainly drink. The dream becomes a blur as I become drunk. For a moment I forget I am alone. Only for a moment. As the alcohol soaks into my sleeping self I become further detached. There is no life in the ocean, there is only me. When I awake I find I have washed up onto land. My boat is in pieces along the shore. I am cut and bruised, blood oozing from my open wounds. I know I am alive. The blood tells me. I stop and listen to my blood. It is the first voice I have heard in days, months, centuries. It tells me secrets about myself, things I never wanted to know. Falling to my knees I begin to cry. Only the gulls answer me. I sit and stare across the water. On some shore I cannot see across the blue waste of water lies a place that once may have been home. I try to remember what it was like there, what I did, who I loved. I almost remember when my wounds reopen and I allow myself to sink.
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