A Mind Awake

Hangman

2012-01-19T11:55:00.000-05:00

The letter that she had written me was sitting on the dining room table in a standard white envelope. It was mixed in with today’s mail that I hadn’t opened yet. Her letter wasn’t in the mail box; she had slid it under the door while I had been at work.

Part of me wanted to read it over and over again. Hang on to every word that she scribbled on to the paper. Something deep inside wanted to understand her and think that every word communicated was truth, the answer, a gospel of sorts.

The envelope was under a coupon magazine that promised 25% off my next dry cleaning bill and buy one, get one free biscuits from a fast food restaurant that was on the Kentucky side of the Ohio River. Even though it was only 15 minutes away, I hadn’t been to Kentucky since I dropped her off at her house for the last time. There wasn’t really a point.

I cleared the table so I could eat my dinner and pretended not to think about the envelope that was now sitting on the kitchen counter. My fork moved from my plate to my mouth slower than usual. The pain was enjoyable. I didn’t want to climax.

Wheel of Fortune was on TV and though I hadn’t watched it since I had lived with my parents over a decade earlier, I sat through the entire competition. Steve from Salt Lake City was who I rooted for. He didn’t seem like he would vote for Mitt Romney and he treated all of the other contestants like they were family. Only hands claps were emitted when he spun the wheel. No cliche phrases were uttered.

Steve lost because he couldn’t solve the “Before & After” puzzle without needing to buy a vowel. Unfortunately, he went bankrupt on his last spin and Margot from Des Moines easily solved the puzzle. “Bare Foot Ball” she screamed at the top of her lungs. She lost in the bonus round.

I’m not sure why I bought a California King, but it seemed like a good idea at the time. It took up the entire room. I didn’t even sleep in the middle of the bed. It took too much effort trying to go to the bathroom at 5am. I slept on the right hand side where she use to sleep. It didn’t smell like her anymore.

At some point during the night I had brought the envelope in to my bedroom and while I was getting ready for work I propped it up against the bathroom mirror. Since she had hand delivered the envelope it wasn’t addressed any which way nor was there a stamp in the top right hand corner. It just said my name in the middle. Her hand writing was sloppy. It could have said any one's name.

When I went to leave for work I found another envelope under my door with my name scribbled on it. I looked through the peep hole. No one was there. For some reason I decided to open this envelope immediately. There wasn’t even a letter inside, just a yellow post-it note that said “Disregard the first letter”.

At that point I decided that it was time to read the first letter. The cursive was scribbled but I could make out most of the words. I found it to be a bit confusing though as the name that was written in the salutation was not mine and she had never told me that she had cheated on her previous boyfriend.

You'll Wish It Was Only Make Believe

2012-01-07T20:53:00.004-05:00

The year Nineteen Hundred and Eighty Six was an eventful one. The Cold War, which seems to me to be the best kind of war, was still going strong. We even had a real life quote/unquote James Bond looking bad guy in Mikhail Gorbachev with that birthmark on his forehead. He just looked evil, even though he moved to California after the collapse of the Soviet Union and won the Nobel Peace Prize. He was still scary looking to a 5 year old. Which I was.

The Boston Celtics won the NBA Championship, but not before dismantling our Atlanta Hawks in 5 games. Peter Gabriel’s Sledgehammer came out in 19886 as well and hit number one on the charts. Sledgehammer also had that crazy stop motion/claymation music video that would always duel with Michael Jackson’s Thriller for the number 1 spot on VH1’s top 500 videos of all time.

Some other top headlines read:

“Challenger Explodes 30 Seconds After Lift Off, Seven Crew Die”

This tragic event lead to tasteless jokes for years to come from my friends tossing lit matches at each other and yelling “Challenger!” I wish this joke would’ve stuck instead of them trying to hit each other in the balls after asking what the capital of Thailand was or the incessant quoting of “That’s what she said”.

“Nuclear Accident At Chernobyl Endangers USSR And Europe”

I didn’t understand this headline when I was a kid and I’m honestly surprised at how little I knew about this tragedy up until a few years ago. Not until I was playing Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 2 and had to battle a slew of snipers while running across radioactive farmland that I decided to get educated on the subject

I discovered that Chernobyl not only displaced almost half a million people, but also released 400 times more radioactive material than Hiroshima. There was also a picture of a dog that I came across that looked like it was from John Carpenter’s “The Thing”. It was pretty fucking awesome.

1,000% Increase In Aids Cases Is Predicted By 1991

My parents, like everyone else in 1986 didn’t seem to talk about aids for probably one of two reasons:

1. They didn’t understand Aids and didn’t care.

2. They didn’t understand Aids and it scared the shit out of them.

Aids became real in my families life a few years later when the music pastor of the church we attended announced that he had Aids and was dying. Naturally, the church did not agree with how he had contracted the Aids virus. So they fired and disowned him.

It’s probably what Jesus would’ve done.

I don’t feel like my dad mentioned Aids or HIV again until Magic Johnson made his announcement back in ‘91, which makes sense because that’s when the headline predicted that AIDS would have increased by 1000%. Why wasn’t this headline replayed on VH1’s I love the 80’s?

1986 was also a great year for something else, something more up my alley, considering I was 5 years old an all. 1986 might hold the record for some of the best toys available on the market during the Christmas Season.

To start off the list:

You had the new and improved, yet smaller version of G.I. Joe. Yes, they shrunk 7 inches, but you no longer had to feel like you were playing with your sister’s fucking Barbie doll. Regardless my grandmother continued to refer to my action figures as dolls. I forgive her.

She was old then and she’s dead now.

Then there was M.A.S.K., which stood for “Mobile, Armored Strike Kommand”. Yes, they spelled command with a K. But now we know where Korn got it from. Anyway, Mask was like if G.I. Joe, Transformers and Darth Vader fucked and a line of generic Hasbro toys was birthed. All of the action figures had vehicles, but the soldier looked like a regular guy driving a Honda Civic, but then he would put on a storm trooper looking mask, hit a button and his vehicle would turn in to a fucking jet! Where the fuck where these dudes on 9/11?

And finally,

Lazer Tag: The futuristic high-tech gun whose purpose is to shoot your best friend in the heart... their words not mine. If you ever played Lazer Tag, you know that it was a great concept, but it didn’t really work very well. You could also buy helmets and all kinds of other “Blade Runner” looking accessories that looked cool, but also didn’t work. They even released G.I. Joe and Star Wars themes sets. We use to play in my friend’s unfinished basement. Cap guns would’ve been more fun... and effective.

Some honorable mentions for the top toys in 1986: the very creepy Teddy Ruxpin, as always the classic Transformers and last but not least, WWF Action Figures. You couldn’t really play with them though because the rubber was to hard to bend, but my older brother found another use for them, Blunt Force Trauma... in which I was on the receiving end.

With all of these amazing choices at hand you would think that I received a glorious Christmas present in 1986. Something that every kid was dreaming of, something violent, something futuristic, something that I could fight over with my brother.

There use to be a video tape of my reaction on Christmas morning when I opened the main present from my parents... and by parents, I mean my mother. It was a defining moment in my childhood that I don’t believe any other boy my age had to deal with in 1986. I still replay it in my mind often.

25 years has passed since this moment in my life and 10 years has passed since my Mom left my Dad for another woman. Somehow in a very Slaughterhouse Five/Billy Pilgrim Time Travel kind of way... I feel like all of these events are connected... pointing back to a singular moment that foreshadowed the future of my family and potentially the rest of my life...

or maybe I just over think everything.

It was in a tall box, almost eye level for a 5 year old who was under 4 feet tall. For some reason as I approached it, I was intimidated... It was as though I already knew that it was going to change my life forever and that I was also probably going to fucking hate it.

When I pulled the wrapping paper off it was like looking at my twin sister, except I didn’t have a twin sister and certainly didn’t want one for Christmas.

The box read “Baby Talk”.

Really Mom? A fucking baby doll. I’m 30 years old and I’m still kind of pissed off at this. I’m not even mad that my mom’s a lesbian, which potentially could have endangered my existence if she had made that decision 21 years earlier, but a fucking baby doll. Jesus Christ.

I have to be honest though. This is slightly my fault. I might have... kind of... maybe... in a very round about way mentioned to my mother that a little girl in my kindergarten class brought in a really cool doll for show-n-tell a few weeks before Christmas.

But seriously. It was 1986, the fucking doll could talk. I was impressed.

And maybe I forgot to tell her that I wanted any.. and or/all of the toys I mentioned earlier. At the same time, I got the Castle of fucking Grey Skull the previous Christmas and still played with it religiously.

With my brother laughing hysterically I kicked “Baby Talk” across the room. Believe it or not, the embarrassment still washes over me when I think of that moment. I felt like Ralphie in “A Christmas Story” being forced to wear those god damn bunny pajamas, except this was a sneak attack. The room was spinning, everyone was laughing and my mother just looked at me and said with an evil grin. “But Johnny, you told me you wanted this for Christmas.”

Wild Year

2011-12-31T13:09:00.001-05:00

Christmas had a high of 63 degrees. It was overcast; raining. New Year’s Eve. It’s 60 degrees; sunny with clear skies. It’s interesting when the weather doesn’t reflect our moods, attitude or life circumstance. I think we typically align ourselves with the weather.

I must say I’m feeling out of wack, with tornado watches issued shortly before noon Sunday, for the areas including, the western region of my mental health and the northern portions of my ability to deal rationally with my disconcerted precarious emotional situation.

What do they say though, tomorrow is a new day? Sleep on it? The glass is half full? I’ll get another shot at this tomorrow.

It’s supposed be a high of 61 degrees with only a 20% chance of rain.

Indian Summer

2011-12-15T23:04:00.002-05:00

It was after we had gone swimming at the YMCA enough times to have our jack knives down to perfection, eaten enough Hawaiian Ice to make us never want to go to Kona and annoyed each other’s brothers, sisters, parents and extended family to the point of them banning sleep overs that we started contemplating the season change. If we had it our way, we would have just skipped fall and gone straight in to winter.

Halloween should’ve been in July. I dressed up like Han Solo. Michelle was Leia. I might have seen her picking out her costume at Halloween express.

The snow the previous winter had been as sparse as my interactions with Michelle and school hadn’t been cancelled once. We hoped that this would be our year, though. Northern Kentucky hadn’t seen a Blizzard since I was in 4th grade and I was going into 8th this year. We were due.

The weather finally broke and the region had its first cold snap in October. We were hopeful for a long winter of sled riding, snow ball fights and plenty of school closings. I also wanted to see Michelle. She was in AP classes and was basically MIA during the school year. She lived across the street, but it might as well have been Indiana.

Fall was a let down. The temperature never dropped below freezing most nights. It would just hover around 32 degrees taunting and torturing us, like a girl on prom night who would only let you play “just the tip.”

Friends and family from warmer climates found it odd that my brother and I had such an interest in meteorology. They didn’t understand our motives. Not to mention every kid in my school could read a barometer and understood Doppler Radar. It’s just how it was when you were passionate about being a slacker.

Like most years we didn’t have a White Christmas. The sky resembled how we felt, grey and overcast. It was like that 8 months out of the year in the Ohio River Valley. Christmas break wasn’t long enough and there was still no snow in sight. January was upon us and for some reason, I had written off the idea of snow. I’m not sure why considering winter always lasted until April.

It was a Wednesday. My parents called from an Olive Garden. My mom was laughing. She said that we couldn’t leave the house. I thought she might have turned the gas on and hid a lit candle under the sink. She told me to look out the window. The trees were bending. I had been back in school for three days.

Ice covered everything. It started snowing and it didn’t stop for 48 hours. It felt like Stephen King’s Storm of the Century, minus a demon trying to steal children. We mounted up.

We chose sides for the first snowball fight of the season with little care for each other’s feelings. My brother and I were captains because we played baseball. Craig got picked last because he was an asshole.

The battle started off slow because we were all trying to acclimate ourselves to the two feet of snow that consumed us. Naturally, Craig started calling everyone “fags” and the contest escalated.

I’m really not sure when she appeared or why I decided to put a rock in a snowball, but Michelle looked like a piece of art lying in the snow. Blood poured out of her eye. She was beautiful.

88*

2011-11-15T15:07:00.002-05:00

He had already said goodbye to his dog ten times, but he couldn’t help to hug him four more. The hot tears went cold as he shut the back door of the house and for the first time in a week he remembered that it was late December, the day before Christmas Eve, nine days until January. New year, new start.

Forty-five days had passed since the event horizon. Seven days ago everything went black. Six days since keeping the 24-hour rule alive. Five days earlier came the flu and hopefully not something related to the previous “unprotected” evening. Three days from when his clothes stopped fitting and less than 48 hours ago he watched the moon eclipse with the next in line*. Yesterday belongings were packed. Today— it was fucking over.

The text message came within the hour. A request to occupy that which he had vacated. A decade of friendship that hinged on his ability to create opportunities while the lessor waited patiently to take credit, capitalize and conquer that which he did not.

Sloppy seconds

Dogs under the dinner table

Vultures circling above

—-

Knives. alcohol and disguises. Hack, kill and destroy. She didn’t have to worry, no one was paying attention, not even him. Shiva the god of destruction. Party City was out of that costume, but she went as the Devil— Beelzebub, Meryl Streep, Roseanne Barr.

Karaoke was scary and he stood by as she sang her theme song, “Material Girl”. “25 Minutes To Go” was his choice and in hindsight it was fitting. The two words he woke up to felt like a rope around his neck, “No future”. He tried to break it down. “No future with her or not future at all?”

Books, junk mail, used napkins, anything that he could put a pen to had those words on them. He scratched them in to the picnic table in the backyard with a dinner knife and they felt like they were seared into his heart with a hot iron. The words left his lips so many times that they began to lose meaning.

—-

1992, the Kentucky Wildcats NCAA Basketball team lost in the Final Four to the the Duke Blue Devils. Kentucky was up by one point with 2.1 seconds left on the clock. Christian Laetner of Duke caught a cross court pass and hit a turn around jumper at the buzzer to win the game. Ten years old, he watched his Dad, who was a Kentucky Alumni, die a little that day, the same way his Dad heard him dying over the phone that night while throwing up in the driveway. Sick. Not drunk. Annihilated. Hank Williams playing on a broken turn table*.

—-

His new apartment was small, like a prison, an island, exile. You can’t jump off the balcony when you live on the first floor. His friend lived in a high rise and it was tempting, but he didn’t want to die and twins* weren’t worth the pain. The story went that a couple the building over had a lover’s quarrel and one jumped off the balcony to prove a point. Point made.

—-

271 days later he got sick of missing his dog. E-mails, texts, phone calls, coffee, boredom. It reminded him of running in to someone from High School who won the superlative for “Most Likely To Not Be So God Damn Boring Over Coffee” and should be forced to forfeit the award Reggie Bush Style.

He got in to his car to leave and wished it was an ‘82 DeLorean.

Beyond The Pleasure 2.0

2011-11-08T20:56:00.002-05:00

I originally wrote this story for a flash fiction site I contribute to every month. One of the rules of contributing is that your story has to be under 600 words. I decided I wanted to read this piece at a gathering of nerds who like to listen to writers read their stories out loud, so I decided to add some back story to the character of Mother.

If you didn't read the 1.0 version, feel free to do so. It's about half as long as this version.

---

Beyond The Pleasure (2.0)

The last time I fucked my Mother I was 25 years old. My father had warned me years earlier that this would happen, but he was a drunk or an addict or jealous or something. I never saw his addictions in action, just the result. Needless to say, I never thought I would reach climax inside my Mother, but I now know, that she did.

That was 5 years ago.

After spending too many nights hiding under my bed listening to my father shout obscenities at my mother regarding her promiscuity, they finally divorced when I was 8 years old. For years, Mother uttered the same phrases over and over about my father, “substance abuse”, “manic depressive disorder” and even “paranoia”. My father only said one word about Mother and repeated it often: Infiltration.

My parents had joint custody the first year, but after Mother realized that my father never took me back to his apartment on the weekends, opting instead for interstate hotels, she decided to take action. When I was questioned about the weekend living arrangements I just told everyone what my father had always told me “We we’re on vacation.”

When Social Services asked to inspect my father’s apartment he refused. It was only when they threatened to give Mother full custody that he finally complied. His apartment looked like Special Agent Fox Mulder had moved in. Books on alien invasion we’re scattered on the floor, black and white pictures of UFOs lined the living rooms walls and an over-sized push-pin dotted map of the northern region of Kentucky hung over his desk. The only thing missing was a poster that read “The Truth Is Out There”. I’m sure it was illuminated on the bathroom wall with a black light.

I didn’t see my father much after the inspection. He would come by the house from time to time and Mother would let us have an hour together. We attempted to throw a football around in the backyard once, but he just kept explaining to me how a football was actually based on an early alien spaceship design that us humans called angular dynamics (and my friends wonder why I don’t play Fantasy Football).

When I was 15 my father convinced Mother to let me go to the movies with him. I thought my father might have actually come back to reality when he produced two tickets to the matinee showing of Independence Day. Unfortunately, he ruined the summer blockbuster by inserting in his own commentary throughout the film. His ultimate buzz-kill came when the mother-ship destroyed the White House. He sternly grabbed my arm and whispered in my ear an H.G. Wells misquote:

“The joke of today is the crisis of tomorrow”.

When the credits rolled he asked if I had learned anything. To his disappointment, my response was “Yeah dude, the Fresh Prince is a fucking bad ass”.

Mother was waiting at the front door when my father dropped me off. Without saying goodbye he just rolled down his window and backed out of the driveway yelling at the top of his lungs “We are not alone, my boy! We are not alone...”.

A random phone call days after my birthday and around the holidays were the only communication my father and I had from then on. Mother became more protective and seemingly more caring. We had never had the best relationship as I was growing up. She was cold and calculated, but she took care of me and that was more than I could say for my father.

As I approached adulthood, My relationship with Mother transitioned, we had become close, she was now a friend that I confided in about the typical High School bullshit, mainly sex and alcohol. Mother encouraged me to embrace my carnal nature and to experiment. She was more like a rebellious big sister who was DTF.

We started having parties at the house my senior year of high School and she provided the alcohol. Friends stayed over every weekend and our residence was dubbed the “Animal House”.

After months of weekend partying one of my friends drunkenly brought up the subject of how hot Mother was.

“Dude, your mom is so fucking hot.”

Fighting the urge to break his face, I too had noticed that Mother was aging quite well. Upon closer examination of family photo albums, it appeared as though she hadn’t aged since her wedding day. She was actually hotter than any of the girls in our class. All of my friends wanted to fuck her.

The last week of summer before we we’re all forced to grow up and go to college we had an “End of the World” party. It was fitting because we were the class of ‘99. Cans of PBR, bottles of Jager and enough blow to make Tony Montana want to say “hello” to all of my friends, decorated every surface of the “Animal House”. Mother had orchestrated this debauchery.

The night was filled with hours of beer pong, underage sex and more bumps than an R. Kelly concert. As the party was coming to a close, people were passing out left and right just after puking their guts out like the infected from 28 Days Later, everyone except Mother and I, that is. We had held our own, but seemed un-infected by the consumption of the evening.

While cleaning up beer cans and broken glass I walked into the kitchen and Mother was standing behind the Island. She gave me a look that I had only seen from girls at school that wanted my premature ejaculation on their bed sheets. Mother was “eye-fucking” me.

“You know I love you son?” She said.

“Of course I do.”

“Give Mother a kiss.”

When I leaned in to kiss her on the cheek she turned her head and slid her tongue in to my mouth. I wanted it. I needed it. My dick got hard. She pulled on my belt and unzipped my pants.

I went to college the next day.

That was 12 years ago.

It had been 10 years since I had seen my father, he looked good in a suit. The viewing was on a Sunday and we buried him the next morning. They said mental illness was the cause of death, which is the nice way of saying he stabbed himself repeatedly in the stomach with a letter opener.

I hadn’t seen Mother since the previous holidays and we had never spoken about what happened at the “End of the World” party. Everything had been normal, but she consoled me that night with a bottle of wine and motherly love that I hadn’t experienced in more than a decade.

My father surprised me the next morning with a letter in my mailbox. The correspondence had been dated in his own hand writing the date he had decided to take a closer look at his intestines. The letter read:

Son,

You were adopted. She can’t reproduce. You’ll be dead by 60. They’ll say it’s gastric cancer, but you’ve been infiltrated.

Dad

Beyond The Pleasure

2011-10-16T13:31:00.002-05:00

I'm Still Here Leaning Towards This Machine

2011-09-20T08:41:00.001-05:00

“This is a fucking kid’s game.” Jack said.

Pete focused on the metallic ball ricocheting off the round pegs that were adorned by rings of flashing red lights. He shouted as the sphere exploded towards the rubber-lined walls that made the sound of a hen cackling on impact.

“If it’s so easy then why aren’t you any good at it?” Pete remarked, “Not to mention, this one has a military theme.”

“Are you fucking kidding me? It’s called “Chicken Run” and there’s an old man in a white suit chasing hens.” Jack replied.

Pete took his hands off the two red buttons that were symmetrically placed on the sides of the game. “Dude, that’s the fucking Colonel. He’s dead. Don’t disrespect him.”

“Is that why he’s wearing all white or why he’s been immortalized as a cartoon, Pete, because he’s dead? A zombie cartoon Colonel that sells chicken— sounds deserving of respect.”

Pete clenched his jaw as he went back to his game. He pulled the spring-loaded plunger and shot another ball in to the Colonel’s hen house. His eyes lit up like the first time he saw his father bring home that red and white striped bucket of steaming chicken laced with 11 herbs and spices. The secret before “The Secret”.

Jack had a problem and Pete knew exactly what it was. He had no comfort in his life. There was no understanding. His entire childhood was spent on fast food that lacked backbone.

That wasn’t his fault though. It was his parents’. Bouncing around from drive-thru to drive-thru looking for something that would complete them. They weren’t going to find it with a McDonald’s Big Mac, an Arby’s Roast Beef sandwich with horsey sauce or even a Taco Bell $.99 meal deal.

Their lives lacked truth. Ignorance was no longer bliss. It was fucking heart break.

But how do you shine a light in to the darkness of a man’s soul? Trying to explain that all that someone knows is wrong would be a slap in the face. What can be done?

Pete knew though. He remembered something that he once learned in Sunday School about speaking the truth. Pete was taught that Jesus once gave a great sermon, a sermon on a mount that freed the masses from their backwards thinking. He knew that he must be Jack’s savior and show him the way, the truth and the life that would only run him about $5.99 a meal with free refills.

“Jack, do you believe in salvation?”

“Like Jesus forgiving me of my sins.”

“No, nothing like that. Experiencing truth in its purest form.”

“Well, that depends on what your version of truth is.”

“In this situation Jack, there’s only one truth and if you knew it you wouldn’t speak so harshly about the Colonel.”

“Pete, I know you’re from Kentucky dude, but please don’t tell me that the Colonel is going to save me from my sins.”

“What’s your favorite fast food restaurant?”

“I don’t know man. Probably Checker’s. They’ve got awesome fries and the shakes are cheap. KFC just doesn’t really do it for me man. I’m sorry.”

The final ball of Pete’s pinball game slid through the red and white striped flippers uncontested, for he now knew that his friend would never lead a life of fulfillment, only a facade of contentment while being consumed by appetite depravity.

Hell Hole

2011-08-18T15:14:00.001-05:00

Hate is a strong word, but when you’re alarm clock is set to 6:30 a.m. and your upstairs neighbor starts hammering the floor boards in his apartment right above your bed two hours before the alarm is supposed to go off, not many other words come to mind, except maybe murder.

This is the fifth day of the second time I’ve lived in Erlanger, Kentucky. It’s a hell hole, but when my stepfather, Robert, died Final Destination-style from a freak propane gas stove explosion I decided to move to back to the Bluegrass state to help my mom out.

The explosion occurred in the kitchen of their 1950’s ranch-style house, blowing out all of the windows and burning the majority of the kitchen, master bedroom and not to mention, Robert.

The investigation by the insurance company concluded that the fire was caused by a leak in the gas line connected to the stove, but the main explosion actually occurred in the bed room. That’s not uncommon for gas leaks except the explosion of the magnitude that killed my stepfather would only happen at the source of the leak. Also, Robert’s scorched body was found with him clutching a machete. He probably looked like Skeletor.

I’ve rented this studio apartment off of Dixie Highway. There are four restaurants with the word “chili” in their name, a gas station that serves ice cream and six churches of different denominations within walking distance of my front door.

I’ve been listening to my neighbor hammer different areas of the floor of his apartment for the last five minutes. Our rented spaces have the exact same layout. Based on the size of the room there’s only one place you can put your bed. My assumption is that he’s pounding nails in to the four corners of where his bed is located. Maybe he’s constructing homemade bed risers. That would make sense for storage purposes in a 500 square foot apartment, but what doesn’t make sense is why this fucking Bob Vila wannabe is remodeling his apartment at 4:35 a.m.

The hammering has become more furious, so I have to time my knocking. The deadbolt unlocks quickly. He’s much younger than I figured, about 21. I would expect to be complaining about loud music for someone his age, not late night home improvement projects. His small frame blocks the view into his studio. Perspiration has accumulated on his forehead and he’s sweat through his t-shirt.

“You can’t be hammering in the middle of the night, man.” Stepping in to the hallway he closes the door behind him. “Here.” he says not listening to a word I just said. I look down and he’s pulled a machete from behind his back and put it in my hand pushing my fingers around the handle. “You can help.”

Stepping back I drop the machete almost taking off a couple of my toes. “Help with what?!” Turning back in to his apartment, he motions me to follow. “I’m Kevin and I hate to inform you, but this place is a hell hole.” I step inside the door and stare at the floor where he’s pointing. He’s not building bed risers. There is no bed, only a steel sheet nailed to the floor that looks like the Incredible Hulk has tried punch through it. “They’ll be coming back soon.”

Loveless Losers

2011-08-18T15:11:00.000-05:00

Liquor Livens Lustful Libido Liasons

Lest Lessons Learned Lose Lingering Likeability

Lo, Left Leaning Lopsided Lives

Lead Loitering Lays Leisurely

Like Lazy Lambs Lacking Lament

Bench Warmer

2011-07-08T12:56:00.000-05:00

On my 21st birthday my friends took me out to Applebee’s and treated me to chicken fingers and raspberry sweet tea. This was all washed down with the stereotypical song and dance of the restaurant employees wishing me a “happy, happy birthday”.

“Welcome to adulthood.” I thought.

After blowing out the candle on my Cool Whip cake I excused myself to the bathroom. Instead of taking my talents to South Beach I decided to stalk the giggly blond whose tits were bouncing in my face to the rhythm of the hand claps during my personal praise and worship song. Her name tag said “Kacee”.

Tall and limber, tan and glowing, empty blues eyes complimented her layered-platinum bob. She looked like she was fresh out of high school. Everything about her was typical to Lexington. Maybe she was a University of Kentucky cheerleader. I didn’t even make the JV basketball team at my high school, but all the girls thought I was cute sitting at the end of the bench trying to keep up with points, assists and rebounds(on paper) and the measurements of all the girls on the dance team(in my head).

Sometimes, I would accidentally transpose the stats and not realize it until the next day when I read the school paper. The sports section headline would inform us that “Brian Long lit up the score board in last nights win with 36 points along with 24 monstrous rebounds in only 36 minutes of explosive play!” No one ever seemed to notice, at least not in the way that I noticed Kacee.

When I approached her at the server station I had all of these back handed compliments in my head from reading The Game. I was thinking how I would say that I don’t usually date blonds, but I would make an exception for her or tell her that I like her name, but that she spelled it wrong. It all sounded so juvenile, but Mystery made it look easy. By the time she turned around the only thing that came to mind was “I need something to dip my fingers in.”

She smiled and ran down the list. “Well, we have ketchup, honey mustard, barbecue, ranch and we can even mix the barbecue with the ranch, which is my personal favorite.” And then she grinned and tilted her head to the side. I felt like an asshole. Not because she was nice though, but because she didn’t get my pick-up line. Maybe if I was wearing a ridiculous looking top hat I would’ve gotten my point across.

Shaking my head I started to walk away. I mumbled to myself “That’s not what I meant.” In a “mother saying your full name” kind of tone she replied. “Well, maybe you should say what you mean then.” All I could think about was the fact that I was 21,still a virgin and wouldn’t mind becoming a man in the parking lot of a family-friendly chain restaurant. Maybe my friends had even hired Kacee to make my fantasy come true. I wanted to watch Return of the Street Fighter with her.

Kacee was leaning up against the server station staring at me. She was twirling her hair with two fingers behind her ear and the only thing that came to mind was “I’ll take the barbecue ranch sauce.”

A Complicated Life

2011-06-09T15:31:00.000-05:00

Jim woke up this morning and went to work like he always did. His arrival time was 15 minutes before the expected time of 8:30am, but this was not early for him, just everyone else. The hours of the day flew by as he stared at his computer screen, typing on the keyboard, clicking and scrolling with the wireless mouse he had won the previous January for perfect attendance. Jim won a new office gadget every year for this behavior.

The year before his supervisor had given him a framed motivational poster that featured a grizzly bear eating a fish. The caption read “Excellence is not a skill, it’s an attitude.“ The supervisor insisted that it was hung above Jim’s computer. He got a matching mouse pad as well.

The apartment where Jim lived was on 5th street in Covington. He preferred the Kentucky side of the river opposed to Cincinnati where his job was located because he was afraid of black people. No one ever knew this about Jim, because he didn’t know this about himself.

Every room in Jim’s apartment was spotless and decorated appropriately with pictures hanging on each wall of every room. Steam locomotives hung in the living room, birds of prey were poised in the dining room, cottages with smokey chimneys adorned the kitchen and 1965 Playboy Playmate Centerfolds were calling out in the bedroom. Jim didn’t like sleeping alone.

The dinner table had already been set from the night before. Jim would set the table every night after doing the dishes, always setting two places. In the 6 years he had lived there only two guests had ever joined him. The first was a man devoted to the cause of cleaning, carpets to be exact. Hoover is what he said in every sentence. Jim bought two.

The second guest, a blind date that a co-worker had set him up on three years ago. Jim thought she was pretty, but didn’t understand why she kept talking about her ex-husband. Jim didn’t like her because of her disapproval of his choice of dinning room decorations. He didn’t offer her dessert. This was the extent of Jim being an asshole.

As usual, Jim was eating alone this evening. Typically, he didn’t mind eating by himself, but today was the exception. The first Matrix movie had been on television last night and it got him thinking about his life and the choices he had made. According to his parents, guidance counselors in school and his supervisor at work, he had made all of the right decisions. Jim felt like he never had a choice. There was never a red pill/blue pill moment for him. He decided that tomorrow was going to be different.

Jim hurried up and finished his dinner only putting the dishes in the sink, passing on washing them and setting the table. Before he went to bed he neglected to straighten up the house. This was to be the start of his personal rebellion.

When the alarm clock went off the next morning Jim started his day as he always did. The clothes he was going to wear were laid out on his freshly made bed. He shaved, showered and got dressed for work. The commute was long and boring, but he still arrived 15 minutes early. The supervisor appeared in Jim’s office shortly after and said the same thing he always did.

“Good morning Jim. Ready for another great day at work?”

“Yes sir.” Jim replied staring at the fish being consumed by a grizzly bear.

Puck Was An Asshole!

2011-05-31T20:16:00.001-05:00

The summer of ‘95 was hot and sticky and not just for the obvious reasons. This was the year that Josh had finally discovered his body in its entirety. No longer were there only a few stray hairs sprouting on his crotch, underarms and upper lip, his body hair had become a force to be reckoned with. He even had the beginnings of a very promising happy trail.

While on summer vacation he spent the majority of his time downloading as much porn as his AOL dial-up service could handle. As far as Josh knew, his collection was unrivaled amongst his friends. Unfortunately, he would not find this out until years later when it was considered humorous to tell stories about wacking off in front of your 486 to hot Asian twins eating each other out while being butt-fucked by what appeared to be a room full of NFL linebackers.

Josh got bored masturbating until his family jewels appeared to be more like rubies than diamonds. He decided that he needed to take his skills to the next level. Sex Ed. and all of the porno movies he had been watching even showed him how to do it. “You put it in the first hole, right?” was what he said to himself right before he started practicing the pumping motion in the mirror while flexing his biceps and mimicking orgasmic facial expressions.

After watching the entire season of MTV’s The Real World in San Francisco. Josh felt educated and mature about his decision to have sexual intercourse or as his friends called it “gettin’ some pussy!”.

With all of the practice and education out of the way all Josh needed now was to find the right girl (or any girl) and at least a 3-pack of Her Pleasure Trojan condoms with spermicidal lubricant. Without giving it much prior thought, this soon became Josh’s biggest predicament. Living in the suburbs of Kentucky there weren’t any girls in his small neighborhood. Also, he was only 14 and not even close to getting his learner’s permit. His only hope was his older brother, Craig.

Everyone thought Craig was cool, but in his own way. He even treated his little brother Josh with a sense of respect that little brother’s before him had never known. So when Craig agreed to let Josh tag along to a High School party that he was going to on Friday night, Josh almost reached one of the higher ranking skills on his list of sexual exploits: Blowing his load with his mind!

Friday arrived. Josh spent an hour shaving his balls in the shower making sure that his boys were smooth. After he was dressed Craig told him to come in his room for a “quick talk”. Josh was excited. He thought his brother was going to give him a “man to man” talk about getting laid. Maybe he would even give him some condoms!

Craig was combing his hair in the mirror when Josh walked in and that’s how he continued to make eye contact.

“You excited about going to the party tonight?” Craig said.

“Hell yeah! I want to get laid!” Josh hastily blurted out as he sat down on the bed.

“Oh.” Craig said with a confused look.

“What, what is it?” Josh was looking confused now.

Craig turned around and looked at him.

“You’ve been watching a lot of Real World lately.”

Josh raised his eyebrows. “Huh?”

Craig smiled. “You’re gay, right?”

Josh cringed. “Are you gay?”

Craig kept smiling.

That's More Than A Dress...

2011-04-16T19:24:00.003-05:00

ToToday is Record Store Day 2011. I got up early and had a hearty breakfast of grits (in a monkey bowl), a biscuit and coffee at my favorite breakfast joint in Atlanta with my fellow vinyl collecting friend, Lance. He ordered a pecan waffle.

After breakfast we went to Little 5 Points where two of the best record stores in Atlanta are located, Criminal Records and Wax n’ Facts. After standing in line for half an hour to try and see what Criminal had to offer, I got antsy. My plans for the morning were to attend a garage sale, where I only made $2 in sales. With my patience wearing thin and over hearing an overweight girl tell her friends that Wax n’ Facts didn't have a line-- I made the executive decision to check out what they had in stock before I left. She was right! And by "she" I mean the overweight girl.

Wax n’ Facts was busy, but I had my hands on some records after only a few minutes of waiting. While waiting to check out a crate of RSD exclusive vinyl I heard some guy yell to a clerk "Do you have any piebald left?". The clerk reached into the bin and handed him a record. I said something to the affect of "me too!". He then handed me the last piebald album. I didn't know what album it even was, but the name Piebald is nostalgic for me, bringing back some great memories with old friends. Not to mention I've always wanted If It Weren't For Venetian Blinds It Would Be Curtains For Us All on vinyl-- Piebald’s best album in my opinion.

Lo and behold the album handed to me was a 3 LP box set that included Venetian Blinds. It was only $25 for the set, but as I walked closer to the counter doing my budget for the pay period in my head, I contemplated putting it back for someone else to buy. Before making a hasty decision though I asked the clerk how many more they had left in stock.

"That's the last one." he told me.

My decision had been made for me. I had to buy it now. You have to love the scarcity effect.

Now here I am in my 500 sq. foot apartment off Ponce De Leon sitting in the most comfortable and ugliest chair I've ever owned listening to one of my favorite records of all-time contemplating the last 10 years of my life.

The first time I heard Venetian Blinds it was in CD format and I was 19 years old. My ungirlfriend at the time, Allison, bought the album at a local skate shop/indie music store called Ambush. It was located in Gwinnett County (outside of Atlanta) on Pleasant Hill Rd. Hearing the album for the first time was not memorable. All I can recall is Allison telling me how amazing they were while all I could think about was how guilty my Christian conscious was making me feel for getting a blow job from her the night before while listening to Johnny Cash.

Our unrelationship was over within a few months, but not without her accidentally leaving her Piebald CD in my car. I didn't feel bad for keeping it for myself for many reasons, but I’ll only give two:

1. She treated me like crap.

2. At the conclusion of our relationship she didn’t return my Dashboard Confessional Swiss Army Romance CD I had let her borrow.

I definitely got the better end of the deal.

Probably getting bored listening to Operation Ivy’s Energy and my Johnny Cash Love, God, Murder box set I randomly played Venetian Blinds after leaving work one day.

I'm not sure what made me fall in love with them. The vocals were shitty and the recording wasn't much better, but the lyrics made me laugh and the songs seemed like they got louder as I got further into the album.

As I was breaking the speed limit on I-85 heading towards Atlanta to hang out with my friends, I rolled the windows down and let the wind blow the hair that I no longer have around like I was in a wind tunnel. “Grace Kelly With Wings” rattled my crappy factory speakers while I sang along at the top of my lungs to my favorite album that I hadn't learned the lyrics to yet.

"That's more than a dress, it's a Grace Kelly movie."

The Five Hundred: Dreams Do Come True

2011-03-07T22:48:00.005-05:00

I've recently joined a group of other writers to contribute to a monthly writing project called The Five Hundred. The idea is that we receive a prompt every month for a flash-fiction piece and within one week we have to deliver a story that is between 400 words to 600 words long. It's a fun idea to keep the creative juices flowing. My girlfriend and I both posted pieces for this months prompt.

My story is below. Enjoy!

“Dreams Do Come True”

by Johnny Carroll

The first time I heard of William “Tiny” Baylor I was ten years old and had just discovered my love for basketball. After sitting way to close to the TV at my friend’s house watching the last game of a best of seven series where “Tiny” scored 39 points, dished out 17 assists and had a mind-blowing 10 steals to lead the Bowling Green Roosters to their first (and currently only) NBA championship— I ran straight home and begged my dad to buy me my very own basketball goal.

I followed Baylor for the rest of his professional career as I dreamed of one day starting my own. Middle school is a painful time for most children, but especially when you’re trying to be an NBA superstar. Working hard every summer and constantly day dreaming of playing for the Roosters, I honed my basketball skills.

Success was mine. I eventually became the point guard for my high school’s varsity basketball team, even leading the region in assists (my senior year). Every time I passed the ball that lead to another point for our team I remembered the first game that I ever watched where “Tiny” dealt 17 assists. My team, the Carpetbaggers, never won a state championship, but we always had a winning record.

Unfortunately, Being only six feet tall and carrying on the family tradition of short arms and a long torso, not only could I not dunk, but I didn’t even have a decent three-point shot. And we won’t even talk about how I couldn’t go left. I was too focused on passing the ball to ever work on an all-around game, knowing deep down inside that I would never really get drafted to the NBA or even start for a Division I college team.

After high school I did make it to college on a scholarship, but not for basketball. All of those summers where I was working on my jump shot and dreaming of super-stardom I also became obsessed with Marv Alberts, the most famous sports announcer during my youth. I wanted to go in to broadcasting or journalism and interview the super stars. Oddly enough that’s just what I did.

I hadn’t followed “Tiny” since his retirement from the NBA. Every once in a while I see his name on a list of attendees for a charity golf tournament or one of those events where the NBA honors the veterans of the game. Personally, I haven’t picked up a basketball in over 10 years, but this whole nostalgic walk down memory lane has been triggered by the fact that I am currently interviewing my childhood hero, William “Tiny” Baylor.

When given this opportunity I jumped at it thinking we could swap war stories about who our biggest rivals were, his being “Magic” Johnson and Isaiah Thomas, mine being that short red-haired kid with bad acne who played for Hamilton. Maybe I could even tell him how he inspired me to play basketball and it’s because of him that I’m even sitting here interviewing him.

Instead, he’s not even looking at me, but sobbing in to my voice recorder about how he’s now bankrupt (pyramid schemes) , divorced (twice), been in and out of rehab (crack) and how he will never recover from the mishap that occurred during his Penile Silicon Injection.

Tears of an Asshole

2011-02-20T14:18:00.005-05:00

This is a new piece that I wrote for the Purge ATL reading "It's Not Me, It's You" at the Wren's Nest in Atlanta, Ga. It's laced with love & profanity. Enjoy!

Tears of an Asshole

The problem with relationships-- is getting comfortable. And by “relationship”,I mean anyone that you’re willing to go out to breakfast with after you Sport Fucked them the night before or something like that.

In the first couple of months of a relationship, you not only watch what you say around the other person, but every-single-little-word--your opinions, jokes, world views, catch phrases, sweet talk, pillow talk, even safe words.

You find yourself sounding out each word in your head and checking their meanings in the proverbial dictionary of your mind. You catch yourself silently thinking:

“Is it supposively or supposedly?”

“I hope they don't make fun of my slang.”

“Did I really fucking tell them that I voted for Bush in the ‘04 election?”

You analyze each situation--patting everything down like it's going through a TSA checkpoint. You eliminate every uncomfortable situation, constantly having your conscious check to see if you have any “dick and fart” jokes stashed in your waist band.

No situation is too small, anything from passing the salt to pulling her hair while you nail her doggy-style.

"Did I seem bothered when I handed her the salt? I hope she doesn't think I'm mad. She probably wanted the pepper too!”

Or maybe you’re thinking--

"Shit! Was I was pulling her hair too tight? It sounded like she liked it, but maybe I was hurting her. I do have a fist full of hair now--I shouldn’t have spit on her back!”

Eventually, you let your guard down. At first, there's no real threat. You've never said anything questionable before, why would you now? You're a perfect gentleman.

Then you let something slip. There's always an excuse as to why -- you were tired, maybe a little drunk and definitely had a bad day at work. It's always subconsciously.

Maybe you hate Band of Horses and have lied about it up until this point.

Or maybe you hint-- that her ass doesn’t really look that good in skinny jeans anymore.

Or you finally tell her what you really think about her loser brother that she's elevated to hero status in her mind.

It doesn’t really matter what it is exactly.

But somehow you’ve smuggled through security some insensitive words in your shoe, that is on the foot, that you will be placing in your mouth, after you inadvertently vocalize them.

All of a sudden-- you’re not perfect anymore.

And I don’t mean the idea of a messed up guy that you’ve created for her to show her how much you’ve changed. You’re no longer the guy who should have payed more attention to his last girlfriend’s needs, but has changed now-- and tries to understand his female counterparts every whim. You’re not the one who had anger issues because he was unhappy in his job and relationship, but has realized what makes him happy now... and it’s her.

No, now you’re the asshole boyfriend who fucking made her cry, who is now apologizing and trying to remove the foot from your mouth-- and the tears from hers eyes with the same hand.

It’s impossible.

And that’s where it gets painful. The snowball effect is too nice a term for what happens here because it’s more like a tornado in a blizzard-- during an earthquake. Instead of the situation picking up speed, gaining traction and rapidly getting worse. It’s more of a destructive force than something rolling down a hill. It’s fucking chaos, complete annihilation-- the god damn mother fucking Apocalypse...and it’s too late to repent. No death bed confessions allowed.

Nothing you say can make it better, even an apology will come off as insincere-- and it ultimately makes it worse. You can’t run away from it, because then you’re walking out.

Eventually, you just end up slowly dying from the inside-out. What’s most unbearable about this situation, is that you have to take it...in silence.

To Be Determined

2010-12-16T02:16:00.001-05:00

Time flies when you're having fun or maybe just when you realize that it's done. When the good times easily out weigh the bad times it only makes the final time even worse.

All of our anger and rage, bitterness and hate, still hoping that it won't over take our love and choke out our life. Being in love is supposed to suffice, but I've never seen it.

What's mine is yours and yours is mine, but I paid no mind to what you had in mind because I thought it was all mine. How could I have been so blind?

If the truth will set you free, it will also set you on fire. It can burn down walls, brick and mortar, leaving only a foundation that hopefully remains for a better tomorrow.

Darlin' Companion

2010-12-01T16:37:00.008-05:00

I couldn't believe how easy it was. Most guys like me dream of sitting at the bar and having some curvy blonde pull up a stool, buy me a beer and ask "Do you wanna get out of here?" two minutes later. I agreed, but told her I had my ex wife's dogs in my car. "Bring em' with you." She said.

I didn't know where we were going, but I didn't argue. I followed her back to an apartment complex where I had done some electrical work a few years back. After putting the truck in park I listened to the last verse of "The Thunder Rolls" before shutting the engine off. She insisted that I bring the dogs in even though they were fine in the car.

"Why do they have mohawks?" She said.

Her face was puzzled but her hand knew exactly what was going on. I was surprised she could slide it down my pants with out having to undo the belt. After she woke him up she abruptly went in to the next room.

Waving me over she giggled like a sorority girl as she started cutting lines. "I like to make them into smiley faces because it makes me happy. See, I made you one too." I'd been clean for a while and didn't feel like getting fucked up with some floozy. I changed the subject.

"How old are you? I mumbled.

"Forty Five." She said. "Your dogs are freaking me out. Let's fuck before my son gets home."

I agreed. "You don't have to tell me twice."

She laughed.

"You like horror movies?"

Combo #3 With Chicken

2010-11-30T15:25:00.007-05:00

When I came through the front door it smelled like nachos. For some reason fucking has always smelled like a cantina to me, not the one on Mos Eisley, more like Buford Highway. The apartment looked like it had been burglarized, but nothing was missing.

Someone had actually made an addition. Two standard poodles were sitting in the middle of the living room floor. They had mohawks. They didn't make a sound. They could've been statues.

A rolled up dollar bill and a smiley face outlined with cocaine were on the dinning room table. Some of the powder had fallen on the floor. It made a trail, like bread crumbs, to the bathroom. The door was cracked open.

I stood in the door way and was greeted by a naked man wearing a Michael Myers mask. He was taking a shit.

"Uh...Hey man...Your mom said she'd be right back."

Most people would call 911, but I know a first date when I see one.

Gridlocked

2010-11-26T01:07:00.005-05:00

The second thought that came to mind was "Whatever you do, just don't look down." Naturally, I looked down. I was terrified. How could I not?

What surprised me; with my whole body trembling and the next rung in my hand I took the next step. Thinking back, I only recall going up two places on the ladder before I woke up.

It's not that I'm afraid of success, just the failure that precedes it.

House, on the rocks. Tall, but a single.

2010-09-18T12:38:00.002-05:00

It‘s late and the work day was 12 hours long. He slides behind the wheel to make his way home. The windows are rolled down and the radio is turned up. Trying not to fall asleep, he drums on his steering wheel mimicking John Bonham. He’s failing at both.

His second wind finally blows into the car catching his hair and twisting it in his face as he moves his head up and down to the beat. Zeppelin starts to fade and there’s so much static in the speakers his hair is about to stand up on end. He passes the water tower that he rolls his eyes at every morning for having the obligatory positive slogan for the small town. “Half way home.” He quietly says.

Without music to listen to, he feels the weight of the day dragging his eye lids further and further down until they’re completely shut.

“This place seems to be hopping tonight. I wonder if it’s like this every night?” He thinks to himself. While standing in line trying to get a drink he spots a beautiful girl wearing a black sequin dress making her way to the bar. She flashes him a smile. He would’ve preferred something else. The bar tender asks him for his drink order right in time to keep him from staring. The band strikes up as he places his order. He tries to speak up so the man can hear him, but the blasts of the trumpets keep drowning him out with every attempt.

“Whiskey! I’ll have a whiskey!”

The heads lights are blinding and the horn is deafening. His car pulls through the turn colliding head on with another vehicle. All the while he’s screaming “Whiskey!” as loud as he can.

Slowly the reception of his radio kicks in. The music is blaring. He closes his eyes because he knows what’s next, but there isn’t a white light and there is no tunnel, just blood and sequins.

Typewriters and Dark Rooms

2010-09-14T11:02:00.005-05:00

My dad and I were talking yesterday about how when I was a kid we moved into a new house in a subdivision that didn't have phone lines that ran out to it yet. For the first month that we lived there we didn't have a phone. My uncle Billy was a a pretty well to-do business man though and let us borrow his "cell phone" for that month. My dad said it was in a large brief case that weighed around 30 lbs. Zack Morris had nothing on this baby! That was in 1989.

"It worked though!" my dad exclaimed as we talked about it via my iphone that was plugged in to the cigarette lighter and charging in my car. I'm sure everyone has had those moments thinking to themselves "What did I ever do before...?". I've really felt the pain the last few weeks. We moved into a new place and for whatever reason, mainly laziness, I put off getting the internet hooked up. Once I finally got around to doing it, the installation date was a week out and naturally they hooked it up at the 11th hour.

I've never realized how dependent on the internet I am for spitting out a 1000 words. I'd like to believe it's because I only write in google documents anymore, but that's not completely it. Typing on computers in general is pretty amazing, backspace alone has affected my life in ways I'll never know.

Technology overall has obviously made a lot of professions/industries a lot shittier though. How many people ever wrote anything outside of an essay before blogging popped up? Wedding photographers are a dime a dozen now with cameras going digital. It has to suck for those who had to tough it out with typewriters and and dark rooms. Sometimes I day dream about it all just giving out, but then how would I update my Facebook status?

My dog ate my homework.

2010-08-25T23:44:00.003-05:00

When I was a child I would procrastinate. My ability to put something off was groundbreaking for someone my age. Unfortunately, with my procrastination came guilt, Catholic guilt, this too was unprecedented for a child of merely 7 years. I was raised protestant.

The "night before" when I told my parents at 9pm I had a science project due the next morning or the time I had at least 20 pages worth of answers to fill in a hour before school started is a daunting memory. Just thinking about it I can still feel that knife in my stomach, digging deeper with every toss and turn as I rolled around in bed thinking about what was undone.

"The worst part about being a writer is that you always have homework."

Exodus vs. Masochist

2010-08-21T11:13:00.004-05:00

"Fuck you!" He said as he ran out the door. Slamming in to a wall of rain, his emotions seemed to be mirroring the current storm cycle; peculiar and erratic.

All I could do was laugh.

I tried not to give it much thought, fearing that I might do the same.

This seems to be fleeting.

2010-08-18T10:34:00.005-05:00

"Do you remember when you still loved me?" you asked. Our backs were facing and I was thinking about a girl I had seen on the train while I assumed you were thinking about yourself.

"I'm not sure if I could pin point an actual date when I stopped, but it was sometime last fall. You were sitting on the porch when I arrived to your house by car. "What took you so long?" you said. It was all in your tone. I knew it would just be a matter of time."

This confession, all in my head.

"You know I still love you." I replied.

The Good O'l Days!

2010-08-13T10:57:00.003-05:00

I was reading over at gaping void that there's been a major decline in blogging since 2006. I figure that might be for the best, you know, over saturation in the market. Then again, I've seen a lot of cool bloggers come and go, or just not blogging as much. Who am I to judge though. I've done the same thing.

Life happens and you get busy. Maybe like me, you find yourself no longer working a 9-5 where you only have to do two hours of work a day to stay ahead of the curve. Perusing the internet and blogging filled the rest of my cubicle life.

Blogging has been so beneficial for me. It really helped me take the first step into writing. Nowadays I find myself consumed with writing articles and doing interviews for a local online magazine. As much as I enjoy it, I miss writing the daily/weekly blog entry and being in the blog community.

With that being said, I randomly came across a blog a friend of mine started recently, For Each Wind That Blows. Check her out! It's like the chick flick of blogs, with no drama!

The Future and the Past.

2010-07-30T10:57:00.003-05:00

Earlier this month I talked to a dude about the future.

Steven Dixey is a super hero.

After that I spent time reading about the forgotten past.

I've never considered selling my soul to the devil, but then again he's never asked.

On Making Friends.

2010-07-12T16:39:00.003-05:00

If you like listening to good music or meeting trannies on craigslist, this article is for you!

A Casual Encounter With Dylan Kight.

"Born, Born To Be Wild"

2010-06-27T15:08:00.003-05:00

My parents were hippies, but only one of them liked the Beatles. Like my father, I'd rather listen to Dylan.

I wrote this about the Hippie/Youth Activism Movements in Atlanta During the 60's.

Throwback: The Bird Is The Word.

I still hate karaoke.

2010-06-05T02:15:00.003-05:00

I wrote an article about karaoke that has way too much swearing involved.

Get "Yer 15 Fuckin' Minutes" right here!

A road in Atlanta...

2010-05-21T12:37:00.004-05:00

If you've never been to Atlanta, there's a road called Ponce De Leon Ave. that runs through the heart of the city, at least the part of the city that I hang out in. Unfortunately, it's not quite the fountain of youth that it sounds like. Just ask the hookers and crackheads, but they did use to play baseball there, not the hookers and crackheads.

Throwback: Ponce De Leon Baseball Park

New Endeavors

2010-05-10T13:21:00.002-05:00

I recently started writing for an Atlanta online lifestyle magazine called Purge. This is my newest article/interview regarding a local record store owner and his first year of business. This article may or may not have a gang initiation involved.

Feed Your Head! Music

Enjoy!

Maybe we can carpool.

2010-04-22T00:27:00.002-05:00

They despised me when I walked among them. The disobedient son who paid no tribute to lip service and said what everyone else was thinking. I was never welcome at the table.

They feared punishment. Substance is what I sought, something that was real, even if it was pain.

They are the faithful. Saying that they will do "His will", but only doing their own. Watching to see who is watching. The left hand always knowing what the right is doing.

Now I'm the sheep who forgot his way, the lost coin that cannot be found, the seed planted on rocky soil. I'm stuck in the thicket, I lay within the cracks, my roots have died and have scattered in the wind.

They cringe when I appear, teeth gnash. They think that I might test or even tempt them. Our morality the same, but I choose to be honest. One of the few commandments that I won't violate.

No longer the faithful servant, but I'm not the only one. The son who has gone to waste his inheritance, the prodigal who won't be returning home. I wouldn't be welcome. Unknowingly, they are the reason that they think I will burn.

Place the mill stone around my neck. I choose to be a stumbling block.

This To Shall Pass

2010-02-20T02:56:00.002-05:00

This winter seems two seasons long. It’s fitting though, everything else has been numbing and long and drawn out as of late. Why not the weather? Once I settle in for the evening, I usually go for my night cap. The ice I put in my glass has freezer burn on it. Once poured though, the whiskey removes all traces.

The drink is doing something to me tonight. Lighting a fire inside my frozen body and thawing out what’s been numb. Two birds with one stone!

The holidays went by so quickly. I don’t remember Thanksgiving and I was sleeping in a guest bedroom during Christmas. I did receive a year supply of shaving cream and a book on serial killers though. Nothing like reading about a triple homicide to ring in the new year! And that’s just what I did while I worked. Happy New Year!

It snowed on “our” Valentine’s Day. After eluding work, I got her a DVD about Philadelphia and she helped me not forget about Dre. Some assholes destroyed our snowman hours after we brought him in to this world, but we do live in the South, so maybe it just wasn’t meant to be.

New things could be happening this year though. My Dad could potentially not have anyone living in his basement, my better half will be spending more time in the snobbier part of town due to work and I think I might just try gaining the “Freshman Fifteen”.

First things first though, Spring must arrive.

Doctor Sleep

2010-01-08T14:36:00.007-05:00

Everything is black. This room is large, but vacant. Maybe I’m outside or in a cage. I'm definitely in a spaceship. I could be wearing a mask. There would be more light if my eyes were closed.

I like it.

Someone’s talking. Each syllable they enunciate makes my head feel like a floor tom. Maybe it’s electronic, a drum machine that plays in rhythm with their every word. I hit the snooze button. The beat trails off and I feel like dancing. The bathroom is down the hall.

If I don't get up now I might piss myself, but I’m cold and pissing myself doesn’t seem like such a bad option when there's only two. The debate ends, my journey begins.

Trying to find the light switch on a wall reminds me of braille. If I was blind I would lose. If I was mute, pointing would be my way. If I was deaf I’d probably curl up and die.I am the epitome of human waste. I’d be completely useless if not fully functional.

The weak are truly strong.

Finally, the switch is between my fingers. It reminds me of a cigarette on its last drag, the thought causes me to dry heave. The switch is heavy and the click makes my ears ring.My eyes are still closed, but I’m surrounded by artificial light. It reminds me of my mother. As a child she would wake me for school in the morning by abruptly switching on the lights, singing and dancing to show tunes. I’m the only straight man that I know who can sing along to Rodgers and Hammerstein musicals.

The hallway seems long and reminds me of the Overlook Hotel.
I close my eyes when I think of dead girls staring at me.
Now I'm scared and wouldn't mind hearing my mother sing "My Favorite Things" to me. I hum along. My index finger involuntarily moving up and down to the chorus.

The bathroom is my finish line and I congratulate myself for finishing the race.
I step straight into the shower. My clothes haven't come off this fast since 6th grade. Relief is mine. I watch last night go down the drain.

Bathing seems like a good idea until the water hits me.
The shower head releases it's power and it feels like acupuncture.
A love/hate relationship with China suddenly forms.
Pain or euphoria, Shang or Zhou, steamed or fried?
All of these decisions to ponder!

And now it sounds like someone is trying to break down the bathroom door.

A Fine Gesture

2009-12-25T23:04:00.002-05:00

He was a strange man. Socially awkward defined, with hops on his breath. Usually sitting alone at the end of the bar. Conveniently positioned in the closest seat to the taps that brought him the best and the worst of what this life had to offer.

Always watching as they poured so smooth and with such ease. Bubbles racing to the top only to be stopped by the foam that garnished his dinner, pint after pint, night after night.

We didn't speak much. Just a nod or a glance here and there, recognizing that we both were "locals". Usually just exchanging pleasantries, our few conversations consisted of agreements on politics, sports and the drink.

I, being only a mere patron of the house that he helped build. What did I expect? He was the CEO. He had a job to do. Whether helping with the keg changes, volunteering answers on video trivia or guarding the back door from pesky under agers, something always kept his nights busy.

He was a celebrity in his own right. His pictures adorn the walls and have for years. I had even heard that he was a genius, obviously eccentric, definitely stubborn.

And like a sitcom, he was welcomed by the audience night after night, but on the last episode when he entered stage left, he didn't utter a catchphrase. He simply raised his arm to the sky, fingers extended and palm turned in and asked for his final tab.

In Memory of
"Gesture" Steve Johnson

A Blog Entry

2009-08-27T23:20:00.002-05:00

Hello my long, lost blog and it's one or two readers that periodically check you or have rss feeds.

If you've been here before you might have noticed one of two things. The first being that I don't really post on here much anymore. Shit, who am I kidding, I don't really write much anymore for that matter. The second being, I changed the look.

I've had the same banner for a couple years and it was very cool, but I needed something different. I went the simple route. That's probably an understatement, but I like it. It's very clean.

I've missed the old blog world. Some of my favorite writers have blogs that I use to check religiously. I'm not sure what happened, but I think having a boring 9-5 helped keep me up to date with what everyone was doing and writing.

Anyway, my favorite bloggers are still on the right hand side, so check them out and hopefully I'll have something worth reading up here in a couple days.

Sincerely,

Johnny

Something For Your Parents

2009-07-23T14:33:00.006-05:00

Crazy fun life guy
I'm always fucking smiling!
Carpe Diem dude!

Nothing bothers me.
I'm serious, just try me.
Fuck! Stop doing that!

You say, "God hates fags."
Maybe. Bet he hates you more.
Eat a dick in hell!

Tip or die! Really.
Alright. Only ten percent?
I know where you live.

Jesus Fucking Christ!
Stop saying, "Why have you changed?"
I only shaved man!

Wrong Place, Wrong Time

2009-06-07T03:10:00.003-05:00

It’s 11:17 am. I’m sitting in a small room that is painted completely white. It only contains a metal table and a few chairs and I’m already over three hours late to work. I was probably going to call in anyway, but I haven’t even been able to do that yet. The only reason that I know the time is because I’ve been asking the two men who have been interrogating me about every twenty minutes. I knew I shouldn’t have gone out drinking last night.

The officer's questions went a little like this, in no particular order:

“What time was it exactly when you “witnessed” this?”

“Where exactly on the road were you?”

“How fast were you going?”

“Were there any other passengers in the vehicle with you?”

“Was your view obstructed?”

“Where were you coming from when you saw this?”

“How much did you have to drink?”

“Why should we believe you?”

For starters all of my senses were obstructed. That’s what happens after 6, maybe 9 or more vodka tonics in about 5 hours. Fuck, I don’t even believe myself. And where the fuck is Mulder and Scully when you need them?

The alcohol had almost worn off by the time they dragged me in here, but it still seemed quite surreal. In my hung over state I told them my story over and over trying not to contradict myself and if I did, it was only because I had been up for over 24 hours and everything seems a bit jumbled when you’re trying to work off a drunk. Time lines get skewed and everything seems exaggerated, in this case, maybe not enough, but they already thought I was crazy and I didn’t want to push them any further in that direction.

At the same time, how do you tell a person other than Stephen King that you saw someone’s mid-section rip open up like the mouth of a great white and consume another human being without them thinking you’re crazy?

Apparently, they believed part of my story. They confirmed that someone was missing and an officer did find large amounts blood, flesh and hair on the sidewalk, along with a messenger bag and all of its contents strewn down the street. They used the phrase “foul play” in almost every other sentence.

After leaving me in the room by myself for another hour or so, they came back to inform me that there wasn’t any other eye witnesses at this time and I was their prime suspect until further investigation. I was booked and in a jump suit by dinner time.

And I never even got to make my fucking phone call.

Playing House

2008-10-23T16:22:00.001-05:00

The key was hidden under the welcome mat as always, so I let myself in like so many times before. The Crane’s didn’t have children or any pets so their house was pretty tidy. There were only a few plates in the sink from breakfast that morning. All of the appliances in the kitchen were stainless steel and the counter tops were marble. Coffee cups were still on the kitchen table. I helped myself to what was left in the pot. It was still a bit warm.

The newspaper was opened to the business section so I read what the market was doing out loud. I made comments in between each paragraph to recreate a conversation that happened hours earlier. It was mainly one sided as Mary would usually just agree with what her husband was saying to humor him. As long as they had money she tried not to think too much about it.

Making my way into the living room I picked up the remote as I sat down in Milton’s leather La-Z-Boy recliner. Pictures from their latest vacation sat framed on the end tables. They went skiing a few times a year. I was never interested because I don’t like being cold. From the photos they looked quite happy in below freezing temperatures. Then again they were always happy.

With my feet propped up I turned on their oversized flat panel TV. It was on a cooking channel. That seemed fitting since Mary loved to cook. There were always delightful smells coming from the kitchen when you walked in their door.

There was one main hallway in their house and it went from the living room towards the bedrooms and bathroom. In the master bedroom there was a king size bed that was properly made, two bed-side tables, two dressers and a sitting chair. Everything was black and modern. The bathroom was on the opposite wall of a large walk in closet, Mary’s clothes on one side and Milton’s on the other.

Milton mainly wore solid colored suits and had an on going rack of polo shirts. Mary was very stylish and all of her clothes were organized by color and garment. Blouses, sweaters and blazers were on the top rack and slacks and skirts hung on the lower one. Below the racks were rows of assorted heels, flats and boots. She had a very classic look. The more I thought about it she reminded me of my mother.

I skimmed through her clothing and laid out a few different outfits that caught my eye. Once I finished in the closet I made my way to her dresser. An oval shaped vanity mirror hung on the wall above and a leather bound jewelry box sat on top. As I opened it a beautiful pair of pearl earrings and necklace were the first pieces that I noticed. Gently pulling them out I sat them aside and closed the box.

Then I checked each drawer of the dresser. I found what I was looking for in the first one though, a pair of black stockings, a black strapless bra that was adorned with lace and matching panties. This is where Mary differed from my mother.

The outfit that I chose consisted of a white fluttered-sleeve tie neck blouse, a black high-waisted pencil skirt and “Shiri” satin oxford pumps. After I was dressed I went in to the bathroom and helped myself to Mary’s cosmetics. I applied a light weight foundation that promised lift, moisture and radiance. The mascara she wore was zero smudge and lengthening. My lashes now had volume. There were a lot of different lips sticks to choose from but I thought the Apricot Sun hydra luster wasn’t too over powering and brightened my complexion.

When I was finished I stepped back into the bedroom and inspected how I looked in the full size mirror. I walked back and forth and did a couple of turns. Everything was perfect. I looked and felt beautiful. I was a new man.

I had spent a lot of time getting ready so I decided I should probably start dinner. First, I needed some music. Mary had an old fashioned record player in the living room. Scanning her old albums I found the perfect one, My Fair Lady. I dropped the needle on “Wouldn’t It Be Loverly” and couldn’t help but to dance through the house singing the words, imagining I was Julie Andrews on Broadway.

Dinner wasn’t hard to get started. There was some ground beef in the freezer and I found some penne pasta noodles in the pantry. Once I had the water boiling I started setting the dinner table. The record had stopped playing so I walked back into the living to flip it over. When I came back into the kitchen I heard someone unlocking the front door.

It was Milton. As he stomped through the house I could hear him say “Something smells good!” I quickly slid back into the kitchen and started tending to the food. He walked right by me without looking up. He went straight down the hall and into the bedroom. From the back room he yelled “Your car wasn’t in the driveway. I didn’t think you were home.” I didn’t say a word.

I could hear him moving around, probably changing his clothes. A few minutes went by as I put the finishing touches on dinner. Milton finally emerged from the back room wearing one of his classic polo shirts and a pair of khaki shorts. I looked up from the stove with a smile and said “Dinner will be ready in just a few minutes, honey.”

At least they're consistent

2008-08-30T15:19:00.002-05:00

Cigarette smoke doesn’t remedy blurry eyes
And bottled beer doesn’t fill empty hearts
But lungs are full and so are stomachs

Can’t see the next mistake and won’t feel it either
Smoke burning holes in lungs like money in pockets
No will care until morning

When she takes the money and they wake up with nothing

No Sugar, No Cream

2008-08-13T10:04:00.003-05:00

I could here her screaming from the upstairs. The TV was on and I was relaxing on the couch watching a documentary on Hitler’s Obsession with the occult. This had been the norm for some time now. She ruled the upstairs and I ruled the couch, sometimes not just during the day time hours. From the way her voice was muffled she was either in the bedroom or in the bathroom with the door shut. Considering the size of the apartment there weren’t any other options.

We weren’t married , but we were just as miserable. She had stopped talking to me in a normal tone of voice about 6 months ago. Now she had three different ways of communicating with me. Yelling, talking down to me or a fake sweet voice that she would do when she wanted something. I’m not sure which one I hated the most.

She usually just spoke to me like I was the family pet that had just taken a shit on the living room carpet. So I usually reacted like a scared animal by either snapping back at her or just running away. When I left, it usually meant I was going to get liquored up so I wouldn’t care what she would say when I came back. I’d just block her out while I tried blacking out.

The Nazi’s were marching across the screen when she started barking again. It cut to Hitler giving a speech when I decided to mute it and try to hear what the fuck she was saying since she currently sounded like one of the adults from the Charlie Brown Cartoons. As I strained to listen I was still staring at the screen. I started to realize that the noises coming out of her mouth were matching up with Hitler’s lips. It seemed appropriate except that she didn’t discriminate against anyone but me, especially when it came to spreading her legs. I sat mesmerized for another few minutes before I decided to make my way up the stairs to see what her fucking problem was.

As I got to the top of the stairs I couldn’t tell where she was because both the bedroom and bathroom door were closed. I sat and listened and could hear her gasping and crying in the bathroom. “Fuck is she really hurt?” I started thinking to myself. I tapped on the door.

“You Fucking asshole what took you so fucking long!?!” I immediately started to tune her out.

“Waaa! Waaa! Waaaa! Waaa! Waaa!”

I started realizing why Charlie Brown was so depressed.

When she calmed down I decided to open the door to see what the problem was. I popped my head in and was violently struck in the ear by a small, hard object. It bounced off of my head and landed in the sink.

Who throws a toothbrush?

While she spewed obscenities I realized that she was sitting on the toilet and her pants were down. She started scolding me like an animal as usual, but this time she was the one who had taken a shit. I’d been yelled at for many reasons over the last 6 months that weren’t my fault, but this time she was right. This was all me.

I forgot to buy toilet paper.

I started thinking back to the last week trying to remember why I hadn’t made that purchase. It was still very clear in my mind. That night as I was picking a cart out at the front of the store this amazing blonde walked in the door. She wasn’t beautiful, she was hot. It was porn star shit. She didn’t have the kind of face you just wanted to kiss. It was something that you wanted to fuck. My cock wanted to destroy her uvula. I wanted her measurements tattooed on my forehead.

We both proceeded to shop and I tried to move through the aisles as incognito as possible. My thought process was we had both started shopping at the same time, so it wouldn’t appear like I was following her if I just stayed at a distance. Sometimes I’d go to the aisle before hers on the opposite end so I could walk by her from the front and catch another glimpse of those fucking missiles.

My plan seemed flawless and overall I think it would’ve worked if I hadn’t skipped the same 5 or 6 aisles that she passed over. Apparently, I wore out my welcome when we reached the Napkins/Paper Towel/Toilet Paper aisle because she abruptly turned around and said “Fuck off pervert.”

It felt like the time my mom had walked in on me masturbating to my cousin's picture in the family reunion photo album.

Obviously embarrassed and caught off guard, words would not come out of my mouth. With one head down and the other one managing to somehow stay at least half way up, I quickly pushed my cart on by and straight to the check out line, without any fucking toilet paper.

So little Hitler was screaming again and I started to laugh as I reminisced about my only moment with a porn star that I will ever have that didn‘t involve a computer screen and monthly subscription. I turned around and started walking back down the stairs to find some form of ass wipe. The kitchen seemed like a good place to start, but since I missed the entire aisle containing any paper products we were out of napkins and paper towels as well. It was summer time so I couldn’t seem to find a box of tissues either. I could still hear her doing her best dog in heat impression in between sobs and it almost sounded like she was speaking in tongues, maybe she was reading from Mein Kampf or Acts Chapter 2.

And then finally, there it was, the solution. It was just sitting in the cabinet between the tea and the extra bag of sugar. I quickly grabbed it and ran back up the stairs to remedy the bitching.

I didn’t even knock this time. The door slammed against the wall as I kicked it open and with a maniacal laugh I tossed them at her feet. I must’ve looked insane because as I stared at her she was cowering on her toilet seat so much that she almost fell off.

“You’re welcome!” I smiled and walked down the stairs and out of the apartment.

As I was getting in my car I could hear her screams once again. I had never heard them from outside the apartment before. This is what it must’ve sounded like outside of Ed Gein’s house I thought to myself. And just as I was shutting my car door, through all of the sobbing and Charles Schultz gibberish she let out one last cry.

“Fucking Coffee Filters?!?”

Memory Retrieval

2008-08-12T12:18:00.003-05:00

For obvious reasons, these poems make me feel like I'm in Sunday school or in a training session at some lame ass job. So I decided to make the content anything but. Enjoy!

Finally, they were alone
Underneath the covers
Crotch to crotch
Kids ruin everything

Always on time
Nothing to come between them
A look speaks a thousand words
Let’s do this!

First time?
Everyone should try it.
Let’s just do it once.
C’mon, you know you want to.

How come?
I promise you’ll like it.
Now that’s what I’m talking about!
God! Why are you gagging?

Sweet Nothings

2008-08-11T15:08:00.001-05:00

Sorority girl

Fuck that, I think you had me

At “That girl’s a cunt.”

Bruce Lee: A Haiku of Exceptional Physical Feat

2008-08-11T13:17:00.003-05:00

Knee deep in pussy

Up to elbows in assholes

Life is Yin and Yang

I've also included a list of facts that you might not have known about Bruce Lee:

Physical feats

Lee's striking speed from three feet with his hands down by his side reached five hundredths of a second.
Lee's combat movements were at times too fast to be captured on film at 24fps, so many scenes were shot in 32fps to put Lee in slow motion. Normally martial arts films are sped up.
In a speed demonstration, Lee could snatch a dime off a person's open palm before they could close it, and leave a penny behind.
Lee could perform push ups using only his thumbs.
Lee would hold an elevated v-sit position for 30 minutes or longer.
Lee could throw grains of rice up into the air and then catch them in mid-flight using chopsticks.
Lee performed one-hand push-ups using only the thumb and index finger.
Lee performed 50 reps of one-arm chin-ups.
From a standing position, Lee could hold a 125 lb (57 kg) barbell straight out.
Lee could break wooden boards 6 inches (15 cm) thick.
Lee performed a side kick while training with James Coburn and broke a 150-lb (68 kg) punching bag.
Lee could cause a 300-lb (136 kg) bag to fly towards and thump the ceiling with a side kick.
In a move that has been dubbed "Dragon Flag", Lee could perform leg lifts with only his shoulder blades resting on the edge of a bench and suspend his legs and torso perfectly horizontal midair.
Lee could thrust his fingers through unopened steel cans of Coca-Cola, at a time before cans were made of the softer aluminum metal.
Lee could use one finger to leave dramatic indentations on pinewood.

Burn Baby Burn

2008-08-11T12:16:00.001-05:00

Got laid in the baptismal
Wiped off with a choir robe

Dined on unleavened bread
The communion wine flowed

Paper airplanes out of the Old Testament
Origami from the New

So many different uses from stories about a Jew

Baptists say I’m evil
Charismatics think the worst

Athiests are probably jealous
Because I wrote this poem first

So I’m probably not going to heaven
I hope I don’t go to hell

It’s probably just made up anyway, but only time will tell

Fortunate Son

2008-06-28T15:34:00.000-05:00

I could hear Creedence crackling through the record player in the house when he started talking. I can’t quite recall what he was saying though. It might’ve been something regarding a study he had recently read concerning heroin over doses or maybe he was explaining Hegel’s theory of Absolute Idealism to me.

The bottles I had just pulled out of the fridge were cold in my hand as I passed one of them over. He in turn tossed me a cigarette. We were both enjoying things our parents had always told us not to do.

Through the whole exchanging of goods the conversation never stopped. After I took a quick shwig of the beer he suggested that I try some years earlier, I stood there and listened as he continued with his story, briefly interrupting himself every few sentences to comment on Fogerty’s song writing ability.

And then out of nowhere it felt like the ground was starting to shake, maybe a 3.2 on the Richter Scale. I choked on my cigarette and almost dropped my beer as I entertained the thought of earthquakes in Georgia. I quickly regained my composure. The tremor seemed to have only affected me, but in all reality I had barely moved a few inches. He didn’t even notice and kept going.

This convulsing of mine was like a scene out Highlander. Something had changed within and it affected me not only physically, but more importantly, emotionally and spiritually. It was a quickening of sorts. Thankfully, it didn’t require any beheadings.

In a matter of seconds my perception had been altered. I was no longer guarded or anticipating the preconceived notions of how I was told our relationship was supposed to work. Nothing had really changed in that moment yet everything was different. It had been a gradual process that finally led to a stunning revelation.

We had evolved.

Neither of us ever noticed it before, but we were always reminded of it at the end of every visit.

Not only was he my best friend, but he was also my Father.

She Loved Me To Death

2008-06-07T17:51:00.002-05:00

They were both sitting across the table from me equally distracting my attention from the other in their own little ways, but I had a thing for both of them. At least that‘s how it started. We were all talking and I was imagining as if they were both competing for me and maybe they were. I was almost positive the prettier one actually was, the other, not so much and that’s exactly why I wanted her.

I was making them player paper rock scissor in my head and I was turning a quarter in my hand under the table trying to flip for it. Both of their hands kept making fists and the coin felt double-sided. I had to make a decision though because supposedly three’s a crowd. I’ve never actually minded, but I had a feeling they weren’t going to go for it.

I needed a deciding factor.

The lights might’ve gone dim and I think that I could see my breath when my plan finally formulated in my head.

“My favorite serial killer has always been Ted Bundy.” I said.

They kept on talking amongst themselves as if I hadn’t said anything.

Maybe they didn’t hear me, so I repeated myself and then launched into a full monologue explaining my admiration. They were all ears.

“His playing the victim technique was genius and once he made his move it was as though he had been trained by ninja masters when it came to the art of invisibility and his ability to blend in. I will admit though, as his bloodlust grew he undoubtedly became sloppy in his ways and maintaining his flawless execution took a back seat to his need to exterminate a human life. I don’t think any one will ever come close to matching his unwavering resolve for his final goal.”

Without missing a beat the lesser of the two spoke up.

“What he really was lacking was accountability. Obviously, that would be hard to come by when your passion is rape and murder, but I can definitely see why he’s your favorite.”

The prettiest girl didn’t say a word, but I think I could see her eyes welling up. She wouldn’t make contact with either of us for the rest of the night. We took her home.

The previously disinterested was now all mine and honestly, it kind of scared me, but this is what I asked for. She insisted on coming back to my apartment and watching the latest installment in the Texas Chainsaw Massacre series.

I’m not sure what was louder that night, the sound of a gas powered chainsaw tearing through flesh in Dolby Digital surround sound or her mimicking the screams of Leather Face’s victims as she rode me in the darkness.

Bad Timing

2008-05-11T12:41:00.006-05:00

It happened so fast.

Florida, where everyday is summer. Exploding through the sandy grass barefoot trying to catch one another until we fell victim to that which laid in wait, sand spurs and fire ants. You heard my screams and saved me from that which no one else would. The only thing he said was “He’ll live.” You were always there. I knew no other and wanted nothing. We were on the brink of disaster, but now I believe in miracles, even if they don’t last forever.

The grass was blue and so were you, because you still weren't complete. We thought it was what you always wanted, but you still haven’t figured that one out. You both trained us to fight in your own ways. Damaging words and breaking boards were weekly occurrences. Knowledge of how to use our rage most effectively was in instilled. People now fear our actions and intellect, even each other.

The heat was sweltering and I knew nothing of this place, but I was never your favorite so I learned how to adapt. Flourishing after just a short time, I grew small branches. More than a decade later, they are strong and sturdy. They tower above the rest, even you.

London was a flash and you left me in Budapest. He was stranded on the mountain with a gun in his mouth. His name inscribed on each bullet, hand carved. You wouldn’t save him, it was impossible. You probably would’ve pulled the trigger if given the chance.

My finger crushed as I blocked the trigger that I considered pulling for myself and we both collapsed in pain. We wailed and mourned the loss and that which might have been. Our tears saturated us, but caused us to flourish once again, without you. He’s always there. I know no other and want nothing else.

We were on the brink of disaster, but I still believe in miracles, even if they don’t last forever.

7 Years

2008-04-29T10:32:00.002-05:00

When he came to he didn’t know where was and there was a naked woman on top of him. She was facing the other direction so he wasn’t sure who she was, but he could here her tits slapping. He figured she liked him since she was moving up and down on him like a piston pumping faster and faster trying to make his engine rev harder and harder.

It was barely running though.

After she blew a head gasket it was all hugs and kisses. Then she asked for the cash. He paid her what was owed and told her to leave. He stumbled to the bathroom, slid his ring back on his finger and washed the night off of his face. He stared into the mirror half expecting someone else to be looking right back at him.

When he was younger and his parents were the church going kind of people they made him attend Sunday School each week. He learned about all of the different characters in the Old Testament, Prophets, priests, Kings and even ordinary people that were called by God. The punishment that the people received who disobeyed God dually frightened and fascinated him.

After learning about these stories he would always be on his best behavior on the ride home from church. He even tried not to back talk his mother for a few days, but by the end of the week he would usually forget about the punishment that God cast on people. The next Sunday though he would get his weekly dose and be good again for a little while. He always figured that’s why people went to church a few days a week. They had a bad memory and needed to be reminded why they should be good. It made sense to him.

Along with going to Sunday school there was another memory that stuck with him from his childhood. When he was 12 years old, him and his friends would ride their bikes to the biggest hill in the county. It was across town and about 20 minutes from his house on bike. They would get up really early on Saturday mornings and ride out to it and all day long they would peddle up to the top of the hill and come screaming down it as fast as they could, like they were little engines and their feet were pistons moving up and down, pumping faster and faster making them reach top speeds.

Once they reached the bottom of the hill they’d throw their hands up in the air and the wind would blow right through them. Years later he realized that those Saturdays spent on his bike were the most alive he was ever going to feel.

After riding up and down on that hill all day the boys would all ride back to their houses for dinner. One particular Saturday after being out all day he came home and his father was standing in the kitchen staring off at nothing. He tried talking to him, but he was unresponsive, so he just leaned in the door way watching him. Every once in a while his father’s eyes would dart and his head would jerk and his focus would be in another direction, but there would never be anything of significance there. He was so terrified that he just stood there watching him for half an hour waiting for him to finally acknowledge him or to at least utter a word. He never did. So the boy finally decided to slowly walk past and go to his room

He laid awake all night wondering if his father was going to be there in the morning just staring at the walls. When the sun came up the next morning he could hear his mother making breakfast in the kitchen so he cracked his door and looked out. His Father was sitting at the table reading the paper, drinking coffee and his mother told him to come out and eat before his eggs got cold.

Everything was normal.

The next week at Sunday school God’s wrath was being exemplified through King Nebuchadnezzar’s fate. He apparently pissed God off so bad through his lack of humility that God struck him with a fever that made the proud king go crazy for 7 years. His young mind started working, maybe that’s what happened to his father? God was punishing him.

His relationship with his father was never strong, so he’d never know of his father’s potential wickedness, but that night along with many other similar occurrences stayed with him through the years.

As he stared at the bathroom wall he counted the tiles and contemplated the color scheme. Blue and black seemed a bit dated for this kind of hotel and who ever tiled this bathroom should’ve gone a couple of rows higher on the border. His eyes then moved to the shower curtain. Paisley was a bit staunch to him and he didn’t think that it matched the tile. Each time his eyes darted he couldn’t figure out how long he had been looking in that one direction, seconds, minutes, hours?

He wanted to look in the mirror once more and see his face; look into his eyes, but he couldn’t control his movements. It was unlike a seizure because his body control was precise. He just wasn’t running the show anymore. Once his eyes finally honed in on the mirror he was hoping he could figure out what was going on by making eye contact, but the only person he noticed in the mirror was the maid standing in the doorway staring at him.

Six Words Long

2008-04-24T10:32:00.003-05:00

About 6 months ago a friend of mine told me about Hemingway writing a 6 word story. I was intrigued and impressed. Then my friend Matt posted about this same story along with a great article from Wired magazine a week or so ago.

Well, I went to the most solemn bar I could find last week, drank Guinness, watched re-runs of M*A*S*H and The Andy Griffith Show and wrote some 6 word stories. Here they are.

Next in line, gun in hand.

Seven letters, one word, game over.

I don’t have a condom. Shit!

Boy meets girl, win-lose situation.

Two girls, one cup, OMG! WTF!

She was beautiful, all 450 pounds.

Big Brother, Patriot Act, Non-Fiction.

Half day, home early, whose car?

Head on collision, no drivers involved.

A Perfect Disgrace

2008-04-11T09:24:00.004-05:00

My friend Matt Debenedictis wrote a book! It's been put out through 174 Publishing. If you're not familiar with Matt's writing then you need to check out his blog.

Matt and I've been friends for a few years now, but over the last year we've really connected when it comes to writing, whether we were giving each other props, talking about other authors or making fun of shitty writing websites.

I read this particular story some months ago when he first finished it and it's fucking awesome. I'm yet to get a copy of the published version, but I'll be picking one up in the near future.

Check it out!

Dodging Bullets

2008-03-26T14:06:00.005-05:00

“What?!”

He looked like I just told him his father was gay.

“Cannibalistic Infanticide?” I said.

“Yeah, well, what the hell is that?”

“It’s when parents eat their young in nature. All kinds of animals do it, chimpanzees, elephants, lions, even cats and dogs.”

The term “Morning Sickness” came to mind as I watched him stare down into his coffee.

“How does that even pertain to working for a company?”

He seemed bothered.

I knew I was going to have to enlighten him if I brought this up.

Damn it.

I took a deep breath and proceeded.

“Well, the last company I worked for brought me in, took me under their wing, like a mother would with her child. They trained me and even raised me up in their organization. I worked long hours and committed most of my time to see them succeed, became one of the pack, so to speak. It was right about that time that I wanted to advance in the company and I brought some new idea’s to the table, started showing my strength. They felt threatened, cut me off at the knees by dispersing my responsibilities to others and ultimately fired me. It’s similar to the way a cowardly animal would act if they sensed a more dominant animal around, even if it’s one their own who will never turn on them, destroy and consume, fire and absorb.”

He finally responded like a normal human being.

“Well I’m sorry to hear that.”

“I’m not sorry, but do you understand now?”

He shook his head. “Yeah, but it sounds kind of brutal.”

This guy was a good liar. Why else would he be here?

“It usually is. It’s like a big game of Monopoly!” I laughed.

I could tell I concerned him.

The coffee in his cup had to be getting cold by now, but he nervously raised it to his lips for one last sip. After he placed the mug back on his desk he pushed his chair out and stood to his feet. I mimicked his actions.

I could see it in his face before the lies started to spew.

“Well, thank you for coming in today Mr. Carroll. I’ll be reviewing your resume with our HR department and we’ll get back to you later this week.”

This prick didn’t appreciate honesty and he sure as hell wasn’t going to hire me."

Fine by me though, I don't need anymore ammunition for my dysfunctional work place analogies.

We extended hands and firmly shook.

“Thank you for your time and the great opportunity.” I said with a smirk.

Three in a row.

2008-03-20T14:53:00.002-05:00

I’m sitting on my father’s leather couch. He’s upstairs in bed, sick. They called me two days ago to tell me he’s dying. “They” are his personal assistants.

They found him passed out at his desk in the late afternoon. After being rushed to the hospital it was discovered that he had heart disease and was quickly declining. You didn’t have to be a doctor to know that something was wrong with the man. He’s smoked a pack a day and has consumed a fifth of Jameson since he was 16. What did they expect?

I expect that “They” were looking forward to him dying. Maybe their name might show up in the will. It won’t. Neither will mine, but that’s not why we stopped talking.

A nurse has been coming down every few hours to inform me of my father’s health. It’s always about the same.

“His vitals don’t looks so good.”

I told her she could stop with the reports. Just let me know when he dies.

This bad news seems timely since I just lost my job a few weeks back. That job felt like a bad relationship. Stress, lies and sneaking around, they kicked me out, so to speak because of my drinking. They called it “downsizing”. How do you downsize a VP?

Bad things often happen in threes. This is number two. I’ve been wondering what was next.

Maybe my liver will go out due to my marathon drinking. Like Father, like son. I don’t blame him though, at least when I’m sober.

He did give me my first drink when I was 10, started stealing his cigarettes when I was 12, got laid shortly after. You’d be surprised at how much pull you can have as a pre-teen with adult substances. You’re probably not surprised though.

I stare at the family portrait that hangs over the fireplace. Mom died 5 years ago. William is upstairs at Dad’s side, just like in the picture. I sit here and think about getting more fucked up than I already am.

I’m thirsty. The man’s liquor cabinet is stocked as always. “Jameson on the rocks”, just the way he likes it. I snag a smoke and step outside on to the balcony that overlooks the ocean.

I guzzle and puff and remember that there is a God or a being or a theory. The nurse rudely interrupts my moment to inform me that my father has passed.

I finish my drink and put the cigarette out on the palm of my hand.

Strangers

2008-02-28T14:25:00.002-05:00

She watched too many sitcoms, He read too many books

Son played too many video games, Daughter only stared at her looks

Always looking else where, never at each other

All awoke one morning, not recognizing one another

Red and Blue

2008-02-05T18:15:00.000-05:00

Loose lips sink ships, and
You have everyone talking
There’s no more life boats

“Stay the course!” You said
8 years later, duck and run
There’s your legacy

The race of all rats
Pick your poison wisely, please
For it is your fate

And then there was one...

2008-01-29T01:52:00.001-05:00

Suddenly, he’s awake.

His mouth is dry, but the room is not spinning. He drank last night, but not too much. Still, he should’ve had a glass of water before going to sleep.

She’s lying next to him, so still that she could be dead.

He stares at her back as his eyes adjust. The light creeping in from behind the curtains show that her body is slowly moving up and down. The smell of her skin in the morning is his favorite. It smells like slumber.

He misses her when she’s asleep.

Quietly he slides out of the bed and plants his feet firmly on the carpet, sure to close the door quietly to not wake her.

The coffee maker relieves itself into the pot which reminds him that he too needs to create an exodus of sorts. Cigarettes are strewn across the counter like pick up sticks, he loses the game by moving them as he plucks one out of the pile. Coffee and a cigarette is how he usually starts the morning, "Breakfast of champions..." he slurs as he fires one up.

The view isn’t much from the apartment. It overlooks the parking lot of the grocery store next door. In the morning while he’s trying to wake up he tries to guess what each person has in their bags as they walk out to their cars. Morning doesn’t usually come too early for him.

He notices a family wearing Sunday’s best walking across the asphalt. The father is carrying two bags as his wife holds two little girl's hands. Their dresses have flowers on them and they’re yellow and pink. It could be Easter Sunday. He has no clue.

“I bet that’s a ham for dinner tonight and maybe a gallon of milk.” He mutters.

As he takes a drag off of his cigarette he watches the family drive away in their SUV. The smoke pulls hard breaking free from his lips. It vanishes before his eyes.

Moments later a teenage girl walks out with a small plastic bag. She almost gets hit by a minivan as she walks right out in to the parking lot with out looking. She throws her hands up and repeatedly mouths the word "sorry" as she sprints out of the way.

“Now that has to be a pregnancy test.” He laughs to himself. “I can spot that a mile away.”

Coffee grounds cover the bottom of his cup. The cigarette is down to its butt. He decides to go in and wake her.

Even though he wants her to get up he still tries to be as quiet as possible. She likes to be greeted first thing with back rubs and kisses. Glasses of orange juice are also welcomed.

He makes his way to the side of her bed, tripping over some shoes and cursing under his breath.
She shifts in her sleep. Finally sitting down on the bed next to her she slides towards him due to his weight pressing down on the mattress.

He places his hand in the small of her back. She squirms. His hands feel cold and dead.

While sitting there in the dark he hears a clicking sound, maybe it’s a popping, like someone cracking their knuckles. He slowly looks around the room for any sign of what might be causing the noise. There it is again. The noise seems to be coming from the corner.

Next thing he knows he’s on his feet staring into the dark corner of the room. After hearing the popping a third time he gets down on his hands and knees. There appeared to be some sort of beetle climbing the wall. He didn't think that a bug that small could’ve made that loud of a noise until the beetle stood upright on the wall and made the noise again, like some sort of battle cry.

It startled him so much that he swatted at the beetle and knocked it to the floor. The beetle began making the noise over and over, louder and louder. He cupped it to the carpet with his hand attempting to quiet the strange bug.

Everything went silent.

Just when he thought that he had killed it a small pain shot up his middle finger. At first the pain felt rigid like something had bit him or was sawing at his finger, but then it felt hot and then eventually numb. He grabbed his finger with his other hand only feeling something oval-like on the tip.

He walked quietly to the door to go in the other room to tend to his finger all the while the biting, burning and numbing continued through his hand. By the time he made it in to the other room his whole arm was numb. As he stepped into the light he realized that it was the beetle that had bit his finger, but now he was to the knuckle.

He went hysterical trying to smash and pry this insect off of his finger but it appeared to have not only a solid grip on his finger, but also a shell harder than that of a turtle. His whole side now seemed bloated and was void of feeling.

The beetle slowly consumed his middle finger and when he made it to the palm of his hand its mouth enlarged like a snake's mouth and started swallowing the rest of his fingers. The man had never seen anything like it. It’s stomach digested the flesh and bone instantaneously.

The burning and numbing sensation continued to take over his whole body. Little by little he lost all energy and even the power to talk. By the time the beetle had eaten his hand he had fallen to the floor in a paralyzed heap of mass waiting to be consumed by a small bug that appeared to have a monstrous appetite.

While watching the bug devour his arm the only thing he could think about was how it never changed in size despite it's mass consumption. The only thing that expanded was its jaws.

After consuming his arm it began eating into his chest. He knew that she slept oblivious in the other, so the man tried mouthing her name, but his lips were too numb to even move at this point.

Moments later, without being in any pain, he died.

An hour later his entire body was gone, as though he had never existed. After finishing his meal the small beetle scurried to the corner and quietly made a popping noise.

This savage ritual of predator devouring prey all quietly happened while she soundly slept feet away.

Another hour passes. The apartment is still.

And then suddenly, she is awake.

It's better than being compared to John Malkovich.

2008-01-11T14:27:00.000-05:00

This girl at work told me that I was “well-rounded” today. What I think she means by that is that she thinks I’m pretty normal considering I was raised going to an evangelical church. What I think she really means though, is that she thinks I’m hot because of my haircut, but only within a day or two of me getting a haircut which is actually a lack of a hair cut because I shave my head. Her interest in me is strictly above the forehead.

She’s married and her husband shaves his head sometimes. Since he’s going bald it’s her favorite look for him to have. She’s pretty much just fantasizing about her husband when she looks at me, which means she’s probably not fantasizing about either of us, but about Bruce Willis.

What generated this conversation was me wandering the halls looking for a couch to sit on to finish reading the book I’ve been reading for a long time now. I’ve been on a three month hiatus from reading this book because I went crazy.

If you don’t know me in real life you didn’t know that I went crazy. Actually, if you knew me in real life you probably didn’t know that I was going crazy either, well maybe three of you did, but this isn’t Live Journal. I’m not going to talk about that. What I will talk about is the fact that I’m not crazy anymore and I finished my book today, but not because I found a good couch to sit on.

I read it in my cubicle. The walls were gray, but the story was vivid.

What’s coincidental is that not only do I share the same haircut as Bruce, but he also starred as the main character when this particular book that I finished today was made into a movie.

Can you guess the book? I’ll give you a hint, actually, another hint.

“Yippy Kiya Mother Fucker” is not one of his lines.

Typing in my sleep...

2008-01-11T03:37:00.000-05:00

She’s sound asleep. Maybe they should call that “making sounds in their sleep” because that’s what they’re really doing. Heavy breathing, snoring, grinding teeth and muttering lost words under their breath.

I lay here and stare at the ceiling. I toss and turn and even try the old spoon.

Nothing.

She has a digital alarm clock but I still hear ticking.

Ideas race through my head that only entertain me while I drive down a congested interstate, have shampoo in my hair or when I’m trying to sleep at 3:17 am. It’s the nature of the beast right?

So what idea’s come to mind? The sacredness of sex. How important a job it would be to know when everyone is to expire(die) and something else that I thought I would remember in the morning but obviously I already forgot.

It must not have been that good.

The people upstairs always sound like they’re moving furniture. How many times can you rearrange your apartment? And why do it in the middle of the night? Maybe they’re herding goats from one room to another. Maybe they've converted their living room into a wrestling ring and they're practicing Gorilla Press Drops!

Regardless of the goat roping, Wrestle Mania or the ticking watch I still can’t fucking sleep.

I have a feeling the real culprit is my mind.

My imagination creates sagas within itself without ever giving me enough time to write them down. Bastard.

Don’t feel like you’re missing out though. At 3am, it’s usually about a renegade army of ants looking to overthrow a dictator that looks very similar to M. Bison from Street Fighter 2.

Goodnight, I’m going to bed.

Robert Allen Zimmerman

2008-01-01T22:05:00.001-05:00

I watch as he pours another one. Jameson on the rocks. My glass is filled as well and we sit at the table that he bought before I was born. We ate dinner at this table. I did home work here. Lectures were given here, but tonight we sit here drinking whiskey and listening to Bob Dylan.

"Have you ever listened to Bob's first album? What about Highway 61 revisited?"

"Yeah, I've heard them both. Free Wheelin' is my favorite though."

"Just listen to that." He says as he gestures towards the speakers. "That was 1962."

"Yeah I know."

"I know you can't understand…but..."

"I understand."

"But it was 1962! There was nothing like this."

"I know."

"But you can't know."

And he's right in a sense. I can't know because if you had only heard Elvis and The Beatles before and put on a Bob Dylan Record it definitely was going to change you, for better or for worse. I would never have the chance to experience it the way he did.

When they renewed their vows back in '88 that's what I heard them say, "for better or for worse". Like him, I did experience that.

But she never liked Bob. He would get dirty looks when he played his songs on the guitar and get the silent treatment if one of his records ever got played in the house. So I never heard him growing up. But naturally, I found him on my own, just like he did back in '62.

It all came full circle though. Because here we sit at 4am with full glasses and a broken volume experiencing his songs together, like it was the first time for both of us.

Oh God said to Abraham, "Kill me a son"
Abe says, "Man, you must be puttin' me on"
God say, "No." Abe say, "What ?"
God say, "You can do what you want Abe, but
The next time you see me comin' you better run"
Well Abe says, "Where do you want this killin' done ?"
God says. "Out on Highway 61".

Resolution

2008-01-01T15:26:00.001-05:00

Mercedes Benz

2007-12-29T06:41:00.000-05:00

There weren’t any nice glasses to drink out of so I sipped cheap whiskey out of a coffee mug. The whiskey was not only cheap, but it was stolen. They took it from a party that they had attended earlier in the week. They probably were drunk, hence the reason they stole the cheap stuff. Beggars can’t be choosers though, so I sipped my cheap, stolen whiskey from a coffee mug gratefully.

My seat was an old chair with patterned upholstery that I shared with a semi folded blanket and a stuffed monkey. The desk to my right was black and had emerald knobs on the drawers. It reminded me of Oz.

The record player blasted Janis Joplin. It seemed fitting.

“I’m glad you’re around more often.”

“Me too.”

Whiskey soothed my throat and I put my arm around the monkey.

There’s no place like home.

Water into Wine

2007-12-11T10:13:00.001-05:00

I've read the stories of ordinary people living by faith, walking on water and healing others of their diseases, men and women changing the world through faith in something unseen.

Lord, I’m not so sure that I have the faith to even say you’re name anymore. The thought of water doesn’t make me want to walk across it, but maybe hold my head under for as long as it takes. And for the healing, I can’t even mend my broken heart, let alone a woman with an issue of blood.

Please change this water into wine so that I might have faith.
Make it so intoxicating that I forgot my transgressions.
Intoxicate me so that I might believe.
You should just take a drink so that you’ll forget all about me.

Talking with your mouth full.

2007-12-07T11:06:00.000-05:00

Sam didn't like the ink blot tests. He didn't like all of the probing questions about his childhood either. His parents never beat him nor did anyone ever molest him. Even though he was a nosy kid he never even found his dad's Playboys stashed under the basement stairs.

Regardless of what everyone thought, Sam was a pretty normal kid. The only difference was how he saw truth, or actually the lack there of. Depending on the person and the extent of their delusions, lies or just plain bull shit, their words would manifest into tangible objects.

One day it might be jelly beans, the next it might be marbles. Unfortunately, some days it would be a bit grimmer as it might be ants, bees or even scorpions. Sam preferred the jelly beans.

His shrink talked and talked and talked. Sam listened to every word that came out of her mouth, but he never made eye contact. Even though she seemed sincere the obvious signs helped him determine that she was full of shit, because that's all he could see coming out of her mouth.

Through out her monologue the consistency of the fecal matter would change. Sometimes it would crumble out her jaws as though she just took a big bite and was chewing with her mouth open. Moments later it might squeeze out as if her head was a giant Play-Doh Fun Factory. And when she got heated about him not looking at her, explosive diarrhea splattered the walls.

Similar to seeing dead people, you could understand how this “gift” might traumatize an adolescent. Sam took it all in stride though, mainly because he was waiting for the day that he might meet someone who only had words come out of their mouth when they spoke.

Love at First Sight

2007-11-26T13:07:00.000-05:00

The music had been pumping through the sound system all night. Michael Jackson songs from when he was black were a favorite of those whose ears would be ringing for days. Lay a dance track on top of it and people go ape shit, similar to the way they did when Michael Jackson wasn't white.

It had been a long week, so he welcomed this Friday night with open arms and a thirst for the good stuff. He drank his fair share of PBR, chased by a couple of High Life's after the tall boys ran out. Dancing wasn't his thing, but he liked watching. When he was a child he would laugh as his mother shimmied around the living room to the records that Michael Jackson had released when he still appeared to be from this planet. Those were good memories of not only his mother, but the supposed King of Pop.

The Georgia humidity had turned the place into a fucking sauna, but the people refused to succumb to the demands of the sweltering heat. They had to keep moving, dancing, pulsating and most importantly, forgetting about their lives outside this building. Leave your bull shit at the door. This was fucking Never Land.

One of the girls stood out from the rest. She wasn't dancing for anyone's attention. Her movement to the music was for herself. Fuck getting laid. This is where she found orgasmic pleasure.

It wasn't until he had finished up the last of his beer that he noticed her. Most men were drawn to her choice of apparel, but that's not what captivated him, it was her freedom. Standing by the door waiting for the song to end, his eyes could not be averted.

Like a sixth sense she felt someone watching her. She opened her eyes as the music escalated and zeroed in on her singular audience. Blushing because he had been caught, his body stammered, but his sole focus was intrigued, so she did what so many men wanted, put on a show.

Locking in on his eyes, every bend of the knee and swing of the hip became for his pleasure. With his lanky frame, sand paper face and messy hair that appeared to be trying to escape from underneath his mesh hat, he rarely was the adoration of a beautiful woman. "Fuck it!" he thought, he wasn't going to let this pass him by.

With his beams on high and bright he became enveloped for the last two and a half minutes of this fantasy. Subconsciously he named her Billie Jean or BJ or maybe it was just Sally, it didn't fucking matter. She was all he ever wanted in an object, a virgin bride or a cum receptacle, it was all the same to him, a big fucking hole with a pulse.

While his lust grew wilder and more manic, he imagined them alone violating one another, stretching things out and getting bloody. Their fluids running together blending into a shade reminiscent of a rotting orange in a trash can.

When the song concluded their sunken eyes penetrated each other's sockets, like two dykes ass-to-ass with a silicone dildo bridging the gap. He decided to make his move. "Now or never." he muttered under his breath. The floor seemed to be lit with each foot step that he took. Every forward motion shot doses of adrenaline and testosterone through him as if this experience was climactic for his whole body.

As he approached her, he extended his hand knowing that it would probably be the only thing that would be pointing at her tonight. She reached out to him. With their moment coming to a breaking point she briefly paused before making connection. Shrugging his shoulders, his mouth formed a smirked and she sighed.

He handed her a crumpled up dollar bill. She put it in her garter with the rest of the tips that she had made that night and made her way back to the stage.

I am your father.

2007-11-15T16:37:00.001-05:00

"Are you even listening to me?"

The Krispy Kreme like glaze that was covering his face instantly melts away.

"Huh? Yeah I'm listening."

"What was I just talking about then?" She says as she fidgets around eventually crossing her legs in the least provocative way as possible.

Shit.

He rubs his eyes with the back of his hand.

"I'm sorry. I've just been distracted lately."

Downing the rest of her coffee as though it might ease some sort of pain, she stands to her feet and unleashes her insecurities.

"Well, I'm sorry that I bore you."

He shakes his head. "It's not like that."

"Another girl?"

"I wish."

Shit.

"I'm out of here." She grabs her bag and heads towards the door, all the while giving him a look that could rival the Death Star's Super Laser.

He half way stands up to chase her down, but ends up just muttering to himself, "I didn't mean it like that."

The people in the shop are talking and laughing without a care in the world. All of his cares are focused on another world.

"Maybe it's not another world." He thinks to himself.

"Maybe I'm just crazy." He says under his breath.

"You know, you're not the first one to think that."

He rockets out of his seat. "Please not here!"

His eyes survey the room to see if anyone else heard.

"Don't worry they can't hear me. They're not listening."

He cautiously sits back down. "If they listened could they here you?"

"They could, but it would sound different to them."

"Why is that?"

The Voice begins to laugh.

"Everyone hears me differently and for starters, not everyone is as obsessed with Star Wars as you are."

Crossing his arms he reclines back. "Why do you think I'm obsessed with Star Wars?"

"Because you make me sound like James Earl Jones in your head."

Fat Head

2007-11-13T11:01:00.001-05:00

Bill was fat.

He was so fat that he could actually eat off of his belly while he was standing up. The idea of being furniture-like had never crossed his mind before, but he was enjoying it. The coffee table was out by the dump a few days later.

Bill wasn't always fat. When he was younger he was very skinny with a metabolism that could compete with any Zimbabwean. Cross Country was his favorite sport in high school, along with basketball and swimming. Often times he thought about how he could swim like a dolphin back then, but now he was a whale.

One time he had a dream that he was at a swim meet and was trying to glide through the water like a dolphin in his new whale body, but he couldn't keep up. So he just waited for the other swimmers to come back the other direction. When they finally arrived 5.7 seconds later he opened up his big mouth like a whale would and he ate them all, every single one of them. And they were tasty!

When he woke up from this dream he didn't know whether it was a nightmare or not. Trying to make a decision on this matter, he went to the kitchen and made himself a tuna sandwich, which claimed to be dolphin free.

After much thought, Bill decided that it was not a nightmare, but actually a right of passage. He had evolved. He was no longer weak, he was strong. He once was lost, but now he had been found.

Hallelujah!

The proof is in the pelvic thrust.

2007-11-04T14:11:00.001-05:00

If we can't see eye to eye

Maybe we can see thigh to thigh.

Take the division in our heads

And make some friction in the bed.

Now I will and you won't

And the cycle will start again.

Another Voice

2007-10-25T10:58:00.000-05:00

“What are you doing?”

Hearing a random voice would startle most people, but he just sat up in bed in a very nonchalant manner.

“What?”

“I said, “What are you doing”?” The voice sounded annoyed.

“Oh. Well, I’m just trying to get some sleep.”

“Ah, another lazy night in, eh? Seems like you’ve been wasting a lot of time lately.”

With reluctance to answer the question, he started glancing around the room to see if this was really happening.

“Well, I’ve been pretty busy lately and can’t afford to get sick. What’s it to you?”

A low growling sound could be heard coming from the walls.

“How dare you take a tone with me?”

The room felt thick as the voice intensified.

“Dude, I don’t even know who you are.”

“You know who I am!” The voice hissed.

“Well, you sure as hell aren’t that other voice that talks to me.”

“It’s funny you mention hell.” Chuckled the entity.

Before I speak, I have something important to say.

2007-10-17T10:10:00.000-05:00

The alarm clock wakes me up, but I close my eyes and try to fall back asleep. Why can't I be this tired when it's time to go to bed? Instead of sleeping I spend the late minutes of the night and sometimes the wee hours of the morning staring at the ceiling.

Reading offers no solace because it all looks jumbled at 4am and I usually start seeing disturbing images in the words like an inkblot test. Maybe I'm Batman or Jack the Ripper or "Groucho" Marx.

The TV is usually only playing infomercials where that guy runs in place on his funny little contraption. He runs the way I would imagine a two legged gazelle would run. I wonder if he knows that his hair was never in style and that there's no real point to yelling at toned, spandex-wearing women who have come to the future from the 80's, maybe this commercial is just that old.

For some reason the radio station seems to be playing techno and I drift back to sleep. The club is dark and the women are all naked. Some girl in bondage approaches me, she proceeds to bend me over her knee and starts spanking me to the beat of the music. As I struggle to escape she keeps yelling at me to clean my room. Finally, I break free, but I'm naturally running in slow motion, maybe it's just the strobe lights or maybe I'm just doing the robot. When I look back to see if I'm being pursued, she's become my mother.

We embrace, she melts. Maybe Freud was right.

Life, Love and Seperation: a story told through haikus

2007-10-08T09:46:00.000-05:00

I understand love
Maybe I should get married
To understand hate

Let us become one
Guilt trip and manipulate
Till death do us part

When I said “I do”
Forever was just a word
Not reality

Love at first sight? Eh.
Lust at first fuck? You know it!
Left at first chance? Yes!!!

Now it’s all over
No regrets come to my mind
But staying so long

Feel the Burn

2007-10-05T12:59:00.001-05:00

I’ve been thinking a lot about pain lately. It’s come up in many conversations and it seems to be a current theme with a lot of people that I care about, but then again, when is it not? It’s fucking everywhere. We all have heartbreaking stories of loss. That seems to be all that pain really is in a sense, a loss of something. People die, get divorced, lose their jobs, cut ties, etc, etc, etc

My philosophy lately has been to face it, accept it, let it all in, let it consume you, but just for a while though. Everyone handles pain differently. I’m quite the extravert so I try and talk it out. If it’s really bad I do tend to go inside my shell. One of my friends laughs nervously when he’s discussing a painful situation. Others obviously cry and some just don’t face it at all. I kind of don’t blame them.

Pain builds character though, if we let it. It causes growth if that’s what we want, but it can also unfortunately define you, if you let it.

As hard as things can get sometimes, I never want to let myself be defined by pain and loss.

brb...

2007-09-27T13:16:00.000-05:00

Been sorta busy and out of my mind lately.

Be back soon...

It's lonely at the top.

2007-09-17T13:33:00.001-05:00

She’s pretty. Her hair is long and blonde. Her body is perfect. Tits all day, legs forever, abs that you can climb and an ass that makes your mouth water! She’s the trophy that you won back in High School. She was the perk you got when you lettered in Varsity. They didn’t tell her to suck your cock, but she wanted to. She felt it was her responsibility. So you fucked that perfect body and you pulled that platinum hair. And that’s where it all started.

Your three story house sits on two acres with a chain link fence enclosing the backyard where the dog runs back and forth chasing birds and barking at children, creating a trail of dirt that is as wide as his body and as far as he can run. There’s a pool where she tans every summer and a basketball goal that reminds you that you’re not 18 anymore. Don’t forget about the trampoline and the tree house you built for the kids, but they’ve long outgrown it as they strive to letter just like daddy.

Your vehicle is mountainous and so is the monthly payment but it has power everything, a V8 engine and even heated leather interior. It’s maxed out with GPS, satellite radio, a MP3 player, flat panel screens, DVD players and a stereo system that makes you want to orgasm every time you hear Mick Jagger tell you that he can’t get no fucking satisfaction.

Your office is located in the corner of the building glaring at the city. You’ve lied, cheated and stolen to get to where you’re at. But you’re the best sales man they’ve got. You could sell a vibrator to a preacher’s wife on Sunday morning right after she took communion and recited the 23^rd Psalm.

Who needs a vibrator though when you can just fuck?

And fucking is what you do best, whether it’s in the sack or by ass raping an oblivious client who’s going to feel the effects as soon as they get over the pillow talk, even with the freshest intern with the tightest body who thinks giving head is the way to the top. But this isn’t fucking High School anymore. You don’t promote every broad that sucks your cock and you’re not going to feel remorse for some moron who won’t read the fine fucking print.

Head On

2007-09-15T17:00:00.000-05:00

I wrote this little piece back in 2004. It was probably the first thing that I had ever written that had some creativity about it and wasn't just me rambling on. I've re-written it a little bit, but it's pretty much the same deal. Honestly, I never thought that I would still be consistently writing 3 years later.

Head on

It's a head on collision where both parties are at fault. Everyone’s crying while getting out their cell phones to call the police. No one is injured physically.

Mentally, emotionally and spiritually we're all out of our minds, but a feeling of peace washes over us as we realize that everyone is going to be alright.

You gain a deeper respect for this emotional vehicle once you've wrecked it. Should I repair it or total it out and let the insurance pick it up? But not even insurance will cover all of the repairs needed.

So many great memories were had in this automobile. Remember the first drive, after our first kiss? Your hair looked the way my heart felt that day, on fire. You were gorgeous, a classic beauty on par with the Marilyn Monroe’s and Audrey Hepburn’s, in your own little way of course.

I didn't need headlights that evening to see in the dark because our smiles we're beaming so bright, the other drivers had to wear sunglasses to keep from being blinded. It was the moment after an eclipse.

With all new cars, you keep the maintenance up pretty well for the first few months or so, while it still feels "new". What makes that new car smell go away? Is it the cigarettes and the fast food? Maybe I should vacuum the upholstery or detail the inside.

"I'll do it later." I remember thinking to myself.

Maybe I should've kept a check list, but does true love really require a checklist?

As we collided, I saw the fear in your eyes and the terror in your heart through the adjacent wind shields. Confused, I thought it was your reflection because at the split second I was reaching over to the passenger seat to protect you, but you weren’t there.

When did we get into separate cars?

In One Accord

2007-09-13T09:42:00.000-05:00

When the first man was created by the Cosmos a long, long time ago he was all alone, so they say. He had his own opinions, beliefs and the only recollection of anything that had ever happened. Since he was the only man alive, obviously his were the only opinions, beliefs and recollections of anything that had ever happened that actually counted. There was no one to disprove him, even if he was wrong. Life was good.

The Cosmos then decided to mix it up a bit.

Shortly after this decision, woman showed up and naturally the shit hit the fan and they disagreed on everything that there was that could be disagreed on. Now there were two opinions, beliefs and recollections of anything that had ever happened, thus making two sides to every story. Since their opinions, beliefs and now two recollections of anything that had ever happened were equally disagreeable it caused for the Cosmos to convene and agree that their ultimately had to be three sides to every story; Man's, Woman's and what really happened or that which was really true.

Good grief, sighed the Cosmos.

Then man decided to reproduce. Once the exhausting process was complete it created an inevitable chain reaction of more people having conflicting opinions, beliefs and more recollections of anything that had ever happened.

The Cosmos were not prepared for this and started to reconsider it's little science project.

Time went on as it always does and some decided that the idea of three sides to every story was no longer true and there now needed to be multiple sides to every story, even if they were in agreement on the major points, but because some of the minor details were a bit fuzzy. These new beliefs obviously created a faction. The title of those who were more focused on the disagreement of minor details regarding "opinions" became known as Political and those equally in disagreement on minor details but were more hung up on "beliefs" were called Religious.

These two new groups had much potential but the Cosmos were never asked to convene, therefore pissing them off. Technically, there were still only three sides to every story, despite man's efforts to go at it alone and create their own systems. Since these systems were man-made, they naturally lacked harmony and once more the shit began to hit the fan.

Now usually when someone stopped believing in the idea of there being three sides to every story they were moved into one of the afore mentioned groups of Political or Religious by the man made system (the Cosmos could care less).

Until one day, someone began to question their own opinions, beliefs and recollections of anything that had ever happened regarding not only the minor details, but the major points as well. This self doubt naturally brought about sympathy for the opposing view point. “Maybe they were right?”

As this conflict in belief began to spread, the Cosmos were approached for guidance, once again, and rightly so.

The Cosmos accepted and convened and it's always a serious matter when the Cosmos convene because they can't be bothered with matters of small importance like conflicting opinions, beliefs and recollections of anything that had ever happened regarding only minor details. They then decided that this new group with much self doubt and sympathy for the opposing parties views on major points and minor details regarding opinions, beliefs and more recollections on anything that that had ever happened was good and would bring balance.

They also decided that the name of this new group would be those who "agree to disagree".

And the Cosmos rejoiced.

Get Rich Quick!!!

2007-09-11T08:43:00.000-05:00

Yesterday, my day was spent sitting in a folding chair at a folding table waiting for people who were learning how to become rich come to my table and buy something that would help my company become rich which would in turn help me pay my rent. Not many people came to my table so I decided to write haiku's about corporate America which is where I spend about 1/3 of my life.

I'm so inspired.

-

Facade: Three Piece Suit
Neck Tie Is My Noose
Death Brings Sweet Relief

-

I have set my goal
Climb that corporate ladder
Bottom rung for life

-

Fucking Polo Shirt
Awful Khaki Pants
Job Requirements!

-

Meetings all morning
Paper work just grows higher
Cubicle bonfire!

Barely Legal

2007-09-06T10:29:00.000-05:00

It seems like a lot of life is focused around beverages, at least the social aspect of life. These aren’t just any beverages though they’re “Adult” beverages! The word “Adult” is funny.

Adult Beverages

Adult Movies

Adult Swim

I googled the word “Adult” to see what would come up. Thankfully, Wikipedia has taken over a lot of internet searches so it came up #1, but Adult Friend Finder was #2. Adult Swim managed to get the #3 spot. Good for those guys. It’s all porno after that though.

It’s kind of funny how it’s called “Adult” content or “Adult” movies, but the people watching them are mainly in to the adults that are barely legal.

I wonder if anyone ever googles the word “Adult” looking for porn, but gets distracted by the Adult Swim link and just starts watching episodes of Robot Chicken. That’d be more fulfilling in the long run. I wonder if anyone ever reads my blog, but gets distracted by the Adult Swim link and just starts watching episodes of Robot Chicken. That’d be more fulfilling in the long run.

Back to the beverages! It’s the same thing though, the ones who probably drink the most of the alcoholic adult beverages are those who are barely adults. They’re probably the same ones getting naked in those “Adult” videos.

What’s interesting to me is that most social settings are based around liquid that you put in your body, Coffee and Alcohol. I think coffee is my favorite beverage. I might just like it better than beer. Seriously though, you can drink it all day long and get in your car and not get into any trouble at a road block.

“Have you been drinking?”

“Yes sir!”

“Please step out of the car!”

“Just coffee man, just coffee.”

I can picture Mitch Hedberg saying that. Imagine being a cop and pulling Mitch over when he was still alive. That would probably would've been really entertaining. It sure would beat pulling Lindsay Lohan over. Unless, she was naked because you know, she’s barely legal.

Men at Work

2007-09-03T11:25:00.000-05:00

“What kind of music do you like?”

I know what she’s going to say before the words even leave her lips.

“I like everything.”

How generic. Why do I even try to make conversation with these people?

“Of course, you do. Want to be a little more specific?”

She squirms. Why do people squirm when you ask them what they like to rock to?

I know the answer to this question, we all do it. I do it. We don’t want anyone to “dis” our collection, the music we truly connect with. Granted, if you connect with Michael Bolton you’ll probably be a little embarrassed and rightfully so. What I love is when people spout off bands they like because they think you’re going to think they’re awesome because they like “old” Creed and Puddle of Mud.

I’m at work though. I’ve listened to better music than most of these people since I was 16, so I feel superior.

“Ummm…I like David Crowder Band.”

Shit, It’s worse than I thought.

Every girl that has believed in Jesus in the last 5 years likes David fucking Crowder Band. I don’t even want to listen to the guy. Maybe I owe it to him though. I think I know what he’s doing. Christian girls are so unsuspecting.

“Every Christian girl likes David Crowder Band. I want to see a picture of this guy.”

“Ohh he’s really weird looking. “

Bob Dylan is weird looking, but I’m pretty sure he got more ass than a toilet seat.

Yeah the guy is pretty ugly, but he’s eccentric, but only in a Christian kind of way, but that’s all he needs. I’ve proved my point, at least to myself. He’s in it for the nookie and I’m waiting for a lightning bolt to strike me any time now.

The rest of my coworkers gather as we’re waiting for a company wide meeting.

As they all start listening to our conversation I decide to address them all in a "Sermon on the Mount" kind of way.

“You guys ever heard of David Bazan?

There’s a resounding “no”.

“He’s kind of a Christian, he's had a couple of bands, but he mainly plays solo these days. You guys probably wouldn’t like him though.” I act as though I'm starting to lose interest in the conversation and that's not too far from the truth.

“Why’s that?”

They fall in to the trap.

"Well, he likes church about as much as I do. He even has a song where he talks about the Holy Spirit trying to tell someone to shut the fuck up."

A couple chuckle, but most of their jaws are on the floor.

I know what she’s going to say before the words even leave her lips.

“He doesn’t sound like a Christian to me.”

“And that, is exactly why I like him.”

Three Poems

2007-08-28T10:16:00.000-05:00

I decided to write some poems last night. The theme is Sex, Drugs and Rock n' Roll. They might be inappropriate for children, so hold off on reading A Mind Awake as bed time stories on this entry.

Sex

Pulling at her bra

Taking off my shirt

Moving pretty quick here

Probably going to hurt

Hands tight around her throat

Nails digging in my back

Seems to be enjoying her self

Though she’s fading to black

Waking up again

Penetrating her ass

Might be a bad idea

Until she starts to laugh

Drugs

Drank a fifth of whiskey

Enjoyed a bottle of rum

Finished off the vodka

Wasn’t even close to done

White lines seem endless

Pills are scattered galore

Roll up another joint

Always ready for some more

Kidneys are starting to fail me

Thinking my liver just popped

On my way to rehab

Probably best if I stop

Rock n’ Roll

Listening to this music

Trying to decide

Was it really worth it

Committing suicide

Four chords straight to heaven

Drum solos till you die

Sounds so generic

Double platinum lies

It’s supposed to bring freedom

Place where we can go

Just paid $80

Sitting on the last row

There's no place like home.

2007-08-27T14:20:00.001-05:00

I’ve been thinking a lot about decisions lately, I guess that’s probably because I’ve been making a lot of them lately. Some of them have been good and some of them have probably been bad, but I guess what it really comes down to is whether they’re right or wrong. Believe it or not, some decisions that are good aren’t always right and vice versa, but that’s probably just a matter of philosophy or a person’s point of view.

The thing about decisions is that we make them based on dreams, fantasies and expectations of something that we think is better than what we currently have. So when you’re making decisions based on fantasies you can really get yourself into a lot of trouble. As we all seem to find out, fantasies are exactly that, fantasies. I’ve seen a lot of my friends make decisions based on a fantasy. They usually come back broken and beaten down. I don’t exclude myself from these ridiculous actions. Happens to the best of us though. We’re all trying to live the dream so to speak.

I think you’ve truly found the person you love when you close your eyes and the same person you see in the darkness is the same person who’s right in front of you in the light.

One time I read this story about how this guy wanted to marry this girl but he kept on having weird reservations about the whole thing. As he went deeper his main issue was really not about her, but it was the fact that she wasn’t 10 other women.

It seems kind of funny to me when people say “sweet dreams”. I mean, I know it’s just a kind gesture, but my dreams are rarely sweet. Maybe someone should say it to me more often. I don’t have bad dreams though, but they‘re never good. I don’t have nightmares, but then again, maybe I do and they just don’t scare me.

I never have sweet dreams.

When my life is out of control which is pretty much most of the time I dream about tornadoes. In my dream last night I was sitting in a house and tornadoes we’re swarming around, trees were being uprooted and people we’re getting sucked into it. I’m never afraid though because they never get me. They seem to dodge me as though I’m more powerful than the storm. That probably has some sort of significance that you don’t need a dream dictionary to tell you. It’s pretty obvious to me.

Some of my decisions have caused these tornadoes though, I’ve caused the upheaval and unfortunately some people have gotten sucked in, but at the end of the dream everybody seems to be ok and glad that’s it’s finally over. I look forward to that grand finale.

Maybe I’ll finally get sucked in and it will end it all. Maybe, It’ll take me to Oz. Anywhere is probably better than here right now.

Conversation

2007-08-23T11:41:00.000-05:00

conversation

"Hey?"

"Hello."

"How's it going?"

"Good."

"Yeah…it's been a while."

"It has. How are you?"

"I'm ok."

"It's nice to talk to you again."

"I thought you might be mad."

"I know. I'm not though."

"But I haven't talked to you in a few months."

"Most haven't, but I never get mad."

"Man, that'd bum me out."

"It does sometimes, but then they come back."

"Do they usually feel bad about it?"

"The sincere ones do."

"I'm sincere."

"I know you are, but you don't have to feel bad about it."

"Thank you."

I'm addicted

2007-08-21T14:19:00.001-05:00

You know what goes really good with coffee?

Good Reads!

A friend of mine invited me to this site back in April and I've never done anything with it until today. Posting all of the books that I can remember that I've read and checking out what other people have read and are reading is so addictive.

I have 22 books up and all but 1 have a simple review. I've posted all of these today.

If you like reading and what to join up feel free to add me as your friend.

"Neverland makes you forget..."

2007-08-20T15:48:00.001-05:00

It comes to me.

It's there.

I see exactly how it would unfold.

I repeat it under my breath a dozen times. Surely, it will not be forgotten. My eyes shut and I drift away to a magical land of talking cars and flying rabbits where words do not exist in their proper form nor do I care.

I'm sure I'm not the only one, but I always try to read in my dreams and I can't seem to do it, it's just another way that I realize I'm truly dreaming. You can call me an illiterate dreamer, if you'd like.

I just now remembered that I forgot "it".

So now opposed to writing "it" I am now writing about its non-existence. An older and wiser friend once told me that "if you don't write it down, it doesn't exist". How true, old friend…

I wonder what "it" was.

Would it have ended up as something memorable or just another Word document that I move into the recycling bin? Sometimes I wish I had a type writer just so that I can act like a frustrated god that creates a mountainous range of paper that causes the waste basket to appear as a volcano erupting with bad ideas.

But with as much as I back space, delete and trash all together, the PC is probably my best bet. I'm yet to toss one of these out the window, but then again, I wouldn't put it past me.

"When I wanted to forget, it killed me to remember and when I wanted to remember, I had the good fortune to forget."

Can't Knock the Hustle

2007-08-14T09:34:00.001-05:00

Two buckets of PBR later and I’m zoning out to some TV show that every guy in the place can’t seem to take their eyes off of. Since I don’t have cable I have to inquire about why people are stripping to music videos. Apparently it’s a new kind of game show. People making fools out of themselves on camera is always much more interesting when it’s muted.

And I thought “The Price is Right” was complicated.

After a dizzying conversation about strip clubs due to the intellectual content sliming us on the big screen he decides it would be a good idea for introductions.

“What’s your name man?”

“I’m Johnny.”

“Nice to meet you man. You can call me Vo…” He trails off. “or Floyd.”

A strange handshake involving palm smacking, finger juggling and eyebrow raising commences.

“It’s nice to meet you Floyd.”

“Or you can call me Vodka.”

Vodka? So that’s what he said.

I realize what he prefers, but if he would rather be called “Vodka” then why give me options? Refusing to call anyone an alcoholic beverage unless it’s Jack, Johnny, Jim or Jose, I continue.

“So what do you do Floyd?”

He shifts his weight and glances up at the ceiling before staring out over the bar and deciding to speak.

“I’m a hustler man… but it’s legal.”

What a coincidence, a con man at a poker game. He must not be very good though. This game was free to play. The only thing you can win here is gift certificates. Maybe he hustles for PBR. I noticed him eye balling my bucket.

“Some guys are hustla’s, but I’m a hustler.”

I have no idea what this means, but for some reason he feels the need to justify his line of work to a white boy who grew up in the suburbs of Kentucky. So I just keep nodding my head and saying “Ok.” like I understand what he’s talking about.

After he realizes, like our previous conversation about strip clubs that I have no idea what we’re talking about he walks off mumbling something about it being nice to meet me. I watch as my new found friend joins a new group of drunks and my eyes find their way back to amateurs dancing badly to old Britney Spear’s videos

Other than the time I witnessed a mugging and ran away, this is the only other moment in my life that I actually feel like I’m a part of a Jay-Z song.

“I got extensive hoes, with expensive clothes
and I sip wine, and spit vintage flows
but y'all don't know...”

And so it goes...

2007-08-09T10:12:00.001-05:00

Back in April when Kurt Vonnegut died every blogger ever, seriously, all of them, posted "Kurt Vonnegut died and life isn't worth living anymore" entries. After scanning over 60 or so of them I decided that I should go ahead and read Slaughterhouse Five.

Yeah, I'm surprised I had never read it either, but in all honesty I only really started reading about 8 years ago. Like most people I was never a big fan of reading the books that I was forced to read, not to mention I was an idiot, but after I got out of school I really started to enjoy reading. Anyway, I read Slaughterhouse Five and realized why everyone wrote "Kurt Vonnegut died and life isn't worth living anymore" entries.

So maybe I'm about 4 months short, but maybe this could be my "Kurt Vonnegut died and life isn't worth living anymore" entry. Or it could be the "I just finished reading A Man With out a Country and I don't want to be an American anymore because Kurt Vonnegut despised our current government etc" entry. I guess you can decide for yourself.

It seems to be in our human nature to only really appreciate something or someone until it's gone. That's pretty disgusting if you think about it. I remember when Johnny Cash died and lots of people came up to me and told me that they were sorry about my loss like he was my fucking grandfather or something. I feel like Johnny Cash was everyone's grandfather, but only if you wanted him to be. I feel the same way about Kurt Vonnegut.

I was writing this story the other day that I never did anything with about my grandfather. It was describing our last conversation before he died. Despite the fact that my grandpa never did anything that great to affect my life other than conceive my father and come to my class's grandparents show n' tell day when I was in third grade, I still wish I could've got to know him a little better. The sad part is I could've.

Grandpa never wrote any songs or books that I know of, but I'm pretty sure he had volumes of them in his head. His death could definitely be chocked up as a loss though.

Talking about all of these old guys dying makes me wonder who the next person is that's going to croak and everyone is going to be sad about it and act like they idolized him or her the way they supposedly worshipped Johnny Cash and Kurt Vonnegut.

At the end of the day, the general public wouldn't have given a shit about Johnny Cash when he died if it wasn't for Rick Rubin and I think only bloggers and other dorks who read too much really felt the loss of Kurt Vonnegut, naturally.

I wonder what it's going to be like when Paris Hilton dies.

Army of One

2007-08-08T10:52:00.000-05:00

I think I've convinced myself of a permanent conclusion. You can't convince anyone of anything. You might be able to get them thinking, but ultimately people are going to do what they want to do regardless of whether they're right or not, even if they think and know they're wrong. It's understandable, not everything is black and white. We want the pros to outweigh the cons. We all want to get laid.

With that said though, I'm resigning my position of ever trying to convince anyone of anything. Do I think Brittany Spears sucks? Why yes I do, will I try to convince you otherwise? No. Please understand, this isn't just limited to music. It goes for everything.

What it really comes down to with my thoughts on Brittany and any other matter is that at the end of the day, I don't really fucking care and I'm pretty sure you don't either.

We're all stubborn. We all know it all. None of us need any of us. We are all we'll ever need.

I'm just going to nod in agreement. Smile when I'm supposed to. Drink to whatever we're drinking to and forget that I ever said anything. Bottoms up!

Talking to hear my own voice.

2007-08-06T08:48:00.000-05:00

Man, weird stuff going on lately. Can you believe that bridge collapsed? It’s not like it’s the first bridge to collapse ever, but that doesn’t happen everyday, at least not in the US. Maybe in Iraq or Afganistijkdhgjxfh or some place where they don’t know what the internet or peanut butter is. Fucking Minnesota! It’s sad the only thing they are known for is a bridge collapsing and the Mall of America, oh and trading away Kevin Garnett.

It’s like the end of the world there, not to mention their state drink is milk.

Seriously though, the guy who makes all these big decisions for your team use to play for the Boston Celtics and then he trades one of the best players in the league to the fucking Celtics for a bunch of shitty dudes and two guys who haven’t even been drafted yet. That sounds so much like a conspiracy that I bet Kevin McHale had something to do with that bridge collapse and the eventual destruction of Minnesota in its entirety.

He would be the perfect sleeper cell if you think about it. The NBA has turned into a bunch of thugs, why can’t the white dudes be terrorists. It would be very unsuspecting. I’m going to be paying close attention to Mark Price and Jeff Hornacek. They look like the same fucking person, not to mention you can see the terror in their eyes!

Amongst other things, my anxiety has been acting up a lot these past few days. For those who don’t have bad anxiety, it basically means I get crazy for no reason. You know heavy breathing, dizzy spells, teeth grinding, etc. All of this can happen for a variety of reasons. The silliest reasons as of late have been staff meetings and driving over bridges!!! I feel like I’m being robbed here. I was afraid of bridges way before it was cool to be afraid of bridges and now everyone is going to be afraid of driving over bridges. Minnesota, you're stealing my thunder.

I also don’t like flying on airplanes. It's nothing new, but I just don't like being high in the air without anything really supporting me. I’m actually feeling an anxiety attack coming on right now just because I’m thinking about it. You should've seen me watching Spider Man 3!

Ok, it subsided. I just started thinking happy thoughts, you know, like about the internet, peanut butter and the idea that Georgia's State drink is probably Kool-Aid.

Thief in the Night

2007-08-03T09:13:00.000-05:00

Liquid splattered on his canvass with a grace that this world had never known and he was surprisingly quick, yet elegant. Such precision and detail; but if you blinked you might just miss something, possibly the one movement that brought it all together.

And he was so thorough; his technique and ability could be seen with each stroke of his instrument. He was a master, but not just of art, his mystique was undeniable.

Unfortunately, none could see the beauty in each of his endeavors, the final result always ending in masterpiece. Yet they were still plagued by worldly eyes to not see the gift that had been given to them. They didn’t even know his name. For if they did he would’ve been locked up and they wouldn’t have just thrown away the key, it would’ve been destroyed; and him shortly after.

The people coined a name for him, but that’s what happens when you’re a legend. The peons made him famous through their supposed hate, but it was actually disguised adoration. And even though they were the ones to make him famous, he only made himself known to but 5 of them.

They demand and you supply and once you’ve delivered, they will never forget you.

And that is exactly what he wanted, along with their livers.

Desperate times call for desperate measures.

2007-08-01T08:52:00.001-05:00

Open your eyes.

Get out of bed.

Walk to the sink.

When you’re depressed you have to think out one step at a time. If you don’t you might just lose it, only to find yourself back in the real world 5 hours later crying in a corner wondering why you’re covered in your own shit and mumbling about dragons.

Pick up your tooth brush.

Paste it.

Look in the mirror.

My eyes seem to stay permanently blood shot these days and my 5 o’clock shadow has rapidly grown into a 3 day progression seemingly overnight. Then again, I could’ve been asleep for a week. I wonder if I still have a job. And where the fuck is my cat?

Brush teeth.

Turn on the shower.

Masturbate.

I’ve learned to gauge the level of my depression by how frequently I can pound the pork. If go at it at least once a day, then I usually don’t contemplate ending it all. Twice in one day means I can leave the house and 5 or 6 times means I should leave the house. It only worries me when I don’t want to polish it off. This depresses me further. I remember that I don’t have a cat.

Get dressed.

Rub another one out.

Make yourself go to work.

I wonder if Ghandi ever jerked it.

Nature Calls

2007-07-23T12:12:00.000-05:00

You could see it forming over the tree tops in the west. The funnel was so large that it appeared to be moving pretty slow, but that was because it blocked most of my view in its direction. I was heading northwest. This was going to be interesting.

Everyone started slowing down or even turning around because it seemed that we would be crossing paths in the very near future. It was coming quick.

Foolishly, I kept going.

“If it’s going to get me, it’s going to get me.” Not very wise last words or even that cool sounding. I start going through the rolodex in my head thinking of tough one liner’s and memorable last words.

Clint Eastwood comes to mind.

“We’ve all got it comin’, kid!”

I say it out loud. It makes me feel brave.

I roll down my windows. Bruce Willis speaks to me.

“Yippy Kiya Mother Fucker!!”

Cars start speeding past. And I thought I was leading this charge. Glancing in my rearview mirror I see cars in the air. Another storm has formed behind me. I turn on the radio. “Born to Run” is blaring. I pump my fist.

I’m going 55 mph, but it feels like light speed in the rain and turbulence. I see a collage of wind and debris ahead. This is how God vandalizes.

The darkness closes in on me. The countdown begins:

3…

2…

1…

And we have lift off. My car is flying. I am Neil Armstrong. I’m going to the moon. I name my car Apollo 11.

I tell “The Boss” that I love him and I close my eyes.

“Everybody’s out on the run tonight but there’s no place left to hide.”

Surprise!

2007-07-16T14:52:00.001-05:00

After I open the front door and flip the light switch on they all jump out and scream "Happy Birthday!" Most people probably get excited regarding this modern day honor, even if they don't like surprises. Cake, presents and a party usually ensue. Who doesn't like that?

Me, I don't like it.

When I hear those god-awful words, the only thing that comes to mind is some guy who went to school for way too long putting his cold, lubricated hand up my asshole to check for a lumpy mass of tumory goodness. At my last physical, my doctor made mention of needing to get my prostate checked every year after I turn 40. It's haunted me ever since. I'm only 26, but I'm terrified.

The procedure is a lot like a surprise party though. I don't care how far in advance you know that it's going to take place, it's still more surprising than a bunch of people bum rushing you in jubilation of your birth.

Every birthday isn't a celebration of one more year of life for me anymore. It's turned into a count down of being one year closer to an annual fisting.

Come home, come home...

2007-07-11T08:33:00.000-05:00

It's late. The weather is hot and muggy and I'm just trying to get home. A long straight road sits in front of me as I chase it down, only a few more hours left. The radio stations out in the country play exactly that. I scan on.

An old preacher comes through the scratchy reception. It sounds like a recording from the 30's and he seems really pissed off, but he keeps calling me "friend", so I keep listening. It's the same old same old, fire and brimstone, turn and burn, Jesus loves you and he just said "faggot". Can they even say that on the radio?

His words remind me of my childhood. "God hates sin, but loves the sinner." If God loves sinners then why do these preachers hate sinners? I never understood it.

And why do these guys always have to have southern accents?

Sometimes, if I listen closely I can still here them singing "Softly and Tenderly". The preacher screaming at the top of his lungs for the lost "souls" to come forward. Chorus after chorus he would shout all of the verses in the Good Book to coax the "heathens" forward. All of us kids sat on the back row passing notes and trying not to fall asleep while we poured sweat underneath our little suit and ties. Years later we realized that they turned the heat on in those summer months to create a hell-like scenario to scare us to the altar. They succeeded in creating the scenario, but I'm pretty sure it back fired on them, at least in my case.

Finally, after 8 choruses the preacher would dismiss us and let us go home. That's at least one thing we could thank God for, the cool air hitting our faces as we escaped that white-washed building. What was supposed to lead us to Heaven sure as hell felt a lot like purgatory, working off the sins we were yet to commit.

Thinking back there were never any visitors, only members at every service. The minister and traveling evangelist probably came in their pants if a visitor ever did show their face. They probably prayed that the lost would show up not so much that they could "save" them from the hell fire, but to give them one more opportunity to get another notch on their belts. Like fucking gun fighters, their weapon was more deadly than any killer though.

The "Word of God" is pretty fucking dangerous in the hands of ignorant men.

"Time is now fleeting, the moments are passing,
Passing from you and from me;
Shadows are gathering, deathbeds are coming,
Coming for you and for me."

Going up...

2007-06-28T15:53:00.000-05:00

“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.

2007-06-25T15:22:00.000-05:00

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

2007-06-19T13:37:00.000-05:00

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.

2007-06-18T14:14:00.000-05:00

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.

2007-06-18T10:56:00.000-05:00

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

2007-06-15T07:33:00.000-05:00

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

2007-06-12T11:10:00.000-05:00

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