Going up...

“Going up Mr. Carroll?”

I smile and nod. “Going up Stanley.”

“9^th floor?”

“You got it.”

When the door shuts, there’s a few seconds of silence before Stanley goes into his routine questions.

“Good day at the office Mr. Carroll?”

“It’s always a good day when I know I can go back tomorrow.”

Stanley chuckles.

The doors open and a couple of chatty bachelorettes dressed for a night on the town enter Stanley’s World.

“Good Evening Ladies.” Stanley says as he tips his hat.

The ladies barely acknowledge him with a glance and continue talking.

They remind me of hyenas. Their laughter is only between them and their conversation sounds of something average and predictable. I tune it out and they become white noise with measurements.

The louder of the two leads the way as they exit on the next floor, but before strutting down the hall like a runway model she makes sure to toss her hair and send me a piercing look, accompanied by a seductive wink. Her combo is seamless like she’s throwing a fireball, followed by a dragon punch to give her the KO in Street Fighter 2.

I’m not amused, nor do I play games anymore. But as I hold back and block, I contemplate a combo of my own, followed by a fatality, but like I said, no more games.

When we start moving again I notice Stanley is grinning and starting to laugh. I then realize that I’ve never seen Stanley not smiling.

“There’s not a thing in the world that can get you down, huh Stanley?”

The old attendant proceeds to look up at me with worn out eyes that manage to shine more life than most.

“Mr. Carroll, please excuse my language, but honestly, bitches ain’t shit.”

As I reach to give him a firm hand shake, for the words of wisdom, I utter the only thing that I could. “Stanley, you’re my hero.”

Letting bygones be bygones.

I think it’s true what they say, what we usually hate in other people is what we hate in ourselves. An old friend of mine used to say, “If you spot it you got it.” How true.

I hate my pride, not so much my indomitable spirit, but the cocky pride that gets me into a grand game of “one upmanship” with other prideful people. I know who they are and they know who I am, even if it’s only our first meeting. It’s pretty fucking obvious.

You’re taught to not give up an inch, because someone will always take a mile. “Do unto other as you would have them do unto you”, until they cross you. “Forgive and forget”, but never really forget.

People are (I am) selfish and in return I am (people are) selfish.

It’s a constant given.

Breaking that cycle is such a beautiful thing though. I toss the monkey wrench every once in a while, but it’s not enough. There’s such life in doing what others don’t expect you to do because it’s the right thing. Who does the right thing anymore, who ever did? Most people don’t. Returning a lost wallet is one thing, but owning up to your failures and relational mistakes is another.

Who sucks it up and admits they were wrong, even when the other party was just as wrong? Not many and the reason is because there’s lasting consequences to showing weakness. When people smell weakness they go after it. They take advantage of it and they exploit it regardless of whether it’s chosen weakness.

Setting an example that no one will follow can be grinding, but I honestly think it’s worth it. We all have to lay our head down at the end of the day and recollect our daily actions. We all know we’re wrong in the end, regardless of whether we admit it or not.

And oh sweet forgiveness, there’s nothing like forgiveness. Like a once broken bone that is now healed, it’s like true love that is no longer naïve. I long for forgiveness, to be on the receiving end of it and to deal it out like a black jack dealer.

There’s just something about mercy that is cosmic and no one can deny that.

The Pequod

Sarah Smith

Sarah Smith did not have a middle name. She didn’t rush to have it changed or deleted on her 18^th birthday due to scorn or ridicule. Simply put, she just did not have one. As a child she would ask her parents why they chose not buffer the first and last with a verbal family heirloom or even a word that would keep the flow. They would always just reply by saying, “It just didn’t seem right.”

Sarah was an only child so she shared this burden only with herself and why was it a burden, because she was “big”. Big not as in tall, but as in “large” which translates to fat as she could not even do one pull up in gym class. Not to mention, she also was one of the shortest girls in her class.

Children will always be cruel, but when you are obese and your initials are S.S., they tend to be a little more particular. It was inevitable.

It's all in the name.

William Robert Smith

He was Mr. Smith to his co-workers, but his boss called him “Bob”. His parents called him William, but in his younger days, it was William Robert, but only when he was in trouble. Will was what his wife called him, but it was “Honey” when they were alone. Willie or “Smitty” is what his friends badgered him with and his nephews called him Uncle “Wilbo”, they were still very young.

His name was Bill “Bob” Smith when you shortened everything, and as conservative and as boring as he seemed, he had a deep appreciation for Madonna and Prince.

You were suppose to laugh.

I went and saw a comedian last night, actually my favorite comedian. Comedy would be a tough job, because it’s kind of like selling stuff. You are your product. If people don’t like you or the character you play on stage then you’re fucked. I imagine every new gig is like going on a first date with your dream girl. YOU WANT HER TO LIKE YOU, but she most likely isn’t going to like you.

I call it the Eager Beaver Syndrome. You’re so eager and obvious that you’ve lost all attraction or possible hilarity.

Probably what makes comedy so hard is the fact that you can’t truly practice until you’re on the stage. I’m sure comedians say their act in the mirror or to their friends for hours and hours before stepping on to the stage for the first time. Like a salesman making his first call, so is a comedic virgin standing in front of a crowd

Practice makes perfect though. I guess.

You have to feel bad for some of them though. Yeah, they might be a nice guy, but they don’t have what you’re looking for, you already have ten of what they’re selling or their product is obsolete.

I bet that’s not a very funny punch line for them.

Ice Station Zebra

It’s bed time.

Lock the door, unlock the door, lock the door, unlock the door, lock the door, unlock the door, “Just lock the god damn door.”

It’s bed time.

It’s 12:58 am. The alarm is set to 7:00 am. It’s 12:58 am. The alarm is set to 7:00 am. It’s 12:58 am. The alarm is set to 7:00 am. 12:59 am. Fuck.

It’s bed time.

Pull the covers back, flip the pillow over, flip it again. One more time.

“Goodnight…Goodnight...Goodnight…Goo….” He covered his mouth with both hands and tried to hold his breath. The words were muffled, but they still came out seven more times.

Laying in bed counting the tiles on the ceiling of his bedroom in groups of four he contemplated his end. It wasn’t even about being embarrassed about his condition anymore. The fact that he couldn’t control it was what irritated him so much. Therefore, he wanted to speed up the inevitable.

“Hanging myself seems too dramatic,” He thought to himself “and a knife would be too painful and bloody, not to mention dirty.” The thought of a blood covered knife staining his carpet made him want to get out of bed and wash his hands. He fought the urge.

“I could put down plastic?” He mumbled in the dark room.

It’s bed time.

As he started to doze, an idea shot through him before he could make his final descent.

“A gun in my mouth would be quick.” That seemed like a good idea. He decided to run through it in his head, since that’s where the bullet would be going.

“Load the gun. Put it in my mouth.” He stopped. “Well, …would I put it in my mouth first or cock it first? I’ll cock it first.”

Closing his eyes he started visualizing, but when he did he made a mistake that would keep him from the death of his choice.

Cock the gun. Un-cock the gun. Cock the gun. Un-cock the gun. Cock the gun. Un-cock the gun.

“This isn’t going to work.”

He stared blankly at the ceiling again for what seemed like hours.

“Hmm…interesting 48 blocks with 4 tiles in each. 192 tiles.”

It’s bed time.

Basic Math

This place is a daily implosion. It’s an all-consuming vacuum; a corporate black hole if you will. Grey cubes line the walls. White noise controls the masses. Middle managers pretend to work at their computers while I don’t hide my lack of focus on all fronts. I am neither here nor there. Nothing really exists here.

Nothingness is almost as boring as watching John Stockton highlight videos on YouTube. With nothing you know what’s going to happen, but it’s never any different. It’s a Stockton to Malone pick and roll that you know is coming, but there’s nothing you can do to stop it and again, it’s boring. It’s a non-eventful chain reaction of the inevitable.

1+1=2

Only the lonely

My apartment is hot and muggy. It’s not a problem without a solution, but when it comes to utilities I’m kind of a penny pincher. It’s like I have this monthly contest with myself to see how cheap my bills can be, this coming from a guy who will blow $100 in one night playing Texas Hold Em’. I have strange justifications for my hobbies and bad habits. Let’s not discuss that right now though.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about how much I haven’t been thinking about death, lately.

I’ll de driving down the street or sitting on “the john” and think “Wow, I’ve only thought about having a heart attack once today, opposed to 3 times an hour. Good Job!” When I have those thoughts I keep it brief, because I don’t want to jinx it, you know?

Honestly, my positive thought process has probably been due to the fact that I quit smoking about six months ago, for the third time. It’s sad that I’ve started smoking again after quitting two previous times already, but on a positive note at least there was a 6 month break, right? When I don’t smoke, my chest doesn’t hurt and my immune system doesn’t go to shit and when my chest doesn’t hurt and I’m not sick every three days, I don’t think about dying all of the time. So not smoking not only makes me healthier in body, but also in mind.

Who needs a cigarette?

Being alone use to really bother me. When I say alone, that doesn’t necessarily mean without a significant other, but just being by myself in general. About 5-6 years ago I always needed to be hanging out or at least I always wanted to hang out. You wouldn’t hear me crying myself to sleep if I was alone. It was based more off of boredom. The older I get though, the more I find myself alone. Maybe I’m just boring now. My cat doesn't seem to think so.

My Dad told me the other day that he hasn’t been to the movies in a long time. In fact the last time he went to a movie theatre was with me. After figuring out what movie we saw I realized that it came out in ’03. I started listing out all of the films that he needs to see. He told me he didn’t like going to the movies really, but after further discussion he said he really just didn’t like going alone. I told him I liked going to the movies alone. Then again I wasn’t married for 27 years.

We all went to the movies the next day and I went to the movies a few days later, alone.

WOW

This one too.

Inspirational Blogging

I was able to make this thanks to despair.com.

Sex, Drugs and Rock n' Roll: from A to Z

This wasn’t the first time he had masturbated while listening to Bob Dylan. He actually had a whole section of his record collection devoted to self gratification through lubrication. Along with Dylan there was Cash, “The Boss”, B.B. King, Tom Petty and Elvis Costello. You would’ve thought that there would be some female artists in the mix, but he had his reasons.

Only ugly musicians could be playing while he did the deed because he felt like attractive artists wouldn’t understand. Listening to Madonna while “ringing the bell” only made him feel in adequate, but when Dylan played “Corrina, Corrina” it was easy for him to get aroused.

This particular afternoon he couldn’t even get it up to Petty’s “Free Falling” while smoking a joint. He didn’t keep any magazines or even remotely sexy movies in his house because he was too embarrassed to purchase them. Yet, it didn’t phase him to buy a bag of weed or even Ted Nugent’s complete discography on vinyl. Horny and frustrated he attempted something that he had only thought about, drawing his own women.

Being an English teacher drawing was as foreign to him as speaking Spanish. “How hard could this be though.” He thought to himself. So he went with what he knew. The Alphabet.

Using letters proved to be a pretty helpful tool for forming his sex Goddess that would help him go the distance.

A “B” on it’s side looked like breast and a “Y” or a “V” placed slightly below it almost looked like a vagina. He enclosed her jewels with varying O’s for her body and head and he used L’s for her limbs. Though she mainly resembled a snow man with genitals, he worked diligently until he felt satisfied that he could be satisfied. Similar to the past women in his life she didn’t appear sexy, but at least he could spell her out.

Twin Towers

She was tall, but he had her covered. This was the first time in a long time that she had a relationship with a man taller than her and she was delighted. So was he. He didn’t want to be one of those guys whose girlfriend towered over him. He wasn’t as secure as Tom Cruise.

To say her face was that of an angel would be cliché’, more so of a seductive temptress, Cleopatra if you will. To describe her breasts would be to witness a miracle within a natural disaster. A hurricane, an earthquake and fire from the sky destroy California while a virgin gives birth to quintuplets under the Hollywood sign while every radio station on the west coast plays Slayer’s “Raining Blood” simultaneously.

Her legs were long, but what was more peculiar was the length of her torso. It went on forever. It seemed like he was going down a slide backwards on his stomach at recess, except he wasn’t going to land on some foam pad at the bottom. The bottom was bliss. It was uncharted territory, his own personal Louisiana Purchase.

"Hi-yo Silver, away!”