Throwbacks

Antonio
Prata

Throwbacks
Antonio
Prata

Throwbacks
Antonio
Prata

Throwbacks
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 Antonio
Prata

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 throwback
A sudden reminder of the past. This can be brought about by hearing a song from
high school, seeing an ex, puffing on a j in your old puffin spot, etc. Similar to a
flashback.
i.e. Going back to New York is always a throwback...
by asuric ecstacy December 18, 2005,
Urban Dictionary

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 Throwbacks

Apology
Text..........
.... 3

Crown
Paradise
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The Story of Razzle

Lick it Up

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 Apology Text

I'm sorry for taking you here with me to this third-floor apartment in
West Philly to live with the fat Jamaica girl whose ad we answered on
Craigslist late last summer before driving the two hours from North Jersey to
sign the lease and paint the walls gray (we didn't know it would look like a
prison), and I'm sorry for waiting nearly two months to decorate your side of
the room with the posters of pine martens I promised I'd order on Amazon. I
should have ordered the pine martens sooner. Instead, I spent those first few
months, freelancing for a lifestyle blog with a stupid-sounding name, getting
paid twenty dollars an article to write lousy think-pieces with titles like, "Why
Humans of New York has Become the Bane of my Existence," "10 Things We
Should Learn from the Story of the Guy who Killed Himself over Candy Crush"
and
You should have stayed with your family in New Jersey where you could
have passed evenings with your Paki neighbors who told you stories about
getting fingered by ex-shamans in the parking lot where Blockbuster used to
be. Yea, you should have stayed in New Jersey. You should have stayed in
New Jersey, at your parents' house, where there are no shamans but there
aren't any rats either that run past the TV while you're eating tater tots off a
paper towel because the fat Jamaican girl won't let us use her plates and we
just ran out of paper ones. We're always running out of paper ones. I meant
to pick up more paper ones, but I gave my last twenty dollars (the twenty
dollars I got for interviewing an 11-year-old rapper from the Atlanta suburbs)
to a guy at the gas station who said he could get me weed if I gave him five
dollars to put gas in his car, and I'm ashamed to admit that after forty
minutes of him not coming back, I punched a tree and walked home with no
weed and no paper plates.
That night, you wanted to have sex, but I was so tired from the
habanero mango chicken quesadillas we ate earlier that evening that I fell
asleep shirtless in my corduroys on the ugly futon that the fat Jamaican girl
picked up for us on the side of the road in Kensington, thinking of how
pathetic it was that two 21-year-olds from an affluent suburb suffered low
libidos due to the Lexapro we both went on after I went to the psych ward
(the psych ward located in the hospital I was born in) for cannabis induced
psychosis. The nurse asked me why I wanted to kill myself, and I told her
because I was a narcissist. She smiled and said, Honey, You're Too Young To
Know If You Have That, How Did You Plan On Killing Yourself? And I lied and
said I was going to down a bottle of ibuprofen (the same bottle you stashed
in your purse when I threatened to swallow the whole thing if you broke up

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with me) and the nurse said, Well, Sweetie, That Would've Been Painful, Let's
See If We Have A Bed For You Upstairs.
I spent my 21st birthday there, babe, a day that other kids get to
celebrate by drinking Irish car bombs until they puke their brains out, and a
day that virtually nobody spends holed up in a piece-of-shit room with a
senile rabbi who smells like shit and draws scenes from the Bible in crayon
when he's not sexually harassing the social workers who come in to
administer the drugs we signed legally-binding agreements saying we'd take.
The nurse gave me printouts of the WebMD pages for both Risperdal and
Vistaril, and I used the backs of them to write you a letter I'm sure you never
read.
You were too busy texting my best friend after you went to his house to
study with his brother (the gay one who fences and does equestrian) for the
Philosophy final you had to pass in order to offset the D you were expecting
in Anatomy and Physiology. You never told me that's what you were doing. I
found out three weeks later when he let me use his phone to text you while
him and I were at a Devils game. I scrolled up and read the entire
conversation. You told him you weren't asking him for comfort, but it was
clear you were, because people don't say the things you said when they
don't want to be comforted. You definitely weren't seeking comfort, either,
when you called him at 3 AM.
I know this because, the day after my 21st birthday, when you came to
pick me up from the hospital (the hospital I was born in) after they
discharged me with a manila envelope of paperwork pertaining to healthcare
providers in my area, stapled underneath a discharge summary that falsely
stated schizophrenia as the reason for my stay (a logistical error that
prompted my dad to call and complain), you were all smiles. I got in your car
on the parking garage's upper-level, thinking of how fortunate I was to have
someone like you who did things like pretend to be dead when I wasn't
looking, like the time you pretended to be dead while driving on the parkway
and rear-ended a Mercedes on our way to Space Farms. That was the day we
saw lemurs for the first time and you told me that lemurs were my spirit
animals.
It was also the day you decided you wanted to be a veterinarian
technician after I pointed out how much you loved animals. You loved
animals so much that dead ones on the side of the road made you cry.
Remember we found that dead cat in a brown paper bag right in front of your
house, and you begged me to come with you to the abandoned field behind
your dad's office to lay it to rest? You struggled to find peace knowing

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something would eat it like I struggled to find peace knowing you can be
happy without me.

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fuck you

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