Category Archives: fiction metaphor

Blue blossom

There were times I’ve questioned why I do the things I do. Whether I was where I was supposed to be. There were times when I scorned the heavens and times I scorned myself because my choices often led me into the gallows. how bad could my luck really be? I can’t believe this shit is happening. Something always happens, its 5 o’clock and all my friends have already gone home. I’m dancing alone.

I would have said, bullshit!, whenever they told me my lows were helping me grow. Like I would find my blossom one day. How could I expect to find my blossom if the same shit keeps happening i mean, why does the same shit keep happening. But a seedling sprouts only if you keep watering it. I drown! I die! Everytime. Knock it off! I knew they were right. But maybe the world just wasn’t calibrated for chumps like me. Stop watering me. No.

Stay strong, you’re learning more everyday. You try it. Then tell me how strong you are if you never get a chance to dust off. I’ve had it. I can’t breathe. What’d you say?! Get off my case cause you don’t know shit. Who does?! I’ve tried to make the good decisions in life, I was irrigated with elite ethics so I know a thing or two about the right choices. But what kind of shit place is it where my right choices lead me into a dark place over and over again. Screw your right choices. Watch me screw the left ones too. Screw the prick that designated those. And all of a sudden I popped above the soil. Hey there… Hi. What’s your name? You can talk? Of course I can! I want to say, fuck you! But why? Cause you drowned me. Right? Get that smug look off your face, it hurts my eyes. You’ll be sorry when I wipe this smug look off my face though. Bullshit. Don’t think so? Breathe a bit first, you’ve been looking for this smug little smile, sonny boy. Pout! I pout in your face. But I know I’m wrong because there’s no other way to find your blossom than to drown it.

All my friends danced alone. But there’s no better dance partner. Still drowning? Wait till you see the grand punch-line. They won’t get it. Then again, I didn’t think I’d get it either. Get that smug look off your face. No.

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træce the daisy chains in the night

I’ve taken to embracing the darkness. It isn’t as cryptic as it sounds. There’s also the light, that most people opt for when they speak of good or some other discarnate intelligence. From what i’ve seen since my return from the underworld, my encounter with death, I couldn’t help but notice how most that strive to keep a foot in the light only do so out of fear. They fear this supposed punishment of eternal despair. This invokes savage behavior to do the right thing for the wrong reasons. A thirst for the coin is as good as thirst for wine, for it is a thirst in life. Wine isn’t something one should do alone and what good is your purse if you know naught what to do with it. When I embraced the dark of the night, it did not mean that I had shunned the embrace of God. Even the dark was the Gods’ doing. One big practical joke to measure those who knew God. The real light, is buried with the covers of darkness. When the veil of day is stretched over the sky, it does not mean the stars aren’t shining. If you think the last judgment hasn’t happened yet, you’re, quite literally, dead wrong. Your coins will serve you no purpose when the reign of a thousand nights begin to pour on the earth. You’ve nothing better to do than wait. At the pace some are going, I can discern no difference. The fact is is that you will die. But I choose to wait with wine and a strange profound kind of love you’ve never known. It’s really more simple than it is cryptic, but I think that simplicity is what terrifies most people.

You well not begin to live the life intended until you are willing to die, meet death, chat, and joke with them. The kind words of the departed souls whisper this to us in the wind. My eye was woken by these whispers, and I was born on May 31st of 2012.

I sincerely hope you can get to the table on time. from a basement on the hill. Knock us a kiss and let’s celebrate today because we’ve already spent too much time in coffee shops asking questions that never mattered. You’ll see what I mean when you follow that voice, neither I nor anyone else. The light comes to you just once and in a way only you can understand. The poets and the heretics of the past, speak the language of the gale, they are messengers that work for the pay of love. A love for you. I was skeptical about the femininity of the realization, however I was unable to seer anything higher in it’s stead.

To whom it may concern: my number is 5 and their name is Aeqerasias. æ is the mark on our door. And ”they can wait a little longer because we’re not finished.”
To whom it may concern: you know who you are if you got the message, find me, there’s more I have to show you. Please watch your step, you fool.

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Excerpt from new novel: Jeanne Mercury

This is an excerpt from one of the chapters to a novel I’m working on titled Jeanne Mercury.

________________________________
”what’s the matter? I came down as fast as I could!” said Jeanne bursting into the foyer with a rum and coke already in her hands, to a frenzied Kate checking and un-checking her cell phone.
“God! You couldn’t have taken any longer!”
“Well, aaaafter I got your message, which was pretty hard to understand on account of the hysteria in your voice and the band soooo conveniently placed next to your phone, I had to fight traffic on the 101 ON a Saturday night, and then feed a meter 50 cents because all the parking lots around the theater are overpriced-”
“-That’s nothing compared to the hell I’ve been in so far!”
“I didn’t get to the part about FINDING a fucking meter! Another good story ruined!” Jeanne joked taking a gentle sip.
“I don’t have time for one of your stupid jokes right now! I’m about to kill myself!”
“But that’s the best time for a joke. By the way,” toning her enthusiam,”is there anyone interesting watching the bands? Guys, I mean.”
“Jeanne!” Kate pleaded. She pleaded with such a degree of seriousness that it seemed as though the very wrinkles of her frown dragged the corner of her eyes, and the rest of her face for that matter, down toward her ankles.
“Alright, alright… they say the same shit all the time anyway. Okay, what’s the matter?”

“Okay, so… there were three bands scheduled to perform tonight for George’s party.” stated Kate.
“Who?”
“George! The love of my life…?”
“Still?”
Kate gave her a look. “Anyway… the first band already opened the show and the next one’s already started their set… But the problem is the manager of the the band that’s headlining tonight! He’s got an old phone or something because I can barely make out what he’s trying to say and he refuses text! Who doesn’t text!?”
“Was he hysterical?”
“What? No!”
“Oh! He was standing next to a live band!”
“He was at his hotel!”
“You were next to the band then!”
“No, you bitch! I have no idea whether the last band is showing up or not!”
“Then the current band better be a good one or else tonight’s gonna be full of a looooot of unhappy and uninteresting guys. And you know where that could lead.” Jeanne replied solemnly. Both Kate and Jeanne then peered through the double doors to count the number of bobbing heads in the audience. Kate huffed and throwing her body away from the double doors and began violently checking and unchecking her phone again.
“Fuck, Jeanne! They looked bored! Shit!”
“Not all of them, simmer down a bit now. Some of the weird ones seem to like the song,” and after a thought, “I’m kind of digging it too, actually.”
“What am I gonna do, Jeanne…”
“Well, let me start by saying; its not your party anyway and what’s more is that you’re not even the event coordinator, you big lush!” Kate gave a calming gaze as Jeanne continued, “you can either go; home, get yourself a drink which I’ll help you with, or you can keep trying the manager from way the fuck out here. Let them sweat it out. So, what do you want to do? It doesn’t matter which you choose because my stupid jokes and I are going to follow you to the end of the night, anyway.”
Kate was still watching her. And it seemed Kate’s eyes had been widening incrementally as Jeanne spoke. Then, all of a sudden like the burst of a solitary ray of sunshine paying the fare through the overcast gloom, a smile happened upon Kate’s now frown-less face.
“Where the fuck have you been?” Kate rhetorically said, lightly confusing Jeanne as her arms had stayed open for Kate’s response, “this is the Jeanne everyone’s missed!” Our girl’s back! …and she needs a refill!”
“…and a cigarette!”
“And a cigarette!”

Kate watched Jeanne giggle the same way she did when they were both younger. When they were just girls. At that moment, Kate realized Jeanne had really gone to hell and back in the last 15 months, yet there she was, cracking stupid jokes, and severing the unnecessary worry that everyone subjects themselves to. ‘she came back a real woman,’ Kate thought.
Kate was right. Although Jeanne’s return to her old self had been a blessing, she returned with the wisdom of eternity masked by an ever-enchanting candor of youth. Jeanne no longer had a fear of time or death: for she danced with them into tomorrow from tonight,forever.
Together they walked over to the bar and filled their lonely hands with cocktail glasses and all at once, Kate ceased mooing over the uncertainty of the next band’s attendance, and decided to enjoy the not-too-shitty one that was already playing.

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Letter home from the junior varsity team

We’ve waited 6 days and nights. Each day felt like an era. But come tomorrow morning the tables will finally be turned. My friends and I have waited too long for this day, the day we get to take our turn. A dozen bad eggs going to show everyone how to play. We’re better athletes than everyone seems to think. ‘The slanderous team across the pond’ says the varsity champs. Them across the pond can spread all the dumb rumors they want about us, but we won’t stoop to their level. Even tonight, we’re preparing ourselves in the moonlight, until the coach sends us in. Tomorrow morning’s glory is going to make us stars. It looks like rain tomorrow, too. Still, not a chance of postponement, if anything, the rain will fall to our advantage. We’ve been trained in the worst conditions you can wrap your minds around! They did not give us much at all to work with. The other team won’t know what hit them. We’ll finally redeem ourselves from being slaughtered the last time because we played with or brains instead of or hearts.We didn’t even have our cleats! Ooh, we’re out for blood this time around. Do yourselves a favor; pay a couple of bucks and sit on our side of the bleachers -the winning side. Bet on us, the Great Danes, cause we underdogs are going to drown the Pitbulls in a tidal fury. Call us the Great ‘Dames’, did they? Well, we’ll see if they still sing the same tune after we take back that which was denied us. We’ll make them drag their droopy, dumbfounded brains back to their one horse town. I bet they’ll be singing the blues, then!

We hope the birds like our flowers!
-We loved the cookies!
image

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it’s not you, it’s me

I force-fed my charm and intensified my eccentricities into insanities when a woman made me panic. Any person that’s seen the lavatories of hell become immune to most aspects of fear and panic upon their parole back to the world. I’ve seen it. Used it. However, there are creatures in this world infused with estrogen with demonic affinities of hormonal imbalance. Women. Then there were the ones of which that made me panic, a small, elite legion of the select few armed with a disarming charm that easily cast a debilitating spell of foolishness over me. They scared me. How much I trembled in fear normally identified the ones I really liked. The fear would make me do certain things, then when I recount the things I had done I would start it off with, ‘Fuck! Why did I…’ as I addressed each thing I had done. When this was finished, I then proceeded to self-punish. They induced a kind of delirium on me. Being able to recount my idiocies usually meant the delirium had subsided. This was dangerous because decisions like force-feeding charms and being exciting by being batshit crazy, were presented with only -the cons were detoured but arrived just in time for the damage assessment. I saw an average of 5 to 7 more cons per idea than there were pros, when I came to. I didn’t feel too disappointed by the statistics. Being able to determine an average at all, already had me feeling that way.

I had a belief that women I liked needed to be gagged with my charm and out-crazied the methed-out religious hobo ont the corner, that one that believes wiping correctly with toilet paper and flushing are friend requests to Beelzebub. Not doing them made me think I wouldn’t stand out of the crowd. I’d look like all the other dudes waiting in her line. They always seemed to be less afraid than I was, fearless even. She’d figure out I wasn’t supposed to be in the line in the first place if I didn’t try anything and ask me to leave because my nervous, stuttering and jittery balls were a disqualification. This terrified me so I’d often rehearse funny jokes to gag her with my spells, sometimes simultaneously sending Satan friend requests. (Hell’s firewall probably spammed my shit because I can’t view his status updates… I had the incorrect address in my wiping, perhaps.)

Consequently, the panic that made me manic, indeed had made me stand out of the crowd of brave[r] men. It always did and was successful in that venture. I was already manic to begin with and would have been fine as my common sense told me what color the traffic light was. My fear of rejection and losing that rare feeling of euphoria set off by specific women gave me an allergic reaction; causing the delirium that took away all the yellow lights. Slowing down was no longer an option. Speed up or stop. There was no way I couldn’t stand out of the crowd. I may as well have worn a purple top hat as I waited in line; sing songs, tell jokes and send Old Nick another friend request while I was at it.

Sometimes, women would politely tell me I’m not the right guy for her. Sometimes, they’d tell me she had actually wanted to be just friends. Sometimes, they’d ask me to stop calling their work asking to speak with them. Sometimes, they confessed they weren’t really ready to commit. Sometimes, seeing them hold hands with another guy told me they would have committed and I would’ve been that guy if I had simply waited 11 more days from the day I met them. Sometimes, security was called because I often needed them to clarify things. Sometimes, I’d be prohibited to being within a certain proximity of certain public premises. Sometimes, I needed to clarify and double-check their wanting no further involvement with me. Sometimes, demanding to speak to my girlfriend in order to get the clarification confused her co-workers into sending for the guards whom I’d started greeting by name. Sometimes, the women asked how I’d found out where she lived. Sometimes, a debate over interpretation in regards to that last one of whether it was in surprise or in fear that the women exclaimed as they turned on the bedroom lights. Sometimes, it seemed silly and unfair that they even would react in fear. Every time, not one person came to my defense despite having been reacting in fear the whole time, since the start.

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Away from the Numbers

I locked up my bicycle on Colorado Boulevard. Off to the side of a parking garage on Fair Oaks Avenue. Lining the boulevard are buildings pregnant with restaurant and retail establishments. The city of Pasadena parades these buildings as being historic which meant either they probably meant something once or that they were simply a century old and historic by default.

People ate and shopped on the street all through the day, but with a strange sort of skillful seriousness. They were culinary connoisseurs and professional purchasers of an inspiring vacuous conviction. Then they’d retire as a new boulevard would be birthed beneath the blanket of nightfall; inseminating the luxurious little lane with nightlife. Then the city’s beauties binged on bottomless bottles of beer, booze or bubbly in babe-abundant bars where bitches bounced their booties to the bass being bumped. There was a bar for anyone, any scene and were at your fingertips. If you could find a parking spot.

Parking garages were plentiful. They had to be in order to accommodate the plethora of tourists. You could find one around every corner and would probably regard them with honks, fist shakes, screams, and smacked steering columns. Then you’d find yourself still honking, fist shaking, screaming and abusing your steering column as you’d tread through the parking garage til you found a parking spot. Getting past traffic signal-handicapped tourists to the parking garage was only the first part.

It was easy for me to dismiss the luster of Colorado Boulevard. It’s convenience may have been a part of it. It wasn’t a trip away, a plan away nor even a drive away for me. It was a train-stop away, a bike-ride away, a walk away, or even a song away. I couldn’t discern the street’s splendor from the adjustable basketball hoop in my neighbor’s driveway. (The hoop had a potential to raise my self-confidence by granting me one slam-dunk in life, however this remains hypothesized until I cure a misunderstanding my neighbor had of me, of which had ironically impeded any attempts of my doing so. Access to the hoop was denied indefinitely.)

My apartment was only a few blocks away. Of that I was grateful. I was unable to see the brilliance of the boulevard others saw because I saw this: at least 90% of people walking the boulevard that day will be bitch-slapped by a fee for a parking pass. Most visitors and virtually every tourist had no idea where the real parking spots were hidden. They either purchased the pass or paid a parking violation because they just weren’t clever enough to outsmart the street signs. There was more parking enforcement than law enforcement. It was both saddening and amusing to see that it wasn’t the historical buildings in Pasadena, but the huge, hollow buildings that really made the most money in ratio to the amount of effort they required. I never did know much about business. People were sent to institutions by their loved ones and some went as far as to send themselves; with a common endeavor to become educated with whatever the actual ideology of business was -It ain’t me babe.

I just hoped business wasn’t just about numbers and the accumulation of it. I saw the numbers. I never appointed an importance to them. I never had the desire to become wealthy. I was okay with being poor like I’d always been. I was pretty good at not having any money. I didn’t give enough of a shit for business to try being good at it.

I was always bad with numbers. Never had I felt comfortable around them. The multiplication table mocked me. Enduring the abuse of business felt unnecessary. It would’ve threatened me only with poverty which I’d already been well-acquainted with. I just wanted to live simply and simply love, not flashily but whatever was enough for Goldilockshold it! she’s gets eaten! …right? As simple as these aspirations appeared, they weren’t. I was too busy being bitch-slapped by life and love, smacked like it was none of my business. I wasn’t sure why this was. It never seemed to be very fair. I’d already learned these life and love lessons, several times over. It was almost as though I was being beaten for entertainment. There were times I’d been reduced to having an Elliott Smith album on repeat as my body was locked in fetal position on the tile of the bathroom floor. Though sometimes, the abuse was funny. Sometimes.

Perhaps, when you boiled down life and love, they’d also be revealed to persist through the accumulation of numbers. Ergo, I wasn’t good at life and love because I was terrible with numbers..? This sounded rough, but sounded about right. I haven’t even mentioned how terrible my luck was. Let alone mentioned the menacing bully that was my mind. hey, chubcheeks, listen… i’m right fuckin’ here! don’t be sayin’ shit ’bout me!At least, not yet. Looking at the parking structures on Colorado Boulevard always gave me an image of people everywhere being backhanded, which incidentally reminded me to set the lock on my bicycle. -a cheap combination lock I picked up which would lock or unlock with the right numbers. 

[This is the introduction to the novel I’ve been working on.

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New Years Err-ve

shalom

Your last few minutes before the imminent actuation of 2012 were probably expended on the disintegration of your own liver through [a hopeful] self application. Or, as I had, had done anything else inconceivably bland. Like disassociating reflections irrelevant to a conducive purchasing of a new calendar, because you had spent the afternoon voraciously venturing anywhere the free trains found a track to roll upon,  while a concealed half-empty booze bottle blackmailed my thalamus to transform my more tranquil temperaments to those that thwarted the terror of singing aloud to my Regina Spektor playlist in the style of Jonathan Richman with a veracious sincerity to move passengers. Of this endeavor, I’ve an obligation to impart a word of advice; “project your voice as thunderous train rails will big-league your thunder on principle. Try the candid musical at Whole Foods! …My concert didn’t move anyone. Expect to move their narrow-mindedness away.” 

Of my last minutes of 2011:  spent swallowed supinely by a subterranean silver serpent, spanning seven serially spacious cylinder-shaped stomachs. Counting down the demise of 2011 with unacquainted patrons on L.A.’s Metro Goldline, was a disproportionately grievous but accurate reckoning of my lone dejection. I had already been privy to the dejection. And I hadn’t stigmatized an opposition to gang-related public countings. …or chantings. 

It was a reminder of the dejection to be on that train anxiously wanting to negate it by being somewhere among people I just met but knew the signature laughs to, subconsciously suffocating because of the possibility of 2011’s implosion engrossing the train into an ink-blackness, billowed broodingly the looming nebulous darkness deflating downwards mocking the touchdown of a buoyant balloon toward the pinch left of that little white promise. Fostered, finally by my indolent yet conscientious cerebral constitutions. I had no wishes to be reminded of these or other things behind the sun before I had my coffee from the fresh pot of the new year. …But their merriness know no mercy! Further exasperated by an unflinching off-key acapella belting of Auld Lang Syne in the key of ‘Contentedly smug assholes’, whilst the more musically declined of intoxicated invalids, will have exponentially expressed evident existential enjoyments to a greater degree than my own, as their overwhelming voices slurred every other word of theirs into my charitable coherence. Finally, they impart insensitively echoed  cheers and chants condescendingly commanding me to “have a happy new year…” 

“‘have,’ is an interrogative!” I’d always wanted to clarify. …cavalierly!

I prayed midnight would not catch this train. Moments before my physical boarding of the train, I’d sent my roommate a text asking his fetching of the phone number to the coffeehouse of which, laid at the ends of my cross-hairs of my steel serpentine missile. I warned them of my impending tardiness. “By 2 minutes”, as specified by my infallible meticulousness.

I had gone to work earlier that day which, coincidentally, was also a coffeehouse. The difference between both cafe’s was a corporate dictatorship, of which mine had lacked warranting my merriment as opposed to counting down the cooking of 2011’s goose behind a cash register. An earnest elation emanated from not having to tiptoe around an invisible ladder of hierarchy. But during my shift New Year’s Eve easygoing-ness, I inadvertently noticed a pattern, perpetuated amongst peculiar patrons; their collective consensus to adorn an indifference to the induction of the new year, 2012.

Ironically, I’d have imposed an indifference of my own caliber towards the discovery of a mass banality under ordinary circumstances, but this banality had especially fingered my fancy as it inconspicuously instituted intelligibility. Indifference was the answer. The essence of life was a dim corridor of endless possibilities to be revealed by the light. But high-up above the essence of existence, the chandelier of chaos swung subversively, illuminating innumerable flickering candles of curiosity infinitely over innumerably transparent possibilities, indifferent to a possibility’s consequence coveted by your necessities.

Having expectations sprouted a salacious susceptibility to somberness. Frowns and grimaces issued. But not having expectations didn’t do that. And contrary to popular banal belief, not having expectations did not prohibit our capabilities to comprehend cheerfulness. Flashy smiles and grins! An indifference instigated an honest humbleness alongside an extinguished egotism.

Upon arrival to the stop, my watch had sweetly slipped some spare minutes to me. But it wasn’t enough to implore my running. My evening’s habiliments included a trench-coat, of which, a contraband whiskey water bottle cooperated with, a sweater vest, fitted slacks and,  finally, pointed Italian boots which merited a significant level of respect, possibly higher than the deterrence of my lone dejection.

I was 2 minutes from the coffeehouse which of whence commenced the hooting, hollering, honking, whistling, clapping, slapping, hugging, kazoo-ing, laughing, screaming, crying, burping, dragging, lighting, spitting, facebooking, smoking, splashing, calling, texting, twitting, screeching, emailing, singing, scratching, clawing, brushing, caressing, kissing, …to the consistent clicking pair of Italian heels on the pavement.

Pacing perfectly, obstinate to stay on-beat, the clicking was immune to twinkling notes in the crowded chords. Perhaps it were the chords who saw no twinkling in the clicking? The enchantment of the crowd’s casual camaraderie seemed inexplicably indiscernible to the piano’s careful chords, chaotically conforming celestial crescendos. The stark clicking continued as the chords always twinkled it’s keys behind his lead. It only click with absolute certainty in time. The meticulous metronome clicked consummately but had always leaded clicks ahead of the keys. The clicking time of which it was a virtuoso, but the chords twinkling of keys gracefully followed behind wherever it went, cursed only ever to hear them nearby, never beside their grace. Never else, besides the clicking.

I found myself mangled among a crowd of friends at the coffeehouse and had forgotten to devise an exit strategy. The sight of it illustrated the clustered cords collected behind an affable entertainment center of a living room of which my disentanglement deplored dusty discouragements. The schemed departure was a quirk of which I’d conditioned myself to prepare aiding my avoidance revelation of my really being a fleshly incarnate of ineptitude abominable in crowds. In hindsight, allowing myself to fall victim to such a state to begin with, exemplified a higher degree of cowardice in comparison to the requisite of a delusional vindication for a fallibly foreshadowed flee of your own prevarication. (enter dream sequence below!)

I stood, shuffling and fidgeting anxiously around sipping my water bottle of whiskey a few minutes in repose,  while they indecisively deliberated among themselves about going to a bar, to which they decidedly went after all. Confessedly, I wanted to join them. But embarrassingly there was a longstanding fear I had inhibiting my being among a group of real nerds. I had the mental aptitude and meticulousness for detail that real nerds possessed, though it demanded more. The preconceived shortcomings I had among them germinated from never having dedicated the incomparable amount of time they mantra’ed into endlessly effortless eccentricities.
I was afraid my arrest would be demanded to justice, or the hauling to the gallows of my malnourished flesh-bagged bones, and spilling of my blood would be chanted for if I had, say,  mistaken their dismissal of my presence to be subtle acceptance and, out of a displaced sense of courage, expounded an obtusely vague reference in regards to some sort of basement pop-culture wonder, errant of a minor detail, I’d be tossed to the repressively enraged mobs o’ subordi-nerds in which they’d have a frenzy inthe defiling of my body!! And those nerds! They will defile me with an overt courteousness, I’d have an inclination to shake they’re unsatisfied hands as I picked up my shuffled, tattered remains of my wits! And poker cards! This floor was filthy! …no it’s not your fault, Craig. I forget the nerdy public brandings! Imagine it! being forced to stand publicly in place! My posture is guaranteed to receive not an smidgen of envy! …and the nerds that setup  the display of your sickly body! They say ‘please’ and are dressed stereotypicall-y! Real nerds are to lazy to have a big bang theory! …or a little bang! …sorry, it wasn’t directed… yeah, I know… well how would I…? Digress now! Okay! I will if you promise to continue wearing large t-shirts! with the logos that can’t be paid a single cent  for it’s lack of sense! …and it’s pastel shade from overwashings!

Digressed. ‘would you mind‘?! They ask me! the nauseating formality! Certainly not! It was implied I had no choice! but your tone! So gentle and exudes a gracious politeness! …I feel bad for not having a choice!”  AND THEY STAMP!  Stamped with such stamping! The atrociousness absent! …fingerless fingerpointing! Devoid of detriment! you misunderstood monsters!  fraud!  They say…? at me? poseur!  one of them murmurs, but he’s hiding his face! I can’t tell if he’s actually trying to talk to the guy next to him.  infadel!  Bravo! I yell back at him. I did not not anticipate your originality! ‘Why thank you!’  he yells back a moment later. and stamped with black sharpies the exact opposite  fury exemplified during the holocaust. A full-blooded nerd could be compared to a German Nazi to some degree.

Of course, that statement would be pushing the boundary, but you wouldn’t think so after witnessing the kind of passive, unobtrusive contempt so mercilessly managed, it’d flabbergasted you to anomalously deteriorate into a state of catatonia to which even the thought of suicide seemed as feasible as cutting down a tree with a piece of bark. Fuck that shit! I’ll spend New Years alone with the shitty whiskey in the water bottle.

Even the whiskeyed water bottle in solitude to the fantastical Pulp albums on New Years morning presented a deficit in the standardized quality of torment my fearful fortune favored. I counseled a relationship till 4. (Rather than embellish the rest of that in full detail, which included hours of hysteria, a secret cave off the train tracks, a search for a little girl’s stuffed animal, and a chocolate breakfast burrito, I’ll summarize.) 

Notes from counseling (I basically had to reiterate these few lines multiple times in order to get the message through. I think they’ll help someone… if you listen to the words you use.)

-Irrational arguments are ones you make excellent points… that are irrelevant to the topic. They only sandwich more layers into your shit sandwich, but with gummy worms and waffles. (Plus, you sacrifice validity and maturity by reintroducing an already digested topping.)

-pedantic arguments are the ones where the past is brought up as ammunition for a new argument, which is also a repeat performance. And sometimes, this is done accidentally and will snowball into something else if you have Stubborn’s Disease.

-childish arguments are pedantic arguments, but have become childish because of your employ of, “I wasn’t the one who started it.” or the ‘shut your mouth when you’re talking to me!” and my favorite:

“you did this to me once remember, I’m doing the same thing back.”  the ol’ i get a freebie because this fight had already been had, but we’re not going to learn from it, nor any of the other fights we had and will ever have. -Then followed by the consequent, “how can you be mad at me for doing that?! I was going to use the freebie i think you know I technically justified.”

I don't know how to optimize my content with photos.

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kitty cat clause

they cuddle and play with you because you’re
so
darn
cute
but when you want something
or heaven forbid
need something
they lock you
in
the
bathroom

I can only save you from being alone
when i’m ’round and at home
believe in me my son
I love you most dear
but your kitten eyes must see clear
for you ain’t th’only one

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Cats, Dogs, Sex in the City, and a Band of Brothers

[Author’s note: the parts crossed out, were part of a dictated conversation from 2 separate authors notes. It also got really filthy and crude, so skip ahead to the uncrossed, boring parts.]

The bare minimum only sustains and postpones any progress in your life. That came to me in a daydream while I was on a mystical journey inside a Vons/Pavillions. (I was following someone.) Have you ever seen the movie, Once? It was a good movie but I couldn’t stop staring at the ginger lead character. It just struck me as strange for no reason. Then I thought about Cosmo Brown from Singing in the Rain. His character had pizzazz and charm and a great attitude, and was hilarious, but he was a ginger. He’d never be allowed to bang Kathy Seldon. Of course, I wouldn’t be allowed to bang Kathy Seldon either. (For those of you who don’t know, I’m not a bigot, I indiscriminately hate all races.)

Sometimes, I shock myself with 9volt batteries. Sometimes I shock myself when someone points out my race after I’d forgotten. I’m not even sure what-the-fuck race I actually am, and never could grasp how seriously some take it. I mean, I realize there are obstacles I’ve to jump over every now and then, but I’ve always had to do that. I’ll still never get to bang Kathy Seldon.

[Tell me one good reason why it’s important to classify by race and I’ll tell you it’s another reason why the human race is still a joke. Your footprints shall cease and your existence will be forgotten by the tick of time.] That’s probably what the Earth would say, and say it with a smoker’s cough.

I’m not like that. I’m nicer and more passive because I probably can’t kick you ass in a bar-fight. Not like Blue Mama Earth can with her Hurricane swag and believe me, that ain’t her only trick. IF you do manage to kick her ass, I’ll have been waiting with an empty beer bottle to less-confrontational-ly throw at the back of your head. So you wouldn’t see it coming or possibly wrestle it out of my hand. While you’re curtains are closed and the intermission music montage is playing, I’ll rudely talk shit about how you beat up a woman and how I defended her honor and win everyone on my side, and simultaneously distracting the patrons by bringing your limp body onto a stool next to me and buying you a beer. Hopefully no one will realize my cheapshotdickmove of throwing a bottle at the back of your head to end your tyranny. I’ll probably end up drinking your beer in the next ten minutes after the cloud of pointless aggression settles, and leave with the second prettiest girl you came with because I’m a simple man. She’ll probably have empathized with my performance of being a hero who fought smart, as opposed to have fought dirty. I will have become drunk enough to forgive her for being your friend, and fuck her mercilessly into a puddle of jelly or pudding of some kind for a hard 4 minutes.

(Again, I’m a simple man, aim too high and it might miss the sky. Where others feel inclined to impress, I say it ain’t the real me. If I’m not good enough, I’m okay with you cutting me from your cast and crew right then and there, before we take the two-month downward love spiral because I can’t keep up with all my lies and gradually revert back to my copacetic self because you have failed to inspire any changes in my life to better fit into a snug studio loft within your heart.)

4 minutes is the bar price she’ll pay for me to pound her little pink cigarette case with the fury of Apollo until it flattens into a black and blue Goodbye Kitty credit card, and baby, you best believe my tongue is going in that naughty little water park of hers and it’s thirstier than Dracula with a conscience. I’ll probably dig my shovel in her backyard too and try to say the exploding passion or whatever made me do it. Hopefully, this pink taco massacre takes place at her place so I’d be able to go through her things to find a memento. I’ll even learn a few things about her besides her name because I probably nodded to whatever sentences I found no substance in that came out of her mouth like music coming out of a shitty speaker in an elevator.

At her place, I’ll be able to slink out quietly in the middle of the night and walk home through the rained-on empty streets reflecting the city lights with a bluish hue from the pearl white full moon in the cloudless black sky.

If she’s owner to those butt dimples just above the waistline of those shamefully tight cock-ready jeans, I’ll ride her like a military dad. I’ll ride her anyway, because it’s a fucking free ticket to fuck like fucking lions, fucking Nala like a naughty slut, primal, raw, and claws baby! The poor bastard that rustles in the bushes that disrupts our fuck-ageddon, is going to get clawed into pieces! (Lionesses actually does the hunting, and the male just waits because he’s the man and still ready to bone down or eat glorious meats. If a safari jeep showed up, I think I’d be able to fuck it up, depending on it’s tranquilizer dart supply, my tolerance from to opiates as a fucking lion, and whether the guide is on his first week which the other guides should have warned about interrupting my bang time.)

I’ll probably have beer munchies and when the opportunity arises, I’ll fuck her and eat simultaneously until I’ve banged every organ out of her body. She better be good at screaming bloody murder in savage ecstasy, or good at faking it because I love a good performance. It tells my cock her cunt is hospitable and my cock’ll think, “it’s nice in here, I hope my master lets me blow a fat fucking load of spicy happy-sauce somewhere in, on, or around this place. Hile, Black Angus, Hile!”

4 minutes because it’s ultimately what one asks for when asking in a bar. Personally, I’ve never picked up women in a bar. [That I can recall.] The process itself dissuades me and the prize, the 4 minutes doesn’t present any reward worth a flying fuck of mine. I’m not a guy that high-fives my homies because I got a drunk little cock-gobbler to release my snake into her garden. There’s no thrill of the catch for me either because persuading a drunk chick to leave with an asshole is not a very difficult thing to do in L.A. It’s like kicking a kitten. All one has to do is omit the idea that this woman has ideas and opinions and feelings that are worth a damn on occasion, and make sure you seem decisive and in control of most aspects of your life while you flirt. Seem is the keyword, fellas, and you’ll be fucking her fooled meaningless flesh in no time. Oh, and make sure she’s had a few so she can omit the women’s lib thing and men are bastards mantra they sing at their tea parties, and mistake your cockiness for charm. Then high-five your ego, toast your glass of self-glory, and give yourself a wall-street applause because you’ve lowered the points on humanity’s stock.

Now, you say, “It’s survival,” and I’ll say, “I’ll toast to that! What kind of world are you surviving for again? Man, I was just in the bathroom, and this drunk dude was pissing in the urinal, got it a couple of times, and I’m pretty sure he fell in dick first at one point. He didn’t even wash his hands, and now he’s gonna go bang that random chick he left with. I’m sorry, what were you saying? Right, survival…”

Bitches, don’t think you’re innocent too. (I don’t mean bitches in derogatory way, I’m punching fellow cocks brutally, and I didn’t want you feeling left out without a cute pet-name.) Every time you let a cock take your castle, the cocks gather and cock-a-doodle-doo his glory, encouraging and inspiring other cocks to do the same. And they can, baby. My loves, my ladies, no matter how many times you’ve watched the episodes of Sex in the City (as I have, no joke) or ran from these raging cock-wielding assholes, an asshole will always find you. It’ll be your fault, because men don’t think, right? They react like dogs that hunt in packs and want your tasty treats. They follow suit of an alpha dog, and when he’s banging a bitch, the others will be banging soon too. Men follow the alpha in their packs, but these leaders have been in a moral decline. These men can’t find a woman’s love precious, and I’m sure the feeling is mutual.

Listen up boys. You stupid cocksuckers!

(I wanted to leave it at that cause it sounded cool and might win some women back.) Deep down, I do care about where our illegitimate children are raised. There are very few good guys left, the ones that mean it when they say, “how you doin’?” and they’ve become harder for the good bitches to find. It’s just as hard for these good pricks to find good bitches. We all know the drill when one of the boys is down for the count because a girl put him there, pick up a 24-pack of she’s a bitch and you can do better, and hit the town. If he’s really down in the dumps, the fifth of “you aren’t gonna remember shit in the morning because I love you man, Band of Brothers, no man left behind!”

All the while, she’s communing with her friends that thought there was something off about your boy. They don’t know exactly what, but will give an answer vaguely close and neutral ensuring her that they know what the fuck is going on. Most of the time, their “omelette of knowledge” is foundation’d around something they’ve heard all their lives from hearsay, probably from someone older. They feel it necessary to take control with a “mama knows best,” approach, and to the trained eye, only goes to show what little progress they’ve achieved in life. They just don’t know what a good guy looks like, so good guys look a little off or unbelievable. It’s not threatening to us pricks, but their defense mechanisms. The fangs only come out when you do something wrong. Bitches are like cats. They will do what they want, and there’s nothing you can do. You push, and it will hurt.

Cats, dogs, pricks, bitches, Sex in the City, and a Band of Brothers. Gentlemen, you’re in a pack with the wrong kind of leader. The wrong kind of leadership leads nowhere. Remember when Joey from Friends got his own show? Neither do I. Ladies, you don’t give the puppy a treat when he pisses on your rug, but sometimes a girlfriend of yours does because he’s the cutest puppy ever! Your rug is still pissed on but the only thing the puppy knows is that he got a treat even after juicing your rug. I’ve got to start closing my blinds now and locking my doors. What next?

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beer or beef

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Money or taking it easy, that’s what we have dictating our lives in place of a bible, the all-time best seller. I’ve heard that line [taking it easy] so many times, only to find swine chime it mentally and never knew what it meant, like the bluff at the poker table. Just fold cause you’ve lost.  The coarse and the fine are friends who never pick up the tab in your one act life, and they never forget their lines. The “take it easy” proverb is as empty as the pitcher.

Money comes with the constitution of your work, in most cases, and depend on it. Perseverance in this fish-eat-fish world (never seen a dog eat another dog) through labor and, since extreme measures of population control have not been [officially] devised, most of us with warm blood in our veins, will hitherto, labor amongst shit jobs. Those who aren’t subjected to that kind of life experience don’t understand the majesty of eat in a 1$ carne asada taco after 3 days of rationed saltines, or worse, tell you they do with the utmost conviction in their eye. As far as I’m concerned, the shit-job title only regards some kind of septic disposal. But that’s me being idealistic.

I’ve cleaned the vomit off the floor around the toilet seat at work after last call and winning a sympathy pint, I’ve fed the homeless while filling my ‘s homeless people served quota, published on both sides of the Atlantic, and as a high schooler slept with the most beautiful sophomore I’d ever seen, very tender and statutory. If this job sustains your life our keeps you going, this by default, is a part of you, from capitalized letter to the period. “Take it easy? Google and CNN says you’re a fucken’ liar.”

Take it easy is easy enough to taunt to the working class, but I’m two weeks late on my car payment for a car that I need to get a new battery for, my physiology mid-term that’ll decide if I can transfer into that university I don’t want to go to is in a few hours, the future of Afghanistan, and gas went up 3 cents! I’ll tell you what I’ll take; a refill on my prescription that’ll cost me a car battery.

Yeah, I’m just spitting out words, I’m really just too much of a spineless coward to, well, have any convictions pertaining to anything of substance. I mean, I like my steak rare, neither my beer nor cigarettes to be light, and the gallop of a horse. But I’ll never vote left or right, nor try to convince you. But you think my vote will cost your liberties. My vote will take your easy from you. It won’t, humanity will never take it easy as long as there’s someone standing to your left or your right. Rid one, and another always comes, standing where you once were.

I’ll take it easy by lying down, even if I’m the only one, but even I know I’ll have to get up to take a shit if I wanna go back to lying down. You’ll join me sooner our later, so why bust my balls now and look stupid later?

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