I was going to figure the Megadeth reference into the story, but I kept forgetting...Meh. It's probably playing at the liquor store.

By the way, I had an awesome day hanging out with Bea yesterday in San Francisco. You should all be jealous of our first polyvore meet up. 
-------------------------------
Tangerine Sunrise

It’s just before dawn on the cliffs of Eden. I sit on the rocks there, digging my heel into the crevices and slowly, second consciously, eat my daily bag of sunflower seeds, while watching out to the horizon. In the morning the sea is purple, the color of a bruise maybe, but I’d say the color of the deepest plums, the color of the Grimmace. You, know, the Mc Donald’s character, the big wuss who looked like a big purple pimple? It looks like a bloodbath of Grimmaces. A quiet resting of C-list American culture, and the sun just beginning to rise. Maybe I’ll stick with the plum simile. 
Far below, Eva Applebaum is standing in the front door of her house, smoke rising over her head. She’s watching it too. I wonder briefly if she remembers me, even though we’ve only met a couple time, but this is Eva, and Eva tends to remember even the briefest of encounters. 
I love this time of morning, and I love this spot on the cliffs. I love how slow the earth is, and how I can see nearly all of it. There is to my left the expanse of the ocean, the sleepy beach side mutli-million dollar duplexes and bed and breakfasts, with the dull lights hazy in the requisite morning fog. The father away, the heavier it gets, and the boardwalk rides jut out from the hazy cloud like a seamonster sighting [which, by the way, is something I have actually seen.]. Behind me, beach community rolls in to suburbia, rolls out to my ‘hood’, grows into the forest, elevates into mountains, and tumbles back down to city scape. Only does the inner core of this place shine garish against the quiet of the morning. Why does the city always remind me of a hangover? Too many bitter people in that wasteland, I stay away from it. And it has this periminate moldy tangerine halo over the buildings, penetrating the perfect sky. The moon hangs low over the tallest, old dog and blending to the same color as its backdrop. I wonder how many people down there can see the moon through the glass and marble, and I pop another seed into my mouth. 
When the sun comes up in it’s blinding orange glory, I tip my hat for shade, stand up, brush my set off, and journey back to the otherside.

I live in a tiny house from the 1930s that stands alone because all its neighbors where knocked down during 80s, and has since over grown with weeds, weed, and abused cars left out for the rot. The house is painted not-actually-antique sh*t brown, the color of macrame and bad kitchen wear usually featuring mushrooms and butterflies, complimented by puke orange and vomit yellow, and for the record I have those plates and adore them. It has two steps and a porch which holds a floral couch, which the rabbit thinks belongs to him, and his feces. I highly recommend not sitting on the couch, but, as I arrived from my morning roost, there was a boy sitting there shirtless and smoking. 
“Hey, sis, looking weirder than ever,” he greeted, his emaciated, pimple scar pocked face smiling devilishly. Long limp hair hangs to his chin and the peach fuzz of that beard he could never seem to grow out dots his face like sand. His scrawny chest is covered in tattoos, mostly Celtic knots and steam-punk creatures. 
I only reply when I’m standing on the porch just in front of the door and can get a clear view of his head to toe. “You scare my rabbit?”
He shrugged. He probably didn’t even know I had a rabbit. 
“What do you want, Cyrus?”
“Just came to say hello to my darling baby sister. Come see how you’re doing in this dump.”
“You saw me two days ago. It’s mom, isn’t it? Or money.”
“I don’t want you’re goddamn money, I make my own now, haven’t you heard?”
“Two days ago, in fact, I did. Janitor, huh? At the delinquent center?”
 He chuckles, as if underage bad boys amuses him, and takes a quick drag off the end of end of his cig. “You gonna invite me in? It’s already fucking hot out here.”
It’s hotter inside, and mustier, but I don’t tell him, and instead take out my key and unlock the door behind the screen. “Snub out the cancer stick,”I command before letting him in. Once inside, I bustle to the kitchen, which is part of the living room, which is part of the front entry, and offer Cyrus a drink. He asks for a beer, and I toss it to him against my better judgement. Once the top is off he makes himself right at home on my living room sofa. 
“So what does Mom want then?”
He took a nice long drink before answering, “Felix came back.”
I pause, letting the silence impact what has just been told. “Felix? He’s been gone for five years. He never contacted any of us once! And what did he do, just show up on Mom’s front porch?”
“Pretty much,” deadpans Cyrus.
“Mom must be a wreck.”
“Total. Felix is saying he joined some commune, but I say it was some cult because he shaved off all his hair, eyebrows included.”
“I thought he was in the Peace Corps?”
“Must’ve gotten sidetracked.”
Under my breath, I mutter, “That little b*tch,” and began to peel a grape fruit. 
Felix would be my other brother, the older older one. He was once my best friend, my hero, and he always had good intentions for saving humanity from itself, but Felix was selfish, and somewhat attention deficit. Felix left us for himself. 
I shake my head and allow a slight smile as I cut into the meat of the fruit. “Shame. He really had such glorious hair.”
“I couldn’t stand being in there while they screamed at each other, so I figured someone should tell you. Mom wasn’t going to call. She’s still in denial that Felix doesn't exist any more.”
“You know, Cyrus, you could just move out and save you the headache and me the need to entertain you whenever mom goes ballistic.”
“I could,” replied he, looking out the one window in the room, “But this is so much more fun.” And he smiled with his gingivitis gums back up at me. 
After a while, Cyrus stood up, stretched to the ceiling [and nearly touched it], and said, “Well, I’ll tell Felix he should come visit you if can. I know he misses you. Thanks for the beer.” And he was gone, trampling back up the dirty pavement.
A slice of the fruit was groped between my fingers, its pink stinging all those nasty little hang nails. I devoured it before it would hurt any longer. 

 [995]
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