~PROLOGUE~

Usually I just text her since she’s not worth a phone call.  However, today I did something else entirely.  I actually picked up a pen and wrote a letter to her, then I folded it neatly, slid it into an envelope, put a stamp on it, and dropped it off at the post office.  Forgive me for stroking my ego a bit, but I’d forgotten how very attractive my handwriting is until I wrote those first amorous sentences—

Oh sweet Amy, you wicked eye candy for whom I hold less than zero affection, I say this with all my heart— YOU MAKE ME SICK.  That old saying ‘pick your poison’ might literally be accurate in this case.  You taste amazing on my tongue, but apparently the chef NEVER cooks you long enough.  Isn’t that a lovely metaphor?  Please swallow that disgusting image, and allow it to really settle in your stomach.  Now you know how I feel.  It’s my fault really.  I always forget how truly wretched you are after a few days of recovery.  It’s as though while purging you from my stomach, I do so from my mind as well, and I doubt most humans have had that particular gift bestowed upon them by the powers that be.  I am undoubtedly HASHTAG CURSED.  Listen, yesterday I let you drag your thighs over my hips to distract me from your talons drawing blood from my back for the thousandth time, and it will not happen again.

-BYE

I snapped a photo of the letter before I mailed it, and I intend to print it and plaster copies all over my apartment, otherwise the fault in my code will backtrack, will claim that it NEVER SAID THAT.

Yes, you did say that, and here is the evidence, you poor ill-fated boy.  You are no longer allowed to forget that you despise Amy so thoroughly that you wouldn’t even wish her on your worst enemy.

Oh, doesn’t that hold a certain poetic justice, considering I am my own worst enemy. Bloody hell, I would laugh if it weren’t so fucking tragic.

I sent that letter because I cannot stay on this goddamn Island of Incessant Winter Regrets any longer.  The clouds never part in this place.  Maybe that’s why I never work up the energy to leave—it’s a simple vitamin D deficiency, nothing more.  Or perhaps it’s the over-consumption of vitamin A-lcohol.  The excuses (justifications, more like) for staying are no longer sufficient.

I’ve been stumbling and freezing on a deserted dirty needle beach for years, watching the ever rising tide drag away the sand beneath my feet, yet what scares me most is getting on the boat that could get me out of this hell.  I checked the weather app on my phone, and it says those waves are quite vicious due to a hurricane of self-doubt and grief, so perhaps I should stay put. 

No, I shouldn’t.  I should give it my all and drown in the escape rather than wither away on this bed she chained me to inside this quicksand castle.

I suppose that leaves me with two options—

Sink…

…or…

…sink faster.

Hm, well, I’m not really one for the ‘SLOW and steady wins the race’ philosophy.  Life isn’t a race.  It’s just life, and it’s the only one I get.

Faster it is then. You see, I am cynical beyond words, but maybe there is something worth drowning for out there.

Sending that letter is me getting on that boat.  I don’t expect to make it through the storm.  I don’t expect to reach a summer shore on the other side, and that’s probably for the best.  No doubt all that sunshine will screw me over just as soundly as these clouds because, let’s be honest here, despite all those insistent SMARTEST-IN-THE-ROOM! accolades bestowed upon me, I’m not the brightest when it comes to love.  I fall for the most beautiful creatures, and all they do is lie to my face, tell me they love me too, then turn around, kick me to the ground, steal my knife and my heart, and watch me bleed out.

---

~EPILOGUE~

I have visions of a human who won’t cluck a talent-less, tyrannical tongue and wag a crooked finger at me.  This beautiful creature never attempts to take away the things I love.  She does not ask me the asinine, condescending questions posited a thousands times by the pretend-lovers, the must-hovers, the concerned-haters, the proud-beraters, the subtle-crusaders, and—the cruelest of all—the suicide-persuaders.

Are you mad, boy? Don’t you know matches make fire?—Yes, I know.  That’s the point.  I play with them because I like the smell of smoke.

Stop being a bad boy. Don’t you know those cigarettes cause cancer?—Yes, I know, but you don’t seem to understand that I like the smell of smoke.

Are you really this sad, boy? Don’t you know Russian roulette is a dangerous game?  You see, son, you’ve pulled that trigger too many times, and next time that chamber won’t be empty!—YES, I KNOW, but I assure you, that bullet is no more damaging than rolling the dice in the game that you dogmatic do-gooders rigged against me.

I will say this one more time—I like the smell of smoke, and I don’t care where it comes from.  A match, a cigarette, a gun…whatever.  I just need that hit.  I need it like I need oxygen.  Smoke is oxygen to me.  You don’t understand, and that’s fine with me.  Your opinion of me is of zero consequence, and I don’t believe you actually care about me anyway.  You’re all talk.

But, on the off chance that you do care-

Please don’t.  Don’t worry about me.  Since I have yet to accomplish the vapid, meaningless goals that will give me the validation I need to continue smiling for your ever present cameras, I won’t aim for the kill.  I swear I won’t point that barrel at anything but the stars that burn through light years of space and time to prove they once lived.  They’ll be just fine.  They won’t mind.  They may very well be dead already.

I wish I could burn through all this cash in my pocket, in my accounts, in my investments in a future that I don’t really give a fuck about.  It’s weighing me down, and what is the point of being a STARBOY (that’s what you call me, correct?) if you are too heavy to get high?  I should probably give it all away, but I’d rather spend it on shit I don’t need.

I gave that little spiel to my shrink today, and she called me a nihilist.  Apparently I talk like one.  Beg your pardon, doctor?  Disenfranchised and slightly traumatized yes, but a nihilist I am not, and I refuse to entertain a person who diagnoses me so unjustly.  I then said “you’re fired” straight to her face and walked out.

She followed me, demanding to know why I would do such a thing. This woman dared to shout “You’re FIRING me?” at me while stupidly grabbing my jacket sleeve as though that ‘MD’ attached to her name gave her the right to put her not-so-healing hand on my offensively expensive $3000 brand name second skin.

I wanted to grab her wrist and twist it while hissing “get your fucking hands OFF me” through my teeth. However, I managed to keep my composure, merely raising an eyebrow and responding in a polite tone, “I’m surprised a vegan such as yourself would touch real leather.”

Worked like a charm.  She reeled back from me, clutching the fake pearls around her neck, and the sight was, in a word, hilarious.

Once more, she asked why I was firing her, and I rolled my eyes hard enough to trigger a four-hour migraine.  “I’m firing you because I like the smell of smoke, you overpaid twat.”

What can I say?  I love a good metaphor wrapped in a well-executed pun.

But truly, she called me a nihilist, and either she was blatantly lying to my face, or worse, she doesn’t actually know what that word means, and I don’t negotiate terms with simpletons.

One can’t genuinely claim there is no meaning to life if one has yet to bother looking for it, and since I have done neither, I am not a nihilist, Dr. Genius.  Sure, I have yet to find said meaning in my life, but nonetheless, I know it exists.  It exists for every human, even though I can’t stand most of them.  Most humans are so full of shit.

That is why gastroenterologists make bank.

I can’t say this for sure, but I think I’ll find meaning when I find that beautiful creature.  She likes the smell of smoke as much as I do, and that alone makes the pursuit worth it.  It won’t be an easy task by any means, since I’m not accustomed to pursuing beautiful things anymore.  I don’t do anything, and they just fall into my lap.  They pursue me, not the other way around.

One after another, using identical words, they claim to be different as they straddle me just like their predecessors did.  It’s poetic, really—their obsession with being on top, with calling the shots, with controlling the pace, with ruling over me, and professing as much while riding me…

…on their knees.

They never fully comprehend the irony.  Each one fancies herself to be that one woman capable of turning the royal head until it twists clean off his shoulders.

Forgive me, but how did you come to this conclusion, princess?  Also, stop calling me “PRINCE this” and “PRINCE that.“  I’m not a goddamn prince.

I’m a STAR.

A dying one, yes, but a dying star is still a star.

Why do you think I wear these shades at night?—to go along with some James Dean-esque persona?  No, I wear them so I don’t accidentally blind myself with my own radiance.  Now show some goddamn respect for these dazzling pearly whites, and bow that head, or I’ll blind you too.

Oh look, yet another pretty new thing is giggling at my star jokes.  My father always said I had no comedic talent.

Proved him wrong.

Listen, I’ve been on page six a hundred times.  Everyone knows I don’t stick around.  Yet, here you are, hell bent on tying me down, both figuratively and literally.  I know these velvet ropes really do it for you, but I’m not your fucking submissive.

I’m not your mountain to climb.  I’m not your challenge.  I’ll never be your greatest conquest.

I know I let you ride me for a bit, but you’ll never drive this car.  You don’t know how to drive a stick anyway, and I sure as hell won’t be your training vehicle.  Go practice stalling out on some old cash-for-clunkers reject.

I think I’ll start truly looking for that beautiful creature now.  I want to find her before my time on this planet runs out.  For both our sakes, I want to steal her away from that endless grind, from the promise of greener grass in that corner office.  Only psychopaths make it up there, and since her heart burns hotter than the sun, she’ll never get there.

Oh go ahead, and call me a pessimist—not to be confused with nihilist—if you want.  That’s fine.  I learned to lower my expectations to null quite some time ago, and now I don’t risk disappointment.  It’s the best thing I ever did.

I still do it.  It’s called “being present.” And presently, I want to find that girl.

She may be right under my nose.  She might be on the other side of this train.  Maybe her stop is Canal Street, just like mine.  Maybe it’s Spring.  Goddammit, just please don’t live in Brooklyn.  I can’t be bothered to cross that bridge.

Perhaps she’s a product of my fickle imagination—as I said, I have little to no faith.  Come to think of it, I doubt I’ll ever love a girl the way I love that smoke.  Never doubt the beauty of smoke.  It hides a myriad of ugly flaws.

DYING star, indeed—My vanity has reached critical mass.

If I find this beautiful creature, oh, she will have a long road ahead of her, but she won’t complain because, unlike every other one before her, she loves watching me drive.  She’ll even take over if I ask her to, and she’ll do it right because this girl handles my car like she was born to drive it.

Foot on the gas, sixth gear, 0 to 60, heart rate through that moonroof, I don’t know where the hell we’re going, but…

Feel like burning rubber with me, gorgeous girl?  I caught you biting your lip when I pulled up to your building in these blacked out, ultra expensive, custom-made wheels.  I’m a mess, but I swear you’ll love me.  I’ll take you on the ride of your life.  You’re too smart and far too well-read for me to teach you much of anything, but if you will just get in this goddamn car, I’ll show you how to live fast and die right.

NEW YEAR SAME HABIT CONTINUES IN CHAPTER SEVEN: LIVE FAST, DIE RIGHT (CRASHING HARD)

Visit the New Year Same Habit main page HERE.

Chapter links: ¹We’re Just Strangers ²Hello, My Name is Loki ³A Helluva Drug ⁴Written in the Dying Stars ⁵This Helen of Troy (Worth Drowning For) ⁶STARBOY INTERLUDE ⁷Live Fast, Die Right (Crashing Hard) ⁸It’s Called “Being Present” (Hit the Gas) ⁹Burn it to the Ground, Sig. (Just Don’t Burn Me) ¹⁰Hotel Hell, Closing Bell ¹¹Do Not Go Gently (Run West, Boy) ¹²Happy New Year, Love.

CHAPTER SIX THEME SONGS:

“Ferrari“ by Bebe Rexha (prologue)

“Blood Type (E)“ by Cautious Clay (epilogue)

What Readers Have Said

About CH 6 “Starboy Interlude”

“I’m really enjoying this intriguing AU. This chapter really rang a bell for me as you channeled author Loki, and I’ve been enjoying your exploration of his headspace and Sigyn’s and their relationship.”

-Didi, on CH 6 “Starboy Interlude” (AO3)

“I love Loki being a writer, his books look great and these covers are wonderful. As he wasn’t hot enough already. He does look like a God, bless him!”

-Maïté, on CH 6 “Starboy Interlude” (AO3)

“Loki’s writing is SO entertaining to read. God. Wow. How do you even come up with the words he says?”

-DevilishDoll, on CH 6 “Starboy Interlude” (AO3)

You did not (NOT) let me down with this chapter!! It left me speechless in a good way!

-Bullla, on CH 6 “Starboy Interlude” (AO3)