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A Note from a Wine-Stained Diary

I’m not saying I’m mentally equivocal when I say I come from a family with more issues than the European Vanity Fair magazine. In fact, My father, Buck Harvey, raised my older brother Jack and I the best he possibly could by himself. I loved my father more than any Beatles song could ever convey. Daddy will always be an anchor in my sea. Jack was a bit off growing up, not in a weird way, unfortunately, he was just normal. Typical even. He was possibly the most ignorable guy you could ever meet. We rarely spoke to each other, unless we wanted the hot sauce. The only thing my brother Jack and I had in common was a love for hot sauce. Daddy (I will never call my daddy anything else) was a successful investor, but he never acted like it. He was a strange one though, for instance, I’ve never once, in my existence, seen him with hair. He can grow hair, and I never quite understood why I never questioned him about it. He was riding a bicycle down the beach when he met my then free-spirited, hippie mother. She was fresh flowers, and vibrant rainbows, sunshine and lollipops. I remember some nights when daddy would say to me before bed;”That day, the sun couldn’t warm or make me sweat as much as your mother’s glow, her smile, and she gave it to you, Katherine.”

Then one summer when I was 3 years old and Jack was now 7, daddy’s work ran into a slump, and a sizable amount of our savings had to be used to bounce back. By then, my mother had assimilated into the life of champagne glasses, couture dresses, and rehearsed laughs. The rainbows, rabbits, flowers, sunshine and lollipops, were surrendered in a treasure box in the cellar of her heart. She yelled at daddy every other night, and Jack would start to awkwardly make funny faces at me. I think he was trying to get me to laugh as a diversion from the commotion. He only look awkward because we always seemed like strangers to one another, acquainted siblings, and he was improvising. It worked. Sometimes they didn’t because of the kitchen cupboards. My mother would slam them so hard, they sounded like balloons being popped all around me. I’ve disliked balloons since then, and knew my brother secretly loved me, but with Do Not Disturb signs. Despite the severity of verbal shark attacks from my mother in the kitchen, daddy never once raised his voice. His voice was like a smooth baritone saxophone or like that song, Fly Me to the Moon. He kept his composure and since the kitchen was downstairs, it sounded like my mother growled and snarled at Frank Sinatra.

After a month everything seemed fine to me, the fights kept going, but I didn’t cry anymore. When they started, I would practice ballet, while Jack drew pictures of clocks. As long as we knew daddy was going to be daddy, we’d be OK.. Then my mother disappeared one day. She wasn’t in the kitchen making breakfast because she had it delivered by this little bistro the Harvey’s used to go to when the roster was just Daddy, Mother, and Jack. I’ve never been to this bistro. Incidentally, that was the first and last time I heard daddy sob. Sob Day. I didn’t know what to do. I stood there, stunned and in my pink tutu and tights (I never took them off) I got from ballet, watching him from the door of his study, his sanctuary. It felt like my fault. Not because mommy was gone and daddy sobbed, I felt bad because I’d wanted my mother to leave, out of a child-like fear and loathing. I felt guilty because I did not think at all about how daddy would feel. I may not have been keen on my mother, Jack may not have had an opinion about anything either way, but that only meant daddy was the only person that loved my mother.

I loved daddy, and that day showed me one thing: if you love someone, their feelings should always filter your actions. Love is a word, but sometimes we forget love is a verb.

When he finally realized I was there, he quickly wiped his tears, made airplane noises, spun in a circle, and the next thing I knew, I was lifted off the ground and placed onto his shoulders.

“All aboard Flight 184 to Ice cream land! Jack!! You scream, I scream we all scream for…”

“ICE CREAM!!” screamed Jack from our room. He ran into the hallway jumping up and down chanting, “Ice cream! Ice cream! Ice cream!” Ice cream always held an influential hold on the Harvey children, that and clam chowder soup. Perhaps it was the beach that did that to us. Maybe it was the beach that was in us. I cheered too, but I really just wanted to hug daddy’s bald head, and say, “I will never want someone I love  to hurt.”

Daddy’s work had picked back up by the end of that same summer. The sunshine reclaimed it’s throne with a hand through a crack in the sky above the S.S. Harvey, just after my mother abandoned ship because of a season of gloom. The first few months following that, I would overhear daddy on the phone using that calm and apologetic voice he used when he spoke to my mother. It was the only time he ever had to use that voice. Everything had gone back to normal. Jack continued to be normally weird, daddy was always daddy, and I didn’t feel any less loved. Even Grandma and Grandpa came by often. They might have been worried about us, but I think they didn’t come by as much because they were afraid of my mother. As for my mother, she made the conscious decision to leave. She placed fortune over family, and intentionally lost the key to her treasure box long ago. Her airline miles didn’t apply to paper airplanes. It taught me an abhorrence towards money. Hated it. I had no idea how I was going to keep hating it, but the fact was this: I always knew that money was and forever will never be more important than the image of a three year old girl standing on the threshold of the study, watching her father cry for the first time because she wished for her mean mother to leave, while wearing a pink tutu and ballerina tights she refused to take off, confused and having an traumatizing epiphany about love. Daddy knew that, even funny-face Jack knew that, at least, I think he did. But my mother chose to drive herself to the party.

I was 14 when I met Craig Meyer. I met him through his friend Nick Chaselli, of whom I was dating at the time. We split up two weeks later, but I wouldn’t go as far as to say my relationship with Nick had any lasting impression on me. Come to think of it, I can hardly recall what he looked like. I’ve always been that girl, the one that was always in a relationship. It wasn’t as if I was constantly, let alone consciously, looking for one. They just happened, like cracks in the asphalt. It did allow a constant flow of companionship, perhaps I was overcompensating, but more importantly, it helped pass the time. It wasn’t until I broke up with Nick that I finally grew tiresome of being dated. It was like letting them copy the answers off my math test; I got nothing out of it, and I didn’t even know if the answers were right to begin with. That’s when Craig slipped into my life. Since he and Nick were friends, he had to do the right thing and slip past him too.

“Hey Chaselli, can I talk to you for a sec?” Craig said as Nick opened his locker during passing period.

“Yeah, what’s up?” said Nick.

“Well, I heard you an Katherine broke up. I’m sorry. You alright?” Craig said, consolingly.

“Thanks, I’m okay though, we just weren’t good for each other, and I’m already talking to Janet. Katie and I are still friends, no hard feelings.”

“You’re seeing Janet Maloney already?”

“Yeah, like the day after. She has way bigger tits.” said Nick, almost nonchalantly. Craig paused for a moment with his mouth about to say something else in regards to the boobs because Janet Maloney did have the biggest boobs in school. Also the biggest ass, thighs, and gut that resembled a 2nd trimester, except it was from high school keggers thrown by juniors and seniors to get at the new meat. Craig wisely pleaded the fifth on the subject.

“Well, would it be cool if I talked to her?” asked Craig, uninspired.

“FUCK. NO.” Nick said in two long breaths, facing him now.

“Well, I have her in my Bio class next, and I’m going to talk to her anyway,” Craig started walking away with a skip-hop maneuver,  “I’m just letting you know now, buddy.” As he skip-hopped towards Biology 1A, possibly the only person in the history of that highschool to skip-hop towards any Biology class, the sound of a thunderclap came from a locker being slammed shut. Amongst the startled chatter in the hallway, a very agitated and distinguishable Nick Chaselli shouted, “FUCK!” Craig kept skip-hopping, nonchalantly.

The first few days, Craig was referred to as Nick’s muscly friend. Normally, that’s the period where I’d give them my phone number when he asked for it, then we’d chit chat about sweet nothings, I’d go along with it, and then we would date for a few weeks. I didn’t give Craig my phone number because I didn’t want to play the same song on repeat, but he was persistent. Craig didn’t get the hint. Or maybe he didn’t want to get the hint. He was handsome, smart, played on some of the teams, and could practically go out with whomever he wanted. I assumed he just got off on the challenge. There were guys like that in highschool, seek and destroy, my Knight takes your Bishop because  the pawns were peanuts. I hated those guys. I wasn’t gonna cave. After about 5 weeks, he was still on it. I figured it was time to let him have the number as a reward, if not just to stop hearing the words “number,” and “call you,” come out of his mouth.

He brought me flowers. Not just once. I had no space to put them in my bedroom, because the other flowers he brought were still there. Either he was really competitive, or he really liked me, because Craig Meyer did this for an entire fucking year. Technically, this was the longest pseudo-relationship I’ve ever had with a guy. He became a kind of routine that I became less and less annoyed with. It got to the point where I enjoyed being around him. It was hard to yawn around him.

By the time I was a sophomore, we were practically best friends. We never argued about trivialities, like what movie to catch, where to eat, who we were with. We liked the same movies, the same foods, and already had the same friends. I’d met his family countless times; His older brother, Donnie (whom reminded me of Jack, except Donnie knew how to smile), younger brother, Vincent (the loveable black sheep), older sister Diane (who’s a real bitch. She was ugly as a child and became pretty later, ugly duckling syndrome I thought, but from what I understand, she’s always been a bitch and no one really knew why that was), his mother Emmaline (A beautiful woman from Sussex, England, with a Martha Stewart swag set), and his dad, Edward Meyer (The Furor). He was special.

I had been in and out of that house for an entire year, spoken and laughed with everyone (including the bitch sister, in which I’ve learned to smile and speak in a higher pitch when I dealt with her), drank tea at 4 0’clock  teatime with Emmaline simply because she wanted to know how my day was. Craig’s dad had never spoken a word to me. As far as I knew, I hadn’t done anything wrong, and I certainly wasn’t planning on it. I had the power of invisibility around The Furor. It was hinted that he was only like that when I was around. I couldn’t understand why, especially after the story Craig told me of how his parents met.

Edward married Emmaline two months after meeting her. She was in the country for a tour of the different colleges and also as a short vacation. When the tour left for home in England, Emmaline stayed behind partly because of a charming and handsome young Edward Meyer, pre-Furor, who happened to own a chain of successful grocery markets, but the main reason she stayed behind was because they were madly in love and had could spare no time worrying about the buckling the seatbelts. Eagerly wanting to start the rest of their lives together. The third month of their meeting, they purchased a house on a hill, lawn large enough for four kids. Ed and Emma remodeled the house themselves to the exact specifications of their love, with a white picket fence, an homage to endangered tradition of happily ever after. It made me think about my mother sometimes, but that only allowed me to appreciate the serendipitous poetry they call their lives, even more.

One day I was over at the Meyer’s, as I often was, I was sitting on a bench with Craig on his front lawn. He seemed a little down that day, which was suspect. The thing about Craig is he’s always the life of the party, loved by everyone around. You rarely ever caught him arrogantly looking up, and never caught him meekly looking down. You know how you can tell when a friend isn’t telling you something because you’ve seen and studied them enough to have the instinct? I knew all of Craig’s faces, and gestures.

“What’s wrong? And don’t you dare lie to me or I’ll fuck you up.” I asked in my run-of-the-mill coarseness.

“It’s my dad. He took my keys.” He said after a strange pause. I ignored it.

“So what? You’ll get ’em back by what? Tomorrow? We’ll just watch a movie here, I don’t care. Why’d the Furor take your keys?” I said. The Furor was a fitting title because he was the only one in the house that wasn’t blonde. I was at least a dirty blonde.

“I called Di, a bitch.” he said. Now he seemed really off. We’d be laughing by now. Strike two. I pitched again.

“Oh? Since when did calling your own sister by her spirit animal become a car-crippling crime.” I joked. He responded with a fake-laughed. My eyes bugged out almost completely out of my skull and I thought, “HOW DARE YOU FAKE-LAUGH ME, CRAIG MEYER! His face flushed pale as he realized that I realized he fake-laughed me, and before I could smack his face and his fake-laugh all over the lawn, I heard the front porch door creak open. I turned around and it was Edward. The car-repo Furor. I quickly turned my right hook into a wave.

“Hi Mr. Meyer!” I said with a higher pitch.
“Hello Katherine, how are you?” The Furor said back. I fought every ounce of muscle and instinct to keep my jaw from dropping. I exerted so much concentration into my jaw muscles that I forgot about my eyes. The two big blue iris’ bugged out as if they had just witnessed the Pope air-guitaring to Stairway to Heaven. I froze up, I felt a chill and a hot flash simultaneously. Visions of the beginning of time in the cosmos, swirling celestial dust, black holes, white holes, the milky way, the non-fat milky way, flashed and shimmered. Simultaneously, visions of the end of time with fire, rubble, toil, and trouble; together, fusing ultimate truths and infinite contradictions into a state of snow white serene desolation, and I was still waving at Edward Meyer.

“…uh… I’m great! Thank you so much for asking!” I couldn’t think of anything to say besides that. And I immediately wanted to smack myself on the forehead  for including the unnecessary attachment and emphasis of “so much” to my pitiful answer of a question I’ve heard every day of my life. That’s at least 5110 days.

“That ‘s good. I was hoping you’d be here today. I was wondering if you’d have a moment, I’d like to talk to you about something.” He sounded so calm and genuine.

“Don’t!” Craig whispered to me, “Tell him you have to leave, meet me on the corner and I’ll steal a car to get you away from here.” I looked at Craig. Then I looked at the Furor. I couldn’t tell which one was joking.

“It’s okay, I don’t mind really. I think this could be my chance to get on his good side.” I told him as I got up. Suddenly, he gripped my arm and held it. The look in his eyes was a look I’d never seen before. It scared me. Something was wrong. I felt like there was a canon being loaded, maybe it’s already been loaded, hidden, and the fuse was about to be lit.


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Leaving your baby mama while she’s pregnant means you don’t get to name it when you go back to her in roughly sixteen months. You’re stuck with that. Sixteen months is the average time for fellow hipster dudes to accept fatherhood. Pro’s about that are, they’ve taken the time necessary to restructure the imperative circumstances surrounding their lives, and without feeling like they were pressured into doing so. The con’s are, and I apologize, you ladies’ have to go through the beginning stages alone. Unless you have good friends whom you know the last names of (not through Facebook.) Those are the ones that stick around, not, but don’t worry, if you made a good friend over Facebook, chances are, you don’t know their middlename yet. There’s still hope for you. For guys, if your bro’s haven’t complained to you about a certain girl, (not girls in general) you’re not in yet. Men seem to use women as classificational objects, in this is the easiest way to pinpoint where your head is on the bro’tem pole.

Anyway, I’ve seen plenty of guys shoved into fatherhood, and I’ve seen more battling with the concept. Some relieved to discover and cheer these words: it ain’t mine, muthaf*cka! That already says plenty about the male mentality behind it, especially between the ages of 22 to 32. And no ladies, your man can’t be mo’ mature like your friend, Kim’s man, he’s as mature as you found him. The more single he’s been in life, his chances of being mature are higher. Believe me on this wizardry, and if you don’t, it’s probably because you’re too pretty, or haven’t turned 28 yet. There are tons of great guys you complain about never meeting, while your friend Pete without the vagina is picking up white cheddar Cheezits and his director’s cut copy of In Her Shoes to show up at your cold K-town apartment loft because you were too sick to do anything today. (Yes that loft is pre-baby, have you breathed North Korean air? Korea Town air, I mean.)

For the guys shoved into the pit of fatherhood, you did this, you finish it. If ever there was a bigger wake-up call than this to take hold of your life, this is it. Your recklessness obviously didn’t do you any good, did it? The plus side, your baby momma is probably still a stone cold fox, would you feel good if your kid called another MILF hunter, Daddy? Nah, that would piss me the f*ck off too. Sh*t that don’t make sense piss me the f*ck off. F*ck! Sh*t! Motherf*cker! Wait, you could be that motherf*cker, you lucky son of a f*ck! So suck it up, you’re not the one guy in the world that’s ever gone through this.

(Just catch her cheating and your hands are clean! That’s a more level-headed approach, I think. Just looking out for my boys too. You girls are too smart, it ain’t fair.)

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National Geographic is Being Too Graphic

First came the uni-brow, then the club. Kings of bashers we were, then the weird cousin discovered flame, scared the shit out of us, then discovered the shit we bashed the shit out of was delicioso under weirdo cousin’s fire. Open Bashin’ Shit restaurant, and traded for goodies. Got babytooth necklace back once, my baby tooth from uncle Argh. Uncle Argh sad but glad with neanderthal chorizo. Things we live is easy. Take woman, Make tiny-me’s.

After millions of fun-filled years, the hunter-gatherer men spawned us men; brighter, well-dressed and killed with axes and swords, (I’d prefer an axe because that’s just awesome to slay anything with, even Tres Leche cake,) but we still kept our women to ourselves. Like our treasures we find in the sand at the beach only to keep it hidden and protected in a Reebok shoebox in the back of the closet at mom’s place, slowly being disregarded until forgotten and to your surprise, grows feet and disappears. *gasp*

Here’s the thing; women aren’t property or prizes, in fact, it was because of them that we’ve advanced this far. Neanderthals killed to feed their women in order to keep them, (I’m sure there was competition, not because neanderhipstergirl was hot, but when one man wants something, they all want it. The animals do it too, except they killed and killed damn good, gang fights and MMA and/or Mortal Kombat started here,) and if they didn’t, another would. That’s the way it’s always been. Now that the Civil Movement has happened, 19th amendment, and everyone can vote now, women have been on the brink of discovering their superiority. Female praying mantis’ already know it, (killin’ the dude after the best one-night-stand ever,) some spiders break off the male penis to plug up her own fun-holes, to reproduce only once. Human women can take half your shit now, your vintage record collection you just started, the books you didn’t write your name in when you moved in together… and even the dog, the one you brought with you because you needed a best friend to listen to your shit without judging you. Does that sound completely unfair? Or does it sound like karma? Are we as men so desensitized that we act surprised if a girl flexes? They can, you know. Equal rights means they can kick as much ass as us men do, except they’re much smarter than we are.

The next time you immerse yourself into an argument with your girlfriend or wife or top bed share-holder, it’s not because she doesn’t love you. I know this one to be a fact; to us guys, these random fights are random and you think she’s crazy, but these random fights actually happen because they’ve changed in some way, and grew. Men don’t change, we just get older. She probably thinks you’re a pussy. In this reasoning, women have at least million years of growing to catch up on. They’re just smarter and faster, and still us men will find a reason to call it an unfair match.

We, men, only have each other to cheer, but do you think we’ll get anything accomplished with all-male cheerleaders? The answer is a very obvious no, even I would be too distracted. (That’s why I only get my advice from women I believe are the equivalent of generals, maybe captains too, because I know that if I can’t beat them, I’m better off joining them. And also, I have nothing against male cheerleaders, you guys are great, better dancers sometimes too. It’s better just to say you’re on the other team, I think.)

Just find solace in knowing you will never understand a woman, even the one you’ve been with the last four years or two and a half weeks. No record in history was there ever a [straight] man who understood them… and lived. Maybe Chuck Norris or the Dos Equis guy, I think his name is Maxwell. Maxwell and Chuck Norris can do it, but can we ever be like them? Fuck no, so don’t try to understand women but have a flavor-infused Dos Equis beer, which is on sale at your local CVS for $5.49 a six-pack. What a deal!! Two exclamation points! Anyway, admire the gem of a woman you do have like a perfectly cooked steak. Rare, but seared just right on both sides and know that not everyone will see the steak like that, but they’ll eat it if they get a chance. Some want theirs medium, or well-done, but the whole dilio is not guaranteed to appease your taste buds, so don’t expect it to. Move with it or move it. After all, they keep us going, despite the preconceived transgression. Us men seem to grow only after our hearts have been hurt and are left a-bleedin’, but that also means that you were too late. Walk it off.

she loved him till death, because he never tried to understand her.

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Slaughterhouse Six

I hope I’m not crazy for being the only one who thinks love has become endangered, borderline extinct. Well, I can’t speak for other cities or states besides LA and California. There was a time when one was lucky to fall in love, a time when we didn’t think one unlucky for being in love. You’ve seen it, and we all know you’ve secretly thought to yourself, “poor bastard.” When they say history repeats itself, it’s precisely this that proves the futility of this hopeful though indignant/indulgent plight. If you kill a man, make sure he doesn’t have any connections. Via heartache or on a literal basis. When they killed Jesus, they didn’t think about who his Dad was did they?

On the subject of history repeating itself, it, inadvertently resembles time-travel, a volition of statistics, and an accurate hypothesis of what happens next etc. What I mean is if you can time-travel, then you can already expect the worst to happen, which means you know a piece of the future and can do something to avoid it, right? However, humans are silly, and we all secretly think we’re the one person in history that can rebuke our fate. If there’s one thing time-traveling can teach you, it’s that your intellect can, at the least, make your love-life bearable. Settle for less, or settle for reaching for the dream. Yes it sounds terrible, but which part of modern love can you think of that isn’t adjective of terrible? (Besides the beginning, because we all know that’s the best part. Ironically it gets you so high, that you can only roll down the hill afterwards.)

(This post brought to you through countless counseling sessions hosted by yours truly. The end result, you can only become a better version of you in order to combat the reality, [which is the current you.])

“Hang in there! You know things are gonna get better before you can do this all over again!”

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