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Jessica L. Roberts   |   Kailyn Smith
Kailyn Smith

Kailyn Smith
Middle Island, New York


I am 22 years old and currently in my fifth year of college at Dowling College in Oakdale, NY.  I am working full-time while I try to finish my B.S. degree and run my own house. I have been writing since I was nine years old and after many school-awarded certificates, literary magazine/newspaper publications and plenty of applause, I'm still here. I am always looking for new topics to write about.




The Twisted Ramblings of a Properly Guided Youth

I guess I was lost. That's the best explanation I can give for the current situation I'm in.  I'm sorry that the best explanation I can come up with is only a vague conception of a snapshot of me in a specific place and time, but I never really was good with words.

           The floor is so shiny and clean, but sitting here on it is freezing my ass.  Can I make any logical sense from the fact that I'm sitting here, in this empty house (save for the furniture) in the middle of the floor?  No, I guess I can't.  Do I have the energy to stand?  Yes.  Are there things I'd rather be doing?  Not really.  I enjoy this.  Are there things I should be doing?  Yes, but aren't there always?  I mean, that's kinda how I got into this mess.  If it weren't for college taking my mind off of life, I would have never received the end result of sitting here on the floor, knees pulled up so high they almost hide my eyes, freezing my ass on this cold linoleum as if I was chilling it for a bowl of Jell-o to serve at a party.  It's quiet in the house, and by quiet I mean that no music is playing and the TV is off.  I used to have four TV's.

          I have cats.  Four of them that I love like family.  The only difference is, they don't quite comprehend as well as 15% of my family.  They come over to me and stare and if I don't look back or offer some human compassion in the form of petting, they think nothing of it and saunter into the kitchen to munch on some food.  They probably assume that I just didn't see them and they rest assured, knowing that I will probably pet them later.  I can't help but wonder if the fact that my mom smoked while I was in the house my entire life could have permanently ruined my lungs.  Then I wonder if whatever damage was done to me as a child is reversed if I haven't been around the smoke for a year and a half.  Then I figure whatever damage was repaired is probably nil in comparison to the cells I rupture every day with mold spores, used cat litter, car exhaust and God knows what else.  Hey, I'm just glad I don't have AIDS.  Although that was a close call.  Sometimes I think I wish to be dead and that that's the reason I fear it so much.  It only makes sense, if you compare it to the definition of procrastination, which is someone hesitating to complete a task for fear of success.  Eh?  

God, I've had a lot of jobs.  I can't believe I survived retail and Black Friday in a toy store, no less.  I survived Christmas working at KB Toys.  Wow, not to mention Blockbuster, Fuzziwigs, work-study.  God, I've been through hell.  I'm just thankful I've had such wonderful aides as Friends, Finding Nemo, and my music to get me through those unbearable times.  

I can't wear Calgon Morning Glory body mist without thinking of KB.  And I can't wear that pink perfume that Margaret gave me without thinking of Summer 2003, and Brandon and Rachel and the beach, and sleep-overs and Rules of Attraction and Clerks and ahh, that was a fun summer.  My first great summer.  I'll never forget it for the rest of my life.  And we got our kitties that summer, too!

           These peach rings are delicious.  I swore I wouldn't eat this crap anymore.  Thinking of the junk that it is de-romanticizes the sugar-coated gel as I chew it.  God, I miss Cris so much.  Sometimes I wonder if it was the smartest idea to break up with him.  I wish I could have been 10% less than a good girl so I could have known what it was like to have had him fully know me.  If we were together for a month or two longer, I probably would have and then Mom would have probably gained a grandchild as well.  That reminds me, I should write my lawyer to see if he's getting any closer to getting this freezing cold, rusty, musty old house in my name, seeing as how I turn the monumental age of 22 in less than three weeks.  Oh, I don't see what difference it makes anymore anyway.  

I wonder if the mail came.  Ah shit, it's Sunday.  Dammit.  I need my friggin' paycheck.  Not like it matters, though.  I always need four-hundred more than I make.  Should I eat that last peach ring?  Sam, my white tabby, comes over and picks at the plastic bag that the last peach ring is in.  He gradually gets faster with it until he's practically standing on his hind legs with it, as if he's playing with one of those annoying feathered cat toys that you dangle over their heads and then you bitch when they leap for it and cut your hand with their razor-sharp claws.  I snatch the bag away and he grabs for it, but I'm faster.  I gobble up the peach ring.  Then I start to cry, feeling so pathetic that I enjoyed conquering a cat. I let the bag fall from my hand.  Sam snatches it back and runs off into the living room with the empty bag like it is the lost city of Atlantis.  I swear I saw him grinning at me.

Chapter 2

            Neil came and repaired the oil burner.  We can use the hot water again!  And getting out of bed will no longer feel like you're stepping into a meat locker.  I wonder if my Mom ever had a crush on Neil.  He does have an odd sexiness to him, even if he doesn't have any ass whatsoever.  My head is killing me for the third day in a row.  It could be the headset or the weather or stress.  I should see a doctor.  What, and have him tell me I have the brain tumor that I think I have and an ulcer that's causing all my heartburn?  No, thanks.  I'd rather die like my mom died, thinking it was menstrual.  Granted, she had a lot of pain, but if she couldn't tell that it was cancer, I begin to wonder how bad cancer actually is and if people are only in pain because having a doctor tell you makes it worse.  Man, I'm tired.  I wonder if I caught mono from Jesse.  I was never this tired before.  I can't believe Friends is over.  I loved that show.  Figures that the only thing that still provided me peace and solace is gone.  I wonder if Jesse's working today.  I'll call the house from my personal line and see if there are any messages.  Shit, I dialed wrong.  Now I have to hope I don't receive an incoming call as I do this.  No messages.  He's home today.  Wonder what he's doing.  Probably watching Smallville.  He could be doing dishes or cleaning his room.  And I could be President of the United States.  God, my eyes are going crazy from staring at this screen.  I'm probably giving myself cancer from the radiation.  Between the computer and the microwave, I'm done for.  Elisha again?  Stop calling me!  I don't care enough to talk to you about your shitty romances, since you don't give half of a shit about mine.  Oh, God, it's thundering again.  No wonder why I'm in such a bad mood.  I can't even call my driving instructor to cancel for lack of funds `cause their answering machine memory is full.  I can't lose my job.  I have to keep my head focused.  The wrong person pisses me off today and I'm likely to shout.  That would not be good.  I want to go home and play Mario Party 4 but I'm not looking forward to the anger-filled car ride I have to endure to get there.  Thank God for money and driving or me and Jesse would never have anything to fight about.  Damn cleaning lady ate a mint out of my canister and had the balls to leave the wrapper in there.  I still have that orange lei hanging up?  My Jesse pictures make me happy, though, especially the ones with Brandon in them.  7:25 PM.  35 more minutes until I blow this popsicle stand.  I should check my e-mail for the fifth time this hour.  Then I can submit some poetry to some online journals, play a little “WHATWord” and by then, it should be 7:55, and I can do one last e-mail check, then stare at the clock in the phone's display until the digital read-out says “8:00”.  5 minutes until Dan gets food.  Maybe he'll remember me tonight.  If it wasn't for him, I'd have never tried raspberry vinaigrette dressing.  There is no better dressing.  God, I need more money.  I wish someone would find me talented and buy my work already.  Or at least publish it.  How do they choose the best ones anyway?  I miss the decorations I had to take down because it's “unprofessional”.  Along with shoes that show most of your foot.  At least I have Cartman as an antenna topper.  Which reminds me, I can't wait until I can keep the car with me at work all day.  Jesse will finally know what it's like to be holed up.  And today he was supposed to take Sandy out for breakfast.  Good job, Kailyn, sending your angry boyfriend off on a breakfast date with a female old friend whom he's paying for, meanwhile, he hasn't paid for a meal of yours or a decent gift since Christmas.  At least he pays for gas about once a month.  God, why do I put up with this?  Because I love him.  Yeah, but that's the same reason why I hated women on talk shows.  Because they “love” him.  He beats them, takes drugs and screws their sister, but she stays with him because she “loves” him.  Gag me.  It seems like my thoughts and stress only get worse.  I make myself burp so I don't puke in nervousness, (especially in crowded theaters), and lately I've been doing it so often that it's no wonder I have acid reflex.  I think I may have slight ADD as well, since I can't focus on writing long pieces, (anything more than three pages), and whenever I'm asked a therapeutic question, I yawn.  I wish I could ask people like Stephen King a normal question, but he would think me weird.  A crazed, deranged obsessed fan, none of which I am.  For this reason, I believe stars should have contact information.  So we can ask them, “hey, what did that song mean?' or “do you have any suggestions on how I can improve this short story?”  I wish I wasn't Wednesday's child.  I log out, log off, and leave the premises, only to do this again in 15 hours.

Chapter 3

     Shit, I didn't get to leave in time.  7:43 the phone rings and it's Elisha, entrusting me with secrets as if I was some sacred scroll about the details of her almost sordid affair with Eric, the boy who works with Chris at Radio Shack.  Eric was the kind of guy I could see myself cheating on Jesse with, not that I ever would, but he had one of those clean, cute faces that you knew was attached to a body that had only recently lost the last bloom on the rose.  Actually, no, I change that.  I listened to Elisha with growing outrage and I wasn't quite sure why.  Eric would not be someone I'd cheat on Jesse with.  Here is where I should be inserting a whole mess of excuses as to why, but if you trust me enough to be your storyteller, then trust that I'm telling you the truth.  Brandon, Jesse's best friend, is a different story, seeing as how he's got a great body and he's a Marine and all, but a one-night stand would not be enough for me to jeopardize a year and a half foundation.  I have too much with Jesse that I could never find in another and although he sometimes acts selfish and immature, his good side has kept him by my side for 18 months.  My longest and most meaningful relationship.  Who would have thought I could have one?

     Anyway, as I'm listening to Elisha spout, I try my best to enforce the fact through monotone voice that I truly don't give a damn about how fat her ex-boyfriend is, or that Chris told her he'd lend her gas money but if she ever got a boyfriend, she'd have to pay him back; or how Eric wants her but she's not sure if she should because she's still obsessed with the gaining-pounds ex-boyfriend whom she called me about to start off the conversation.  I roll my eyes as she has a five-minute argument with her sister in my ear, and I ask myself if this was one of her intentions when she called me.  What should I make for dinner tonight?  Should we get sushi, fast food, or should we go to King Kullen for groceries.  Nah, it'll be too late to food shop.  I could boil ziti or make Cup-A-Noodles, but Jesse would not go for that, nor would he fill up on it.  I miss Mom.  Life was finally starting to get easier and I finally felt happy and then she died.  Rewind to her last week.  Rewind further back to her hemorrhage in the bathroom.

     Elisha says she'll “let me go” and I think I hear cherubs caroling.  I hang up the phone and try to get back to Mom again.  My mind won't let me.  I focus in on little bits of the gossip-filled nighttime conversations amongst the co-workers of mine who are stuck here this late as well.  My mind jumps to money again and my stomach drops.  I begin to worry that all my worrying will cause an ulcer, tell myself for the twelfth time this week how ridiculous that is, and begin to pack up to go home.  The phone rings.  It's the security guard at the guard booth telling me that Jesse is here.  My heart races and I shut everything off.  I make my last bathroom stop, (do I look like I'm gaining weight in this mirror?), and head downstairs.  I walk outside and it's raining and humid.  Ugh. My favorite weather.  I see my 2003 Hyundai Elantra he's currently driving, where he sits reading, as usual.  I anticipate getting in the car as I walk quickly to it.  I realize that the smallest change in how “Hi” is said by either of us can alter the course of our relationship forever.  I get in the car and he finishes reading.  He places his Lord of the Rings bookmark in whichever fantasy he chose to indulge in this week.  He says, “hey”, in that soft voice of his and I say, “hey”, a little defensive, so as not to appear soft, vulnerable, gullible.  Meanwhile, inside, I am all of these things because in his smile I can see that my future was saved once again while some middle-aged bald man sits in a black Subaru somewhere ordering fast food from McDonald's while massaging his mistress' thigh as she re-applies her mascara in the mini-mirror in the handle of her fold-up hair brush.

Chapter 4

     I never wanted so badly to chew glass before.  The strong sensation of anger bubbles quietly within me, attacking my central nervous system first.  Crazy, ooh, God, I'm going crazy.  I chew the skin of my lower lip to try to maintain some level of composure.  I cruise to 40 mph, 45, 50, 55, 60, praying that I'll crash into the guy in front of me, killing everyone in this car.  People suck, so I wouldn't mind taking out whoever's in the other car, especially given the state of mind that I am in.  It's amazing how something so small can set me off.  But it's really not all that small, considering I've been driving all day long and, as predicted, I get a crash course from my backseat-driving boyfriend who, unfortunately, is in the passenger seat.  He gives me instructions on stopping at a red light.  Little does he realize, if I wasn't quite sure of my red lights, I'd have either been dead or cracked up the car before I even reached my first destination today.  Just because he “knows it all”, he thinks he can enforce it all.  I could spew a whole slew of meaningless curses that I'd regret later.  I start to worry that we'll break up, then I don't give a shit, then I care again, even though I know I'm right . . . again.  He publicly humiliates me; he airs our financial and sexual laundry at his workplace.  His boss probably knows the volumes and pitches of my orgasmic arias.  Rocks are less stubborn.  I clench my teeth as well as the steering wheel.  I'd break up with him if I never had sex with him.  It's the only thing keeping me here.  If I left him, I would be forced to wear a purple wedding dress.  As it is, I'm going to have to weave blue satin ribbons through the sleeves of the wedding dress for the Jesse/Kailyn occasion.  And he wants sex without a condom?  How unbelievably stupid does he think I am?  Could you imagine if we broke up and I was left with his spawn?  Imagine if it looked like him?  It'd be like my mom being stuck with me.  I don't care if he dumps me.  Wait, yes I do, that's millions of memories and tons of time wasted.  Plus, people like Brandon who mean so much to me would never give me a phone call or pop in to see if I was okay, suicidal, or what-not; everyone who was Jesse's friend in the end.  I'm kinda glad that Eric likes Elisha instead.  I'd probably only use him to get back at Jesse and no one benefits from that kind of situation.  At least I have my cats.  They'll unconditionally love me until they die in twenty years or less.  I wonder which one will go first.  Probably Sam or Trouble; Sam for his hyper-activity or Trouble for his weight.  Lily will never love me.  Mia loves us both too much.  My sex life sucks.  We never approach it romantically.  He always asks first.  I'm not the type of girl that you ask.  Some girls find that cute.  I find it as possessing a lack of skill.  I buy handcuffs and, go figure, they don't fit him.  He got more excitement out of gummy boobies.  Doesn't matter really, I got both from the same store.  I should pee now that I'm home.  I don't really want to get up and draw attention to myself.  Same reason as to why I'm not playing a video game or going to bed right now.  I could clean the house or do dishes, but I don't really want to.  He makes a snide comment about me to a friend, in front of me, no less.  At least the house doesn't smell as bad as it did.  I threw out most of the piss-stained scatter rugs, which I didn't realize polluted the house so badly.  I worry that burying my anger down deep is going to cause the less-than-microscopic, probable ulcer in my stomach to expand to a larger size.  Someone sharpens a pencil and I realize how badly my head hurts.  I should go online now, check and see if I sold anything so that I can pay for gas.  Amazon.com is my second part-time job.  First, I must pee.

Chapter 5