Tag Archives: death

funny old buddy

Ever since I was 8 years old I
had a friend that
has stayed my friend
the longest
I met him at a family friend’s pool
my father
tried to teach me how to
a mexican beer in his left hand he
thew me into the
deep end and said
“now swim, chubby!”
I took the swimming lesson
with my

then I gave up and
sank to the bottom at
looking up and seeing the
bright red unyielding shimmer of
mexican beer

I met my friend
down there
and he was nice
he said hello and asked me to walk
out of the pool and
I did
I still don’t know how to

I met him again when I was
It was the first time I ever slapped
a girl
my first
I don’t know why I did it
I was angry at

when my father was angry he
slapped my mother
I watched and only thought about wanting to
them both

my girl’s screeching and
reminded me of
them so I
sliced the air between
her face and my
with an open

I found myself that night
leaning frontward toward a wall of
my body heavy with
then I flung my head
into the wall of
as my friend watched
then he walked over to me
looked down at me
and said

“not this time either, but
nice try though.”

the next time I saw him
I was 21
my first and only
spent the night
a D.J.
it was too dreary to get across the continent
to hit him in his
with a
instead I skipped that step and onto the
on the edge of a parking structure
I looked at the tiny heads of
all the people that would be
disappointed if
I splattered
bits of me on their clothes
before their lunchbreak
was over

my friend stared off the edge with me
and said,

“are you sure you’re okay
with being
lets just get a beer”

we did
and I saw him multiple times
after that
the same reason
the same
though my friend and I did

my friend has spent
every night
with me these past two weeks
he met with my boss at work
but took him
they paid him the big bucks for his
but that also meant
when my friend took my boss
that I no longer had a boss
my ride was bitter and not
any longer
and had to write
in 6 years

but this time
my friend came with a menu of
knife, pills, ledges over freeways, moving vehicles

I toyed with all the ideas
I have to pay my
half of the rent
but I shouldn’t care
my roommates often
let me feel
but I try
anyway with a meandering sense of
and tonight
my friend and I walked through a
lightning storm which usually
terrifies me
being struck by one
would have felt
when I stepped through the door of the apartment
back from the storm
something strange
my roommate
hugged me and said

“thank you so much for cleaning the
it looks as white as

I wanted to tell her
she was
to catch me there
as a flash of light
right outside the door
I smirked with the
and went upstairs with
my friend

my friend only hangs out with me
no one else
he hangs out with me
no one else
my friend is hanging out out with me

I don’t think he realizes
that I don’t
on ever really
going with him
I just happen to think
he’s a


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Ghouls of Christmas Past

We age and gain wisdom by the second; it’s a simple truth of life. Though, the cynical side of me finds that annoying, but only because it makes this inevitably slow crawl to our own individual demise, seem pointless. Yes, that’s the classic, cliché existentialist mantra too, but can you refute that? Don’t feel bad, my best response was, “for love… but that comes with suffering too, doesn’t it?”.

I didn’t suffer too much but there were I need a shot moments, and the said, shot, will alleviate the moment.  The worst moments were when I had to deal with people from my past that, somehow, seemed never to have aged. They got older physically, but their level of wisdom had not left where it began about a decade ago. A peeve of mine, I suppose, but it was always exacerbated because I couldn’t understand why it annoyed me, leaving to me to feel I had blossomed, over time, into a fucking asshole (no, I won’t sugar-coat it). I had down everything down to the letter in the textbook; hypocritically gone to school, worked spontaneous jobs, gotten into, both, terrible and unbelievable situations, and then some. I wanted to fly, and I flew. Sometimes into brick walls but sometimes into the crisp, hopeful blue skies, every brush of wind that hit my face was like a high-five of encouragement. …Well, like a slap in the face of encouragement. Of course, however, I’ve wanted to cut my own wings off and bleed to death huddled next to the dumpster behind a Wendy’s or a 7-Eleven. Just sometimes. I’m sure we all know which emotion is the culprit for nudging a person into such a state. L-o-v-e.

I had always blamed it on her youth. We both did, and agreed only because it seemed correct. She wasn’t capable of dealing with such an important matter as love. File the reports, cover sheets, dotted i’s and crossed t’s. She wanted to egg houses, float to the parties like a butterfly, skateboard through the House of Senate for laughs, she had the youth in her heart. I felt more like an arrogant asshole, blaming a kid for being a kid, than I did getting annoyed by my Benjamin Button friends.

The reality is, it wasn’t her fault. It wasn’t mine either. Look outside that coffee shop window, or your apartment window, take a walk outside; look for the next two people you see in love. Any age, they’re there, and will always be, and have but one thing in common. They are young at heart, despite your age. If that bloodpump inside your chest is beating, you can get into that club. The real grown-ups in the world, the workers, busy reaching that deadline, in order to sustain their lives; they’re grown ups. They don’t make farting noises in the subway. They work, then try to play at night, gripping onto whatever youth they have left, in an civil, orderly fashion. Dinner parties, over-age nightclubs, Vodka Redbulls, first and fucking last name, please. Laugh at the mere idea of Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy, unicorns, and ultimately, love. Not the proverbial love, but the love you had when you were a child; innocent, honest, unconditional. You have never been more honest with your heart than when you were a child.

We weren’t afraid of death because we didn’t know what it was. We didn’t know what love was either, but we saw it translated everyday in smiles, hugs, kisses, hellos and goodbyes. You and I may be through with the past, but no one said the past was through with us.

Love and Death are very real things, and we will meet them both by the end of the party, but it’s a matter of which asshole you’d like to meet first.

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Filed under non-fiction metaphor

Protons and Anti-Protons

I certainly cannot find a reason to dislike preservatives or additives. They make things taste better, and last longer. I don’t dislike them to the point of blaming milk and cookies for my impending death. I’ll gladly take my turkish Camel Filters over your American Spirits because if I’d any sense, I wouldn’t smoke. The filters themselves are a healthier step, and your delusions of a healthier cigarette is synonymous with a punchline.

Healthier eating habits seem propagandic, even to the point of fascism. The end result, a year more of life? In this world, does old age really seem all that advantageous? We’re always going to want a little more time, don’t get me wrong, but the speed in which we’re progressing our galactic demise is only ever-increasing. The chances of the fabled, “death by old-age” in contrast to “death by stupidity” aren’t even in the same ball-park. The chances I’ll die because of an imbecile seem more likely, and would probably prompt that imbecile to never repeat himself. Then again, imbeciles are imbeciles and their stupidity is like an earthquake. It cannot be predicted. Notions of longevity through eating habits seem futile. Look at vegans, they look more brittle than my decomposing grandmother, and without supplements, (which are unnatural on principle alone) they’d crumble.

What is your longevity worth if you’ve lived it with restrictions and fear?

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Filed under non-fiction rambling

Love tween the sheets

You’re angry now that my words are louder than your excuses. They were better when I was around and now you can’t find new and clever ways to take a walk on the wild side with a paddle board in your hand. Feeling a little lonely? You’re the lover that’s lost its way and found themselves in mediocrity, and its killing you that I don’t haver the drive to care anymore. Maybe its not mediocrity, maybe you feel how empty it is. Living rich and grand don’t matter if you don’t have am emergency contact you’ve earned. Sorry contestant, monty and daddy atte default. I warned you I would stop caring if you continued not to. And its happened, so don’t bother me and cease the meddling you do in my head and heart; it’s giving me hiccups. You’ve too many chances and blown it every time, now jump in someone elses grave. Your name isn’t written here anymore. Your hauntings don’t scare me anymore. The brunette ghost was the one that I would’ve died for, just to haunt with. In death, even she had a soul.

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Filed under non-fiction rambling

The Sweet ain’t as Sweet without the Sour

I was 23 when it happened. “Fell in love,” as most would say. Don’t worry, I’m well aware that I’m too young to fall in love, even younger to think about marriage. Yet, every now and then you hear of a story that starts out like this and that story, til this day, hasn’t finished, and perhaps I was coerced into believing it could happen to me through hearsay. And it did. She proposed to me during my vacation to Chicago, on a frigid horse-carriage ride through the South Loop. I said yes, kissed her, and ended up fondling each other for the duration of the ride across Michigan Ave. Beneath the blankets.

Two seraphically blessed months later, she passed away. I never got the chance to go through the whole wedding ceremony, never got the chance to hate my step-parents, never even got a chance to fight so bad, one of us would scream, “I want a divorce!” She just packed, and caught the next flight to St. Peter’s gate.

I didn’t feel so surprised, I felt like how I had my coffee. Unsweetened, no cream, and overcharged. I kept the ring she gave me, Juicy Coutour was etched on it. No she wasn’t so perfect, we seldom are, but her alchemy fit mine just enough to make fire. Except the departure was not as warm. Her vitality, her memory, her sweetness, her little hidden mole, stripped by the inevitably sour course of life. Was I still too young to have fallen in love, or thought about marriage? Or was she too young to die? I feel her with me, in everything I do, and it’s terrible. It’s not as sweet as they make it seem in the movies.

i got dumped twice that night by the same indecisive girl

we both died

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