Tag Archives: friendship

Just a fucking room.

I can’t give up this room. It may mean nothing to you, but it’s more than just a fucking room to me. The apartment is under my name. The gas bill is under my name. The electricity bill is under my name. Location, city, neighborhood; I worked my fucking ass off to find this apartment. I sacrificed a fucking lot to get this apartment, lost a lot of fucking things (not superficialities) to get this room. Including my goddamn mind. I’ve almost lost my life trying to keep the place. My room is still just a goddamn room to you all. It IS NOT just a fucking room to me. It is a symbol. It has been leased to me under a new life. A life after the desolate one ravaged and pillaged the soul I had. That is why I have two names. I have died once before, and this apartment, this room, is that life’s epitaph. It is not just a room.


They’ve promised my room away to some person I’ve never met before, (we’ll shed some light on this person in a moment), what little soul I had left, I laugh condescendingly, but was a drop in the bucket to their laugh. Let me give you a tour of the boat. The Ship! There is a room downstairs, the only room downstairs, the hazing room. We judge and size the new roommates down here, and it is a place where the newcomers move into. They prove themselves here. We discover how narrow their souls are, and we have discovered plenty o’narrow ones, and are okay with letting them stay here. That’s the kind of place we are, everyone deserved a chance. It is not just a room.


There are three rooms upstairs. J has a room upstairs. J‘s name has been added on the lease, next to mine, and R‘s. R drifted away into oblivion, lost at sea, mourned his own existence in the process. I, myself, was apart of the original crew. Plank Ownership, is what they call it, and I have never once exercised my right as owner. Never. Not fucking once.


M moved in after R‘s replacement moved in, and bunked together. The captain’s room. I never had a desire to be in the captain’s room. The largest room. Still don’t. It isn’t just a room. It simply isn’t my room. Then the replacement moved away, leaving M in there, and out of simplicity’s sake, she was allowed to keep it. I can’t speak for the other members of the ship, but I didn’t consider that room as just a room. I liked M, she needed a place to go, I was in the position to help her, the jigsaw pieces fell into place. Exuding cordial hospitality, was an understatement in how she was welcomed.


Then there was my room. Not just a fucking room. This was mine. My space. My face. My castle tower. My dungeon. My escape. My resolve. My room. My fucking room. I am sitting in the living room writing this, because I am, now, living there. T was moving out, and I teetered from moving onto the streets, New fucking York, and staying. Of mutiny, as mutinies go, the newest member, in the captain’s quarters, had promised an upstairs room away. Not my room. Not my fucking room, I begged and pleaded. A scornful gale of ferocious gall battered me, telling me my begging and pleading (be mindful of my having being whimsical the entire time) was manipulative. NO QUARTER for ye who holds plank ownership! Thy doth do drugs and listen to the same three songs anyway! But I rebut, I haven’t been able to afford any drugs! But mine medication doth none of thine concern! My room. My fucking room, had been deemed just a fucking room to them.


It mattered naught who took ownership of my room. The only, the only, time I had asked for anything of the crew, was shot down in a mammoth hail of cannon-fire. I was ordered (via text) to strip my life and badges off the walls. My walls. Ingrateful scaliwags! I shouted inside my mind. But I had no strength to shout it aloud. I never do. I had spent the last month living off bananas, always fucking bananas, to work my ass off to find a new living, to stay out of New fucking York, my ass was worked off of it. Again Contemporary jazz bands! Kicked out of my own band! The gales of Santa Ana were quite rough that evening, so rough, my vestigial snakeskin balls had to take cover. My room had become just a room, and the beast rests in the lobby of purgatory. A petition was signed! They shout. I chose never to register as a voter, was never overbearing enough, gall was too much work, not like a kitten, not how I was raised, and my father’s funeral occupied my plans of the weekend, but I voted not to go to that either. Spare my snakeskin bits. They chant, it’s just a fucking room!

Life is a series of fucking rooms. Who you get stuck in those rooms with add up to who you are.


Leave a comment

Filed under allegory, rhetoric, stories

Thanksgiving for the King’s Crossing


The words we implore can sometimes persuade things to go accordingly. Then there are moments where words maim and cut deep into what meaning of existence we have left. The thinner the yarn holding up your reality, the sharper and more true your words become. My yarn is thin. Anorexic, even. And when you congregate contentment with the futility in arguing against god, or the universe, or the chi, or what have you, the yarn will still hold.

It is an argument against an opponent of whom uncertainty is key in their manifest. The roll of the filthy dice, can land at evens or odds. This only insinuates a displaced hope that keeps your yarn holding. It is when hope is taken away that the tie is severed. Hope is reality, that is why we push. We push and push and push until our insides are out like the trash, our hearts on our sleeves. Care. To care is to love and back, making care a proprietor of hope. When you have nothing, you have nothing to lose. Nothing but hope, if it’s warranted. But how do we discern what is warranted? What do you care about in life that keeps you pushing? Your children? Your families? Your wives and husbands? Your friends? If you have none of these, you’ are permitted to go all in, nothing but to gain. But if you do have these, I have something to say; “Never will you feel the kind of loneliness you feel when everything you care about hasn’t an ounce of hope to spare you.”

You’ve tasted it before. When you’ve mustered enough courage to ask for something you need, and their first response wasn’t a yes or a no, but a hesitation. It tastes rancid to the point where it feels like the twisting of a blade after it has stabbed you. If you ever want to know who your friend’s were, ask them for a favor even you would deny. Watch the dissipation into thin air, the faith you thought they had in your being.

It’s Thanksgiving. Caustically fitting to my manifest. I do not write this in a bitter tone, I do not write this to maim. I write this because you realize somewhere down the line that you’ve no need to escape from who you are anymore. I have come from zero to a man who had the world in his hands and back. I have lost more than what I had initially begun with. I have loved something eternally, and lost something forever. I have believed and denounced everything behind the sun. And now I’ve lost not only myself, but my mind has begun packing. I had asked for the belief in me from those I loved and discovered my worth. And though I’ve blinked through highs and lows, then result will always be, for everyone, that we will have not ascertained anything on our deathbed. The last dying gasp you give, will not be a bad one, nor a good one. The last dying gasp you give is and will always be the punchline to an unmemorable joke.

There were only four things that were ever worth anything to me. But like all things, I could not take them with me; the sound of the piano keys, the laughter of a child who hadn’t yet understood the wretched ways of the world, the tears of someone whom never wanted to see yours, and the sound of water being poured.

Again, I do not write this bitterly or to hurt anyone. I no longer have the strength to care if I did. I spent the last few months finalizing my paperwork for my terrestrial visa, and learned to appreciate life more than I had my entire life. The flowers really do smell beautiful. I wasn’t bright enough to plant my own, but it’s too late. Some people in their 60’s realized too late they hadn’t danced enough while they were young. I realized I was a cat at the end of my ninth life. Maybe that’s why they had so many. I spent too much time trying to convince myself I was everyone’s best friend, a dog, because I had never liked cats. They seemed cold and soulless inside. I didn’t like the idea of being cold on the inside and faking warmth on the outside, because it wouldn’t matter at all whether you had nine lives or ninety-nine.

If you continue to be cold on the inside with those you love, you’ll end up not giving a damn about it at all. What’s your point, then?

Leave a comment

Filed under non-fiction rambling, rhetoric