Post by patrick on Jun 20, 2011 20:26:28 GMT
PATRICK LYLE GUZMAN !?
'your presence still lingers here.'
'your presence still lingers here.'
hey there! so, tell us all about you... let's start off with the basics. what do we need to know?
"I really don't want to do this right now, man. I've got a lot on my mind. Damn. Okay. I'm Patrick Lyle Guzman and I was born on March 25, 1972 and I was about nineteen when I died. Most people call, er, called me Guzzy. No one calls me anything anymore, considering the fact that no one thinks I made it past the coma. Which, technically speaking, I guess I didn't. You getting all this? Tell me if I need to slow down; I'm not used to this kind of thing. What I meant was that I'm a ghost. I think? A spirit. Whatever I am, I'm not human anymore. But at the same time, I am. I'm like, the essence of my humanity. Not saying much on my part, considering I was a piece of shit then and nothing's seemed to change much in the afterlife. Now, here's the crazy thing I've noticed, something that I wished I had known about when I was alive: there's other species out there. Not just animals, bro. Like, vampires. And werewolves. I was sitting in the library--of all places to go when I'm dead, right?--and I saw a boy in the back moving fire. And they're split into sides. One doesn't like humans. Think we're a mistake. Kind of want to scrap everything up and start fresh. The other wants to try and figure things out. Way I see it, I don't need to pick any sides. There's not much that I can do from here, is there? Everything's changed. For instance, I'll never get older. I'll never have children. Or a wife. All because of some idiot teenager in a pick-up truck. But I guess I'll tell you more about that later."
so, a little birdy told me that you're pretty gorgeous... describe yourself.
"This is a fun one. Back when I was alive, people didn't really like the way I looked. And really, it wasn't a rebellious thing. I didn't do it for attention, for a reaction. I did it because I felt most comfortable that way. I liked my hair long. It was brown. Brown and below my shoulders kind of long. Which was totally normal in the eighties, I guess. They shouldn't have been so against it; it was everywhere. Same goes for my tattoos. They're primarily a bunch of Gaelic-looking swirls. I like 'em enough. I have blue eyes. Moms said that she always wished that I'd at least pull my hair back to show off my eyes. I thought she was crazy for thinking that they were something so goddamned special and I told her so. She laughed and handed me a cigarette and I laughed with her. Kind of miss that old lady. Did right by me. Said I was hell to bring into this world. I'm six foot seven as it is and she told me once that I was just as big as a baby. Like all one hundred and eighty pounds of me was condensed into a slightly larger than average baby."
i'm sure that your personality is something else completely, tell me all about your self, can't wait to hear it!
"Something else entirely, huh? I guess I can't argue with that kind of kiss-assery. Okay, well, I'm really into bikes. Not like bicycles. I mean, streetbikes. Or, I guess I was really into them? Haven't touched one for awhile, even when being able to manage a good period of solidity. I was also really into horror movies and particularly old school shit like drive-ins. Kind of made me feel like I was in Grease, you know? I'm a little embarrassed to admit that that flick was one of my all time favorites but since I'm dead, I guess it can't come back to haunt me if I tell you. Hah. Pun. I'm also a fan of cheesy humor, if you didn't notice. I was always horrible at telling jokes. Plus, I just killed the punch line every time. But it's just so simple and hilarious. Nothing like the blatant comedy of today. Seriously. I just watched a Dane Cook stand up in somebody's living room and I can't say that I was too impressed. Yeah. I've also picked up a habit of buzzing around peoples' homes. Most of the time, I wreak total havoc, too. But it's boring, being dead. I need something to sort of liven it up and what better than to be around the living?
As far as things I can't stand? Smart asses. Okay, so I'm no genius, I get that. I'm not stupid either. But the people who are really smart and don't let anyone forget it? I used to beat those kids' heads into the ground. Which didn't work out for me in the long run. One, authority figures always found me and punished me to the point that they saw fit--fuckin' school staff. Two, these smart assholes ended up going off to fancy colleges and I got to hear about it after graduation. They'd come into the restaurant I worked at and brag their asses away and then not tip me shit. Yeah, jokes on them: I spit in your food, man. And you don't even want to know what else I did to it. Then there were things like cats. God, I hated cats. My aunt had tons of them and moms liked to drag me along to visit. Cats don't cuddle. They just don't. Instead, they tear you to pieces if you take them by surprise and if you do manage to anchor one down, they rip your lap into shreds in their effort to get away. On that note, my aunt sucked. She didn't approve of me in any way. And she didn't approve of my mother either. Later, me and moms would laugh about how uptight she was. Crazy cat lady indeed.
I smoked when I was alive. A lot, actually. Too much. Not just cigarettes, either. If I hadn't gotten in that crash, I probably would have died of cancer eventually. I used to be afraid of dying. Guess it's not all that bad. Now, I'm a little afraid of what's next. I don't want to move on. I want to stay here, close to everything I know and apparently didn't know. I don't think I was supposed to leave earth. Not like this. Nothing feels right about the situation. Plus, I'd like to find out which of these drunken morons ran me down back in ninety one. Please don't let on about this to anyone else, but I think I'd like to kill him. How dare he determine the end of my life? I could do it. I'm able to keep a solid form for a good while now. That's quite enough time. I was never this vengeful of a person when I was alive. But you have to understand how upsetting my situation is. Plus, what about my moms? She's left alone. She was already alone to begin with, what with dad dying in Vietnam when I was a baby. She's sixty-one now. In a nursing home, health deteriorating. She's dying alone thanks to him. And I just can't find myself able to maintain a solid form around her. It hurts too much. Mentally, I mean. She's dying and I don't think that I'll see her again after she passes."
i would love to hear about your past, i'm sure it's oh so interesting...
"I was born back in seventy-two and my parents were actually pretty amazing people. They had a whirlwind romance, two liberals against the world. They had tattoos and smoked, sang songs with an acoustic guitar for money in the street. Their high-society parents disapproved entirely. So they moved to another state, free from the persecution of their families and most other restrictions. They were very much in love. Unfortunately, the peace didn't last long. Dad couldn't avoid the draft without relocating to Canada entirely. And since he didn't want to leave Jackie--my mom--he registered and was off to Nam within the year. He hated the idea of leaving his pregnant wife behind. Hated it with a passion. But he did. I was born and moms sent him pictures and he sent things back. Little bits and pieces of history that I wouldn't understand until I was old enough. And then, no more. Moms said that the men came to the door a week after my first birthday. From then on, she was on her own.
But at least she had me. And I was told that I was all sorts of trouble, which is perfect for moms. She liked the challenge, the entertainment. She said it kept her busy. And she told me that, even though I was always into some sort of mischief, it was all harmless. I wasn't sadistic or violent. Just a little energetic. Don't get me wrong: she still swatted my bare ass when the situation called for it. She didn't let me act out. But she secretly loved it. I was on the track to being just like her. Just like dad. So when I hit double digits she began telling me their stories. I was definitely obsessed. Every night before bed, there was a new one. They were wicked, those two. A potent combination. And she started every bad thing they did with, "We were young and stupid and reckless. We didn't know any better." But as always, her voice would get softer and she'd laugh when she told me how they sat their bare asses in wet concrete. It was sweet and relatable. When I reached my teenage years, she didn't even get angry that I was smoking. Sometimes, she'd give me the cigarette herself. She'd light hers and puff for a moment and then lean forward to me, declaring it time for a "cigarette kiss." When I started to experiment with drinking, she made me my first jack and coke and we talked and sipped in the living room while watching Back to the Future, a film that we both agreed was awesome. When I turned seventeen, I bought a motorcycle with the money saved up from waiting on tables. I love my mom. I'm not ashamed to say it. She was, maybe still is, a crazy chick. But she loved me and took excellent care of me. She didn't mind that I didn't go off to college.
I remember the night I died. I wasn't going to drink; that's one thing I promised moms. I would never deliberately put myself in danger. And I stuck to that promise. I didn't have a sip of alcohol the whole night at the party. The cops came to break it up and when they stopped me of all people on my way out, I dared them to give me a breathalyzer test. They did, I passed, flipped them off and got on my bike. Well, if they had spent more time checking the other kids instead of just the ones with tattoos, they probably would have found the asshole in the ford that came skidding around the corner ten minutes later. I was almost home. I turned to try and put some space between us, but the idiot turned the same way. I don't remember anything about the accident after that. I just remember being in the hospital, sort of like this, but not really. I wasn't quite dead so I couldn't leave my body like I can now. But I was close. I could feel my physical body losing the fight. And I watched moms crying in the room everyday. When they pulled the plug, I watched myself stop breathing. I felt full. Like when someone blows up a balloon. And suddenly, I just left. I didn't want to be there. I didn't want to be anywhere. I found the darkest, quietest place I could and I stayed there. For days, weeks, I didn't know. Time sort of passes differently when you're dead. When I finally left, I felt an impossible need to be heard or seen. And that's been my existence from then on. Me causing problems for anyone I wanted. Me trying to be heard. It was too early for me, man. I followed all of the important rules. I shouldn't have been punished this way."
who is the amazing mastermind behind the likes of you?
"kiki again.(: i also have delma adeliza and jackson bedard.<3"see jackson for a sample.
