I Pray for 4 p.m.

I pray for 4 p.m. Five days a week, eight hours a day, most of the year. You spend a majority of your life with your coworkers. I spend a majority of my life with my coworkers. Think about that. Because I wake up and don’t want to be awake, then I’m at work, and when I’m home I want to work on my own projects and then I’m in bed. But I communicate, potentially, with my coworkers more than my family.

No sane person should want to go to a job they’re only at because they need to survive in this world. You should be pining for the second you get out to go and live your life. Sure, some people “love” their job. But what would they say if they had the chance to never work again? You can enjoy a job all you want, but you have to do it, all of it.

Too many are obsessed with this, “I love my job” mantra. Do they really? What is their home life like? I’d venture to guess anyone who “loves” their job might be a miserable person outside of work. Work enables me to do what I want outside of work, it’s an age-old means to an end. If you aren’t looking forward to the end of the day when you can do whatever you want, you’re just wasting your life away sitting around doing nothing while you twit your thumbs around waiting for the next work day to begin. I hate little more than looking at the clock at night and realizing I need to sleep. I do not love my job, I never particularly want to love my job. I tolerate my job. Some jobs I tolerate less than others.

If you fall in love with your job you’ve lost. You’ve perished to the machine. You will get engulfed in something that you will eventually leave by some means or another and no one will care. More times than note you are expendable, you will be replaced, time marches on and so will the place you worked for. This of course with the exception of an invaluable skill or ideal you offered if you hold a high place or run a business. If you’re gone, it goes down. If it doesn’t? Perhaps you could’ve been anybody, you just got there first.

I guess it comes down to quality of life. Yes, one can argue if you love your job and your life outside of your job, that’s pretty good. Well, what if those people didn’t have to work? Would they still want to do it? I’d venture to guess they’d spend that time now free on other endeavors. You might like making pizza, you might like managing others in an administrative setting, or enjoy building or fixing or making belts or overseeing a manufacturing company or what have you. But if you were free, truly free, you wouldn’t be doing that, sure, if a cook wants a restaurant, then they’ll do that. Or a copywriter or editor wants to write books, then they’ll do that. Still up the same alley, but not the same thing.

I pray for 4 p.m. because I refuse to be lumped into a culture that tells you that you should “be the best at what you do.” Not all of us can do what we want. Actually, I’ll retract and replace that statement. We can all do what we want, but not all of us can sustain the life we want by doing whatever we want. It’s can’t be statistically possible. We all can’t be working musicians, actors and actresses, directors, business owners, authors, entrepreneurs. No, we don’t all have the capability, nor the resources to do what we all want. So we get other jobs. We make sacrifices. It’s just how it is. All this love of work nonsense is just that, nonsense.

I pray for 4 p.m.

Leslie

“I hope you die. I hope you die a slow death. A slow death of Cancer, with a large C. You used to smoke, what happened? Now you smoke everything but, like a child, with that silly stupid machine, hiding it. You can’t smell it in the air, it doesn’t linger in your breath like a cigarette does. But you’re such a pretentious prick. You’re so full of yourself and so far up your own ass it’s the only reason your hair is still the color it is.

You’re such a terrible person. You, with your wine glass in your hand constantly! My god. What is wrong with you? I cheated on you because you were so boring. Ben was just so much more than you’ll ever be. Sure he was in the army and he seems legally retarded now, but he kisses me in the hallway at work and I love it, it excites me. You have not excited me in years. I can’t even remember when the last time was. You just sit there, your hand through your hair. Sure I laugh too hard, perhaps too much and too loud, but I laugh. You don’t, ever it seems. What the fuck is wrong with you?

You just sit there with your bottles and your writing. Why didn’t we ever have children? Charlie, you’re pathetic. Drinking, writing, drinking, chamber music, pipes, machines, books. We live downtown purely for the activity of it all around us. But you were barely part of it. Living vicariously through your writing from the scenes out the window of your office, your walks to the liquor store and the two nights a week at the bar downstairs. You told me once I had a big mouth, but perhaps yours is simply too small? Hmm? I think so.

Days you left me alone, to my own devices. I’ve had to entertain myself for years now. You did this to yourself Charlie. My god, look at you. It’s been a month, I can’t believe I’m writing, but to move on, I’ve got to do this. I’m not sorry. Ben and I are content in Minnesota. It’s not perfect. Yes, I do love him. Despite the fact he thinks the Earth is Flat, and he supports a steadfast nationalist view, and despite the fact that he has widely advertised that he was a contracted murderer for the government for two years, but now rails against the government he once defended.

Yes he uses the garage for stockpiling dry goods and forces me to carry a backpack in the car in case of emergencies or government takeover or “EMP” as he calls it. Yes he believes the government is trying to take his guns, the same government which gave him one in the first place. Sure, he can not form a full sentence most days beyond a 6th grade reading level, or speak above a whispered tone, and has anger problems and has children of his own he doesn’t speak too, but he’s exciting.

Ben is the product of a failed marriage, like me. He’s still married, technically, the paperwork has taken a long time to work itself out. His wife was abusive, she wanted the world. She was so needy. Her and her ugly kids, I’m glad she’s gone. I’m glad I ruined it. She wasn’t good for him. She drained him of his soul. I feed his soul, ten times over. More than she ever did for him and more than you ever did for me. You drained me. Perhaps this was all meant to be. I had to endure you in order to be where I am today. Charlie, I am so happy now. I hate you.

I’m so sad I’m just over the threshold to bear Ben’s children. I’m too old now. I wasted those years on you, I will forever hate you for that. What could have been, god what could have been. I could have been here in Minnesota years ago. Are you angry about it? I hope you are. This started five years ago. Five! I can’t believe I didn’t decide to leave you sooner. Perhaps I was waiting for something, something else, something more. Perhaps I was trying to understand you. The only things I regret are staying too long, and not fully understanding you. I never quite got to the bottom of you. So mysterious. It was intriguing at first, then I began to resent you for it. I gave up. It still nags my mind at night. NO, I do not think of you in any other way if you must know. Only in the way that you are so fucking inside yourself and never let anyone in, it angers me. I suppose it started there first, then the resentment of how you were so content alone, writing, drinking. You never needed me.

Is this angering you? All of this? I hope it is, I sincerely hope you’re fuming at reading this. Here’s some more. Three years ago, Ben got me pregnant. Yes, we were having sex almost from the very start. I have never felt sorry about it either. Some days I would come home and come so close to tell you, but I didn’t, it felt better not telling you. It took us three years and I found out. It was fairly late in the process too, we were told by a doctor I was three months along. I was showing Charlie. I was about to tell you I was going to have the baby, but the doctor told us on our second visit it would be severely mangled. Retarded, down syndrome, Autistic, deformed, so we decided to abort. We traveled up north to do it. My work trip to Ontario was in fact, a trip to a cabin where we had copious amounts of sex before getting the procedure done. It was actually quite lovely. I hope this pains you to hear Charlie. I hate you.

What’s more, his wife found out two years in. She accepted it at first, before resenting him for it and getting a divorce. Once she confronted us, at work. She made quite a scene. I thought we’d both be fired for it, but nothing happened. More interesting, she again, confronted us at a bar on the outskirts of town and eventually she sat with us, we all got drunk and we all slept together that night, it was quite lovely actually. She was a beautiful woman. I almost felt bad in that moment, but we were all too intoxicated and out of our minds to be thinking of how this would affect anything.

In the middle of it all, he made drinks and she began crying about her children, right there on the bed. It was incredible. Ben came back a few minutes later and she had snapped out of it just like that, and we went on with it all. It must of lasted all night. The sun came up and stayed, we were still going at it. Eventually I got tired and they kept going. I woke up hours later and she was gone, we never talked about it. Amazing. How does this make you feel?

Fuck you Charlie, fuck you. I despise you. I hope you rot. You ruined me. I wasted my best years on you. I have provided a false address so don’t bother writing. You stupid silly sad old man. You always did look fifteen years older than you were. I hope you rot alone, alone in that room with your writing and your wine. I hope you think of me every time you close your eyes before bed and it keeps you up every single night. Thinking about us sleeping with each other. Fuck you Charlie, rot in hell.”

- Leslie

He smirked and took a swig of his glass off the coaster and crumpled up the letter.

“What a bitch!” He announced as the dog looked back, he broke out laughing as he tossed the letter in the bin. He picked up his pipe and a match, he lit it, lit the cigar, and tossed it in the bin, inadvertently lighting the letter on fire. There was no remorse to starting the fire in his home. It burned up and petered out. It was all over fairly quickly.

He shook his head, still smiling. He went back to writing.

The phone rang not soon afterwards. He picked it up.

“Hello?”
“Charlie?”
“Leslie?”
“Did you get my letter?”
“What letter?”

She sighed, sounding annoyed.
“I sent a letter to you. Weeks ago!
“I never got a letter.”
“Check your mail!”
I do, every day.”
“AGH.” She yelled out. “I can’t believe you didn’t get it.”

He looked down at the bin, smiling. He couldn’t help it. She could nearly hear it through the phone.

“Is there anything else?” He asked.
“What?”
“Why did you call Leslie, was that all? This letter?”
“No, but considering you didn’t receive it, I’ll just tell you now-”
“Hold that thought, I need to grab another drink, do you mind?”
“Fine, I’ll wait.”

Charlie hung up the phone. He grabbed the bottle and poured himself a hefty refill. He went back to writing, still smiling. The phone rang again.

He picked up.

“Leslie?”
“Did you hang up on me?!”
“Yes. Get used to it. I’m writing now.”

He hung up a second time. He reached around and unplugged the receiver.

“Finally, peace and quiet old girl.” He said, looking down at the dog.

She was content, there on the floor, and so was he. He was never lonely, simply alone.

He continued writing, smiling, drinking and smoking. Eventually as the night went on, he stretched, and took a break walking down three flights to the liquor store before it closed, came back and continued. Sometimes staring out the window, looking for inspiration. He certainly found it.

A woman he had noticed frequently, he decided she was a prostitute, it was the only reason she’d be out this late, constantly. She met various men, many men and left with them. Up the street, down alleyways, into their cars. What else? She wrote a story about her and wondered where she came from. Why this part of town? She must live close.

He decided to make her a sympathetic character, a very sad character. Her first time she contracts very invasive STDs. But decides she needs to have many men to sustain a life. She gets pregnant with a retarded, down syndrome’d, autistic, deaf child and cannot afford to abort, so she has it. She leaves him alone far too young. She keeps tricking on the streets, addicted to drugs, sucking and fucking and becoming incredibly dirty and worn. She never tells any men she's passing around her various diseases. She spreads it around like free jam at a farmer’s market. One of them comes back and beats her senseless.

He laughs his way through this sad story. Things get worse and worse for her. He finished for the night, becoming incredibly drunk and managed to reconnect his phone. He was awakened by the dog barking and his phone. He stumbled over and picked it up.

“Hello?”
“Heather?”
“Yes, did I wake you?”
“Yes.”
“Sorry. Do you have anything good these days? We’re looking for your next one.”

He looked down at the several chapters he’d written the night before.

“Actually yes, yes I do.”
“What’s it about?”
“A prostitute, things go bad to worse.”
“Hmm. How’s it end?” She asked.
“She dies. In the gutter.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“Lots of sex?”
“Drugs and rock and roll too, if you want.”
“Okay, how much do you have?”
“Six chapters.”
“Jesus, how long have you been holding on to this?”
“What time is it?”
“Christ Charlie, you’re a martyr.”
“I don’t know if that’s the correct use of that term.”
“Send us a copy?”
“Sure.”
“Okay, prostitute story. What’s her name?”

He took a deep breath, using the time to think.

“Leslie.”
“Any significance?”
“Not at all, sounded like a prostitute’s name.”
“Perfect, sounds like our Christmas time release.
“Maybe.”
“Maybe? Charlie you wrote six chapters in a night. It’s April.”
“That’s true. Christmas it is. A real stocking stuffer.”
“Thanks Charlie, this is great news, I’ll share it with the office. I’ll be in touch.”
“Wait, what about-”
“Check’s in the mail Charlie, you know that.”
“Thanks Heather.”

He hung up. Leslie was his ticket out this go around.

She would most definitely find a copy eventually, she couldn’t help herself.

Charlie and Tyrone

“Is this any good? Is it even worth doing? Am I any good? Should I trash it and become a lush? Give it up and sell shitty t-shirts at the beach boardwalk where asshole kids go to laugh at what’s on them and never buy? Do I even have a shot at doing that? What do you think?” I asked the dog.

“I think it’s alright pal. Don’t sell yourself short.” The dog said back.

“Thanks Tyrone. I appreciate the support. I just get so self-conscious about my work you know? Who the hell would read this?”

“I’ll read it, any time. I always have, and always will.” He said sitting on the floor in front of my desk.

“You’re too kind. That’s why you’re my best friend. I smiled.

“Anytime Charlie. Anytime.” His tail wagged. “Can we go out? I need to pee.”

“Yea, now’s a good time for a break anyway.” I got up and opened the front door. Tyrone didn’t need a leash, ever. We walked around a few blocks. We always went a different way. We both loved exploring something new and always seemed to find it, even in this old neighborhood we’d been in for years.

“I don’t get why other dogs piss on everything in sight.” Tyrone asked.

“Well, it’s because they’re marking their territory.” I responded.

“ No I get that. But why? Why would you want to keep track of all that though? It’s a losing battle. I’m okay peeing on a single spot. THAT’S my spot, right? I’m not into the rat race of keeping tabs on all your spots. You have to keep going back to every spot again and again to maintain it you know? I don’t get it. Too much work.”

“I never thought about it that way.” I said to him.

“I don’t even get why they want to. Just chill out man, we’re all just trying to get outside and run around and get fed. That’s all. What’s with the archaic territorial crap?”

“I thought it was instinctive, isn’t it? From the old days?”

“That’s all horseshit.”

“It’s a lie?”

“Yea. We can stop whenever we want. I did.”

“Wow, I never knew that.”

“Yea. Sniffing ass too. We don’t need to do that. We made it up.”

“But why?”

“To sniff ass! Duh.”

l laughed hard. Tyrone ran ahead and I chased him. He was having a good time.

“Let’s go back and finish what you started.” He said.

“Well, I don’t know if I’ll finish, but we can get some more done.” I said.

We got back into our place and I sat back down at my desk. Tyrone drank some water and came back in to lay on the brown leather couch to motivate me, or perhaps make me feel guilty for procrastinating.

“I’m not even half done and I’m stuck. I’m so useless. I’m an unmotivated, washed up, never-been.”

“Instead of a has-been?” Tyrone asked.

“Yes, I never was, in my case.” I sat back in my chair.

“Jesus Charlie, come on, you never WILL BE if you don’t try.”

“She left. She’s gone Ty. What’s the point?” I put my head on the desk.

“It was 2 years ago for christ sake man, get yourself together.”

‘But I haven’t been motivated since!”

“That’s just your excuse. You need to get yourself together, pick yourself up and move on. Or else you WILL end up a loser. You’re not yet, but you’re getting there. All this sad sack shit isn’t benefiting anyone Charlie. Whose gonna pay the bills? It’s going to get cold soon! Whose going to buy me dog food? I sure as hell can’t. Get your shit together, finish the story, and post it! Tomorrow, you’ll spend the day advertising it. Even if it’s shit, you’ll have finished and it’s a start. Next go around you can put out a better one. But you can’t get there until you start.”

“Fuck, you’re totally right.” I said, shaking my head, picking it up to look at him with my sad eyes.

“Let’s get a pizza.” I said.

“NO! No fucking PIZZA! Did you hear what I just said? Get this done!”

“Alright! Alright! I’ll try to finish it.”

“NO TRYING Charlie, DO!” He barked at me.

“Don’t do that! You’re so loud.”

“Shut up and type.”

I typed. I finally got into a groove and got a good chunk of it done over the next four hours, into the dead of night with the crickets. It was midnight when i looked back up to see Tyrone passed out on the couch.

“I got it!” I yelled, Tyrone jumped awake.

“What the fuck Charlie. I was sleeping good for once. I wasn’t even snoring.”

“How would you know?” I asked.

“You would’ve yelled at me.” He was right.

“I got a groove going and I got the story now.”

“Let me hear it.” Tyrone said.

“Let me finish it, I’m in a groove and I can picture the end.”

“Yea but what if it’s shit?”

“You told me earlier it didn’t matter.”

“Yeah, but a good proof read and a little time to sit on it won’t hurt. I’ll just give you a few critiques.”

“What if you don’t like it though, I’ll just go back to thinking I’m no damn good.”

“I’m not going to say anything like that, I’m sure I’ll love it. Just read it to me.”

“Can you let me just finish it instead? That way even if you don’t like it I can just put it out. It’ll be harder to finish if you don’t like it.”

“No, I’m ready now. Just show me. Please.”

“Ugh, alright.” I turned the screen and he squinted from the couch.

Tyrone began reciting out loud. “Is this any good? Is it even worth doing? Am I any good? Should I trash it and become a lu…” He looked at me.

“Charlie, this is just what you said earlier, verbatim. This is the beginning of the story?”

“Exactly. Genius, right?!?” He tilted his head.

“So, what’s it about?”

“It’s about a writer, with a dog who can talk, who critiques his paper. It’s all meta!”

“Charlie, this is shit.”

“Fuck you! Fuck you Tyrone! If you’re not shitting on the floor you’re shitting on my parade! Get the fuck out of here! Nobody wants your stupid fucking opinion! Dumb dog.”

Charlie got up and shooed the dog off the chair and out the door.

“Good luck with your shitty story Charlie, no one’s going to buy it!”

I slammed the door behind him and paced. I thought for a moment, then sat down.

“Yeah, yeah! I’ll use that too!”

I began typing.

The bear

Four of us ascended the trail. It was supposed to be a nice 2 mile walking trail, but being in the upper tier of Maine, no trail was tame. It was a full on hike. We might as well of taken climbing gear. We had no idea what we were in for. By the time we were 20 min in it was too late to turn around. 90 degree angles, climbing bars drilled into the sides of rock faces and rebar cabling to hang on to for dear life as you wedged one foot after the other into tree roots. Complaining ensued by a few of us who hadn’t signed on. I thought it was fun. We were actually climbing the small mountain we thought we’d only pass by. The rock face seemingly at a completely vertical angle as you cracked your neck looking straight up at it.

We scaled spots where you’d surely tumble down the whole mountain to your death with little to hold on to. After many short breaks catching our breath, cursing, and hanging onto each other for support, we managed to come to a clearing. Not quite the top, but it was certainly in sight at this point. We were soaked in sweat and ready for the payoff. We transitioned from straight rock climbing, to dense brush and tree cover, even some snow in mid-May. Then, we began stumbling over droppings. These were fresh and in abundance. Bear Droppings. Without a doubt we were stepping over, in and around bear droppings. We immediately fell silent. Between the 4 of us, we probably hadn’t even amounted to half an experienced hiker. But what we did know is that this was fresh, quite fresh. After it ended, we began agreeing and remembered learning that making noise and talking would keep the potential threat away. I was scared out of my mind. The tail of shit seemed to end, then it began again. This went on for five straight minutes. There was a bear, close. Definitely a few at this point. A whole fucking family of bears who’d just crapped out a week’s load of plants, small animals and hell, hikers. It seemed to go on forever.

We were surrounded by thick, dense brush on the choked trail. If a bear was on the other side, 3 feet away you’d never know until it was too late. Steven who was taking point, clanged his ring against his metal water bottle to create a bit of noise among our shaking silence. We attempted small talk, but our fear made it difficult.

Then, from another path, another couple. They were older, perhaps in their 50s. The wife was thin, clearly the experienced hiker of the two. She had a bright neon tank top on and a hat for the occasion. Hiking boots, leggings, the works. The husband seemed to be wearing boots, but not much else in preparation of the hike. A windbreaker and a large brimmed hat all around his head. With an 8 o’clock shaddow, he seemed to be begrudgingly following her quick pace with difficulty. It was a comical sight.

However, from his shoulder, swung a small gray pelican case. I wondered what it was for. I asked after we had struck up a conversation regarding which path lead out and down as we had reached the summit. Taking in the view, “What’s in there?” I gestured toward the case. “A revolver, for the bears.” He said, patting the case. “Oh wow, are they really that common?” I asked. “Oh yea, there’s always a sighting on these mountains. Attacks are rare, but it’s good to be safe.” I nodded.

We parted ways as they were moving at a quicker pace. The way down was more comfortable. We had reached the top, taken in the view, rejoiced in accomplishment as we’d never planned on climbing it in the first place and the way down was much more open and easy in navigating. As we joked and conversed on the way down, we heard a yell out in the distance. We all froze, trying to decipher what was being said. Then the crack. It ricochet against the trees in a giant echo. I began to run towards it. Then cries for help. The others followed me. I quickly stumbled over a set of rocks looking down on a stream the trail crossed to see the man standing there with the gun aimed at a giant black bear sprinting at him. He took another shot and missed. He fell backwards trying to turn to run and the gun went flying in our direction. The bear got to him and began clawing the hell out of his legs first.

It got harder to move or breath in that moment, watching this man be mauled to death. Moron. Had the gun but couldn’t use it. I turned around to see the other 3 frozen and wide-eyed as I was. The blood curdling screams of the man trying to defend himself in vain as the bear’s claws cut like twenty razors through his old windbreaker and into his flesh. The blood began to flow and his screams got louder. It was then I realized after the man was dead, the bear would surely turn to us. I didn’t know how fast a bear could run. He certainly had the upper hand. He knew the layout and we were wearing running shoes and shorts.

The revolver was in sight. Naturally, it was roughly halfway between myself, and the giant bear. It had to be the size of a pickup truck, or seemed so at the time. Even from this far away I could feel my life flash. Do I turn and run? Could we outrun it and book it down another way? Would it just leave us alone and take off if we all made enough noise and chaos? Should we all split up? Would this be it? The stupidest decision I’d ever make? Hell, the last decision I’d ever make? I silently decided and took a deep breath.

I started slow, but that was a mistake. The bear stopped and turned to me, I froze. The man was still and silent now. The bear was still picking away though, until he hear me. I sprinted. I was gunning for that chunk of chrome and the bear was threatened. It roared, then got into an aggressive stance. I wasn’t going for the bear, but the bear thought I was on the offensive, and started for me.

I heard screaming from the others in horror looking down on me. I was convinced the bear would get to me far before I even reached the gun, let alone aim and squeeze off a few rounds. It was like a game of chicken for what seemed like an eternity. I could see the whites of it’s eyes as I finally got within reach of it, I dove. I actually dove, which I’d never of done before as I never dive into anything but my mind told my body the only way I was getting to that revolver was by diving and I managed to pull it off like a pro base stealer in the 5th game of the World Series tied up.

I slid a bit, grabbing it on the way. I don’t think I had finished sliding along the leaves and rocks before I pointed it. It took more effort than I had anticipated to pull the trigger. By the time I did, the bear was practically on top of me. I wizzed one by his right shoulder. He was right on me now, standing on his hind legs about to claw down on me like poor Mr. windbreaker. I had the benefit of rhythm though and realized I had a few moments left before he pounced on me. This time, I cocked the hammer back, giving the trigger a lighter touch and I put one in his torso, he yelled as bears do at this. He had paused a moment, but wasn’t done yet. It was a five shooter. I knew nothing about guns, but enough of the few times my father had taken me out to a range when I was much younger. This was a small revolver. But it had .357’s in it. Windbreaker man fired twice, I missed once and hit twice. I had one shot left.

The bear got angry at his chest gaining a new hole in it And got real wide eyed and came down on me. I stiffed my arm, closed one eye and fired one as he was on his way down to kill me and managed the last round right in his face. He still came down, but he was in no position to argue anymore. The force of all the weight onto me free falling knocked me out. A few moments later I woke up to my friends rolling it off me. Jesus.

Mexico

He sat down and ate. The guy in the bathroom finally left so he could piss. he sat down, ate his spicy chimichanga and blew through it, sipping on his Corona. He enjoyed drinking what's appropriate. He had a chimichanga, black beans, and onion rings.

        The waiter came over. "Please tell me, why do "authentic" Mexican places cater to american culture? Why can I order burgers or onion rings with my chimichanga? Why can I get Budweiser and miller? Why do they stoop so low to cater to the silly american? If I go to a Mexican place. I want to be able to eat Mexican without the incessant integration of shit that you can get anywhere. I want nothing but Mexican. Don't let these asshole eat pizza shop onion rings, baked potatoes and pizza. Jesus. Make them eat Mexican." He ranted. 

      "I don't know sir, I just bring the food." "Another Corona please." 

He continued eating. A few moments later the waiter returned.

    "How is it?" They always ask when you're stuffing your face. "I'm dripping and my fingers are dirty and so is my face and my hands are full. Jesus ask me later. It's all gone isn't it? How do you think it is?" 

      "Okay good." The waiter walked away nodding.

He finished and sipped on his Corona. He brought a notebook. He forgot the line he was going to write in the car on the way here. He was supposed to waltz in with his notebook and sit in the window somewhere for an hour while he waited, some Mexican cafe or fast-casual place. Instead this was a sit down restaurant. "Ready for the check?" 

   "Yes." The waiter came back moments later and dropped it off. He looked at his bill.

    "Jesus! I payed 6 bucks for this Corona! Fuck me." He got up, tossed his money down, and grabbed his half-empty corona. At least it had lime in it. The Chimichanga was good, but not work $15. He walked toward the door.

    "SIR! You can't leave with any alcohol!" The waiter yelled after him from the back of the place.

     "I payed 6 dollars for it, I'm taking it with me!" He yelled back. "BUT SIR..."

He kicked the door open. He wasn't followed. Fuck 'em. 

Finish 2

I have to finish this fucker off. How will I go about doing that? Well, by drinking of course!

          I have these grand illusions. Grand grand illusions this will legitimize me somehow. I'll get this in print and into my hands someday. But what's it all mean? 11 people at best will hold it within the next 3 years. 8 of them i'll know. 7 of which it will hurt. The other may understand. the other 3 I won't know and they won't make it this far so who the fuck cares. It's odd. As this has become a reality. I've now INVESTED in this. $100 so far on artwork. I hope you think it's good. Fuck, I just remembered I'm gonna be obligated to give this thing to a few people for free. The cover artist, a few friends. Trick question, I have none. No, only 2. Everyone else is an acquaintance. I might've written about it, I might not have. 

                I haven't even begun editing yet. Or neurotically going through each chapter to figure out if it's worth a shit or not. I'm drunk right now. It's the only way sometimes. I loathe finishing. I can start anything. Finishing I cannot. Hence why this is how it is. It's all mish/mashed. MISH MASHED DAMMIT. These are entries and short stories from the previous few years I decided it'd be cheap enough to fucking go and print up. But labelled right, it could suffice as a paperback. Do you like it? Is it big? I don't know yet. I hope it looks okay. Shit, I don't want it to look like the only other one I've seen recently. it's bland, short and it's fucking disgusting. I commend him though. Poor guy. It's terribly small. (It's from Maryland, not yours dear boy, which by the way I still have somewhere.) It's actually very sad.

               If you're reading this, you either skipped to the end or you read the whole damn thing! Congratulations! By god you've done it. Was it long? Boring? Are you my mom? Hi mum! Shit, this is like the flipped dedication section. It's at the end. Hi sis! Hi Friend(s)! Hi reader! Yes you! Hello unsuspecting reader. Welcome. Well, goodbye really. 

                         In truth, I am only proud of my short stories, which there are few. But as filler, my rants and bleedings as filler aren't very good, but decent enough to fill a few pages of a few books. I don't have to print many so I won't be killing too many trees. I hope it's thick. I'll seem legit. HA! Trick of the light. This free Science Labs thermos I love. It's filled with Rum. 

    I am currently debating whether I should fill this book out with some shorter poem/ rant type things I've written. Help me decide? I should really milk it and keep this as it is untouched and put out another shorter one as my second. Don't you think? But with everything I do, I tell myself it'll be my last, and it has to be good. So I put it ALL out. Everything I have and then some. Give them their bang for their buck. So half of my mind tells me I should really proof and edit and go through and nix the weak chapters, and replace with some catchy cool shorter bits I have which I haven't looked over yet. But the other half says no, this is rock and roll. Bleed. Bleed for them. Bleed for it all. Bleed for yourself and no one else. Put it all out. For better or worse. For you. 

               But also for those who may read who right now, I can't care about. For my family. For my friends. For my future/potential spouses. For my potential children. (sorry, but this is me) For strangers. For my lovers, wives, girlfriends, flings, and those who are burning this for warmth. (and to them, may it serve you actual good) To anyone I may have to answer to, well, welcome to my head. I'm not sorry for that bit because it's me and right now it's all I've got despite how it may seem. I may dress and drive and carry myself okay, but I am not okay. But shit, I wrote a book so I must be something right? Wrong, I had no idea until last month I'd write it and I didn't really even write it AS a book. This has all been me bleeding for no one and I decided it'd be another release for me to mush it all together into a stream of shite on consecutive (wow I spelled that on the first try) pieces of paper which you are reading now to give myself a sense of relief, which I do not get even still. Am I breaking the 4th wall for you enough?

           I drink to this. I drink because of this. I drink because I realize once this is a reality, it might be too much for some to bear. I put it all out there. If you are one of the few people reading this who knows me, then you will know every time I chose not to take part in a situation, I probably retreat to my room. This is what I was doing. Instead of exploding. Instead of screaming. Instead of crying. Instead of throwing a fit. Instead of throwing an object. Instead of throwing a person. Instead of smashing my hands against walls or things or people. Instead of calling the police. Instead of having a heart attack. I wrote. I wrote about you. I wrote about me. I wrote about me and you and all of it. Everything. 

          I wrote about my take of the situation. Babies, girlfriends, friends, family, the fucked and unfucked and real fucked and the things in my head I made up as fucked and the things that were fucked and got unfucked and the things that were never fucked I believed were fucked. I admit responsibility. Don't let this change anything. As if I had the power to through print, HA! I'm listening to Bobby Charles right now. He's magical. God bless him. 

                  I had a birthday last week. 26. I don't know what 26 means.

 

               Don't take any shit from anybody.

                                                                            But don't give any to anyone either.  

No longer

I won't shave for you anymore. I won't wear what you want me to anymore. I won't go where you want me to anymore. I won't do the things you want me to anymore. I won't stop saying the things you want me to anymore. I won't call you what you want me to anymore. I won't drink what you want me to anymore. I won't stop drinking if you want me to anymore. I won't eat what you want me to anymore. I won't drive to where you want me to anymore. I won't say the things you want me to anymore. i won't write the things you want me to anymore. I won't think the things you want me to anymore. I won't buy the things you want me to anymore. I won't live where you want me to anymore. I won't move to anywhere you want me to anymore. i won't meet you anywhere you want me to anymore. I won't call you when you want me to anymore. I won't cut my hair how you want anymore. I won't set my watch to the time you want me to anymore. I won't decorate how you want me to anymore. I won't watch what  you want me to anymore. I won't read what you want me to anymore. I won't listen to what you want me to anymore. i won't look at you how you want me to anymore. i won't smell like you want me to anymore. I won't fake the things you want me to anymore. I won't befriend the people you want me to anymore. i won't give you all my time anymore. I won't smell like you want me to anymore. I won't drive the car you want me to anymore. I won't buy the things you want me to anymore. 

             Because that guy is not who you met. 

Drew

Drew's kind of a dick.

       "Oh yea Drew?" "yea, it's pretty cool. I can't wait to leave and go play all weekend." "I'm happy for ya Drew." I tried turning back to my desk.

   Drew was talking about a new game he got the night prior. and I didn't give a flying. fuck. 

"So, what are your plans?" Drew said with a snide tone, as if his thumb-twittling in front of his glowy gooey game was going to trump anything I had. 

   "Probably going to buy a gun and blow my brains out." I mumbled before I turned around.

"What?" "Oh tonight?" I looked at my watch. "Not sure yet, but the day's young, I'll find some kind of trouble to get into." I was being polite. I knew exactly what I was going to do.

   "Huh, well, you don't seem like the type to get into trouble."

What the fuck? I played along. "Looks can be deceiving. He bawked at that.

"Well, you'll lose your job depending what it is. You know HR will find out and..." I tuned out.

Drew. What the fuck kind of name is Drew? DREW. Not even Andrew. Just Drew. Like what the fuck kind of name is that? Who pushes out a baby, looks at it all a mess and crying and go, "DREW! FUCKING DREW YOU SHALL BE FOREVER!" A seriously disturbed person, that's who. A mentally unstable, psychotically fucked individual. 

        "Maybe so Drew, Maybe so." I turned around.

"You know..." He began. "Jesus fuck." I mumbled as I turned back. 

"You could get RaidersHollow tonight and play with us." He had this evil look in his eye like he was plotting to rob a fucking bank. "Uh, no, I'm all set. It's been a while." 

"Dude, don't be lame, get it. You know you want to." Wow, he really is full of himself. 

"No, I think I'm good. I can't drop that kind of cash anyway." I tried that one.

"You'd just blow it on beer." He said under his breath as he turned.

Okay. Gloves are off. 

"Excuse me?" I say, my brows pretty rigid. 

    Drew. Drew was a passive aggressive ass-taxi. Quiet but brooding type. Once we were all shooting the shit on a snowy day and he showed up all flustered. 

       "Hey there he is! How's it going Drew?" Casey exclaimed as we all stood around. Before he could finish, quite dismissively Drew responded. 

        "Not too great." He mumbled, continuing to take his coat off. 

  "Oh, I'm sor..." "Yea I'm not feeling too great." He cut him off again. 

         "Oh I'm sorry to hear that, at least your here!" Casey responded. 

             "I wish I wasn't." Wow, rough crowd. 

 "Well, we're glad you're here, but you should've stayed home if you weren't feeling great." Casey gave a little push back, thank god. 

       Then it came. "Yea I walked from the liquor store parking lot I'm assigned to because I didn't know the shuttles weren't running today so I walked. You know, I'm not required to have outlook on my phone so it's kind of frustrating I wasn't notified..."

            Everyone slowly scattered as he ranted. What a whiner. He sounded it too. Drew had a mumble and a horrible haircut and giant sideburns that were mutton chops really and he was nearly 7 feet tall and always wore these red corduroy pants with big black shit-kicking boots. He was a goof. Which was fine, so am I , but do you have to whine so much? He mumbled and always ended every sentence with an uptick as if a question and ranted. I mean, really ranted. Run-on's and he simply NEVER FUCKING stopped. Never. 

          During team meetings our boss loathed getting to him in turn because he'd bogart the whole damn meeting saying 2 things in 5 thousand words for 25 minutes. Talk. Talk. Talk. He stuttered too. A know-it-all as well. He seemed to know everything about everything. So with that, in addition to his whiney voice and his general complaining demeanor, it was unbearable.

          I wanted to say, "Well Drew. 1. You've been here for a few years so you should know the deal. I've been here since October and put oulook on my phone months ago to stay informed. Also, you can sign up for text updates when these things happen and they'll actually TEXT YOU when shuttles aren't running. As a new employee I had this done within a week. Also, as they weren't running yesterday, you could imagine that perhaps they might not be again today. You were on your email yesterday, so how hard would it be to open your laptop up in the morning for 3 fucking minutes and check your fucking email to see? That is, if you were too dense to sign up for text alerts, and hook up outlook on your phone. But you failed to do all 3. I'm new here and you've been here and I AM HERE. You can't complain. Fucker. Quit your bitching and shut up that you had to walk half a mile. Not only that, but you fucking walk from your apartment which is farther away EVERY DAY. WHAT ARE YOU COMPLAINING ABOUT???"

            But I didn't. I didn't acknowledge it. Or him. So back to the present.

"Excuse me?" I said to his comment about my drinking habits, which were true but beer doesn't cost as much as a damn disc these days.

      "You heard me." He said.

Hmm.

I walked over to Drew's desk, quietly. He rolled his chair back. Staring wide-eyed at me, clearly nervous now what I'd do next. I got real quiet. Real quiet. 

         I had this calm look on my face, not looking directly at him, but down. Not at anything specific,  but making sure I had this, "I'm going to say some real shit." look. 

       "You know Drew. My drinking habits are none of your business. Second, It's Rum, 151 to be exact, mixed with ice tea or Cranberry juice. Those two things for a weekend cost about $25. A 30 rack costs about $20. So technically, no, I would not blow it on beer. It'd take me a month of saving that and not drinking, to buy your stupid fucking game."

      I got closer and be backed away a bit more. "The thing is Drew. You think how I spend my weekends isn't as fulfilling as what you'll be doing. But, when I'm done drinking? I'll have something to show for it. I'll feel fucking great, I might vomit, I might do something stupid or get in a car, or break my hand, or reach out to someone I shouldn't have or call an ex-girlfriend and become hopelessly depressed as I come to realize my reality is coming to work to deal with a whiney little twat like you who 'knows all' but does nothing with his life. And you, will be button mashing your existence away, to show up, whine some more for 5 days and nights, and do the same thing every weekend. Alone. Sad. Until you fucking die. Which I pray comes tonight, when you go home. I'm not a praying man, but I pray while you sit there in the dark, illuminated by only the glow of your TV, with your headphones on that someone breaks into your apartment and fucking strangles you to death while your friends listen to you die and then have your shit robbed. Preferably smashing your TV." 

           I walked away. Drew was not there when I returned.

Any of it

It went out to everybody. Everybody. 

          I'm not sure how it happened. But it did. My worst nightmare. 

   I was working from home. It was snowing hard and I had the option. My bald tires and broke ass sealed the deal. Few knew this, but the cafe and shuttles busing folks in from all over town weren't running so nobody went in anyway. 

                 The problem from home is that I can't focus. my guitar is there, the whole internet. Food, coffee, everything. No one to look professional for. I was in sweats. Talking to women online, the nine. I was drinking too. Why not? Who knew. But this was not the cause of the mishap. 

              My brain was constantly diverted to other endeavors. Going down video rabbit holes and reading articles left and right about everything and nothing. I was listening to podcasts with interviews of my favorite artists. Any time ANY person I knew was mentioned, I'd have to look them up and read all about them. DOB, DOD, how they died if they had in fact. What their whole story was. Wiki is a great place to get lost for hours. I did. I was doing little work. It was all right in front of me and easy, but so very time consuming. Hell, I was even writing. Anything to keep my mind away from what I didn't want to think about or do, in this case work. 

                 Then an issue came in, a big one. Students were buying access codes for a course that was old. Old content. You see it was my job to update this material. Now it was up to me to fix it. This problem of mine. But you also see, students were BUYING these codes that went to dead ends. Internet dead-ends. For $86 a pop. Imagine enrolling in a course online, so you can sit on your ass and get your "education" and piece of paper as we all do, and spend $86 and sign in with said code to get rejected. I'd be a bit mad. It was my fault this had happened.

        To make matters worse, these styles of issue stretched much further than the students and I. I did not interact with the students. It's not a "student-facing" position as I heard a co-worker state on the phone to a student just yesterday. What a crock of shit. If a student called me looking for answers, you answer them damnit!

                I hadn't eat much other than 1/5 of a cheese danish, and a granola bar. Oh! And 2 pb&j toast sandwiches. Ace. But drinking on these non-fulfilling meals meant feeling quite content. Worried now, but collected. Whatever that meant. How about, "carrying less anxiety over the situation."

        Back to topic. You see, this reached beyond these two entities. It reached to advisors, advisor's superiors, my bosses bosses. The company that runs our bookstore out in Missouri. Missouri for fuck sake, an hour time difference. Just to make sure thousands of materials get into hundreds of courses getting out to hundreds of thousands of "students" or so I understand. That last number I made up. The first two are educated guesses by me, a guy in the "biz." 

            This went out to a lot of people my superior. Money was involved now. Reimbursement, on our behalf. A fuck up, a screw up, a mistake, a mishap as I stated earlier. My fault. Woops. It happened, but every time it did, I wondered if it were my fault and how many other mistakes in the current term could be in there. You see, it was my duty, 

          And I am lazy.

              So I was instructed by a team-peer to shoot out an email to all these higher-ranking folks in various departments, IT, Advising, LR, MBS (Missouri book store? I was never told) and beyond. Fuck. I had to now conduct a full-scale attack to remedy this situation, reaching out to various folks to let them know what's going on, as per protocol. Involved, will be a mass-email sent to all these people...at once. Shit on my socks Danny. Shit on them. 

                        Whose Danny? No idea. perhaps this protagonist. Should I piss all you off to no end and change perspective and tense? I don't even know the word for it. Let us, shall we? (No, I will)

       Danny took a big swig of his make-shift mixed drink. 151 and Arnie Palmer. Not zero, just lite. He wondered why the heck the normal drink was called "Lite" and not "light." Also, why there wasn't a non-lite version. Or Non-LIGHT version for that matter. Whatever the case, It was not "AP Zero" Which was trash. In a free vendor-swag thermos of the brushed stainless steel type, Danny poured the 151. This is IMPORTANT, listen carefully. The 151 goes in FIRST. If you pour after the AP LITE, then it will only sit right on top of the ice tea and nothing will ever mix it ever unless encapsulated in a hyperbolic wind tunnel in space on the moon or perhaps in the hands of a seasoned pro such as Danny. But this would require a sealed container, which Danny's free vendor thermos did not have. So he mixed it correctly the first time. 151, then the arnie. Perfect. But he had no ice, this was acceptable if mixed correctly, which is rarely ever was, and/or after some heroic swigs. Danny was no stranger to these types of swigs of his makeshift drink. He did.

           After several of these heroic swigs and side-tracking to his newly set-up acoustic and self-criticism of using too many hyphens in words such as in this sentence, he took another swig and a big breath and  typed up email after email to individuals to fix the issue he'd made. Being CC'd in multiple other emails from responses and from the people he was responding to, reaching out to others for answers. All the while being asked to include even MORE people who cried about not being CC'd in these emails. 

             After finding out how to go about this now giant fiasco, he finally had to formulate this mass email to the powers that be. The powerful, faceless, folks downstairs and over and across the city. (Danny worked on the 4th floor, the top floor of the building) But in mid-email, he got distracted for a while thinking up a lyric and tune and picked his guitar up. Then he had to shovel. Then, he began watching a film. About LBJ. No one gives a fat flying fuck about LBJ. Not even Danny or most importantly, LBJ. Why? Because at this time of the making of this film, LBJ is cold, dead and gone and most likely bones in a box. Halfway through he looked at the time and realized he was hungry and had to piss. Danny came back from more cheese danish and pissing, (not at the same time) and drank some more. Realizing the time was now upon him, he sat down. The day was nearly over and he had to get this email out. 

                    But again he was distracted. A woman had replied to him. He began typing to her. They got to talking a while. They had been off and on for a few days. He told her how attractive he though she was and she egged him on. Danny insisted, being as drunk as he was, he said a few things he wouldn't have, had he not been drunk. He told her how beautiful she was, and she asked more and more. He had hinted, but not said what he wanted to do to her, because that was not his style. He waited for quite a while to tell women this. He didn't like to use, or be used. A classy gentleman Danny was. But she asked, so Danny blew the doors off. As well as his own drawers. 

                He typed and typed and typed and typed things he'd do to her. He sent it over. Rubbing his hands together, thinking (because he was cocked and stacked) that it was the best he'd written in a long time. As he sat back admiring his work he soon realized what he had done. He was so drunk out of his mind at this point, he hadn't sent it to the woman at all. He had typed it out. He was staring right at it, so it was not lost, thank god. But he DID send it to the many many administrators he had CC'd in the email. Co-workers, IT staff, MBS (MISSOURI I HOPE) contacts, bosses, Advisors, I mean, everyone. People above his pay grade. He was mid-sentence in his original email, and simply continued with what he had spent the better part of 23 minutes writing to this woman.

             It was glorious, no doubt about it. But Danny did not send it to that woman. No. He sent 8 large paragraphs which were increasingly graphic. More and more intense and sexual. Hell, that's sugar coating it. Danny sent the most sexually explicit things he'd ever thought in his head to these people. Although he was heavily under the influence at this point, the implication of what he had just done was not lost on him. In fact, he sobered up, went wide eyed and about had a hard attack. How would he get out of this one?

      Danny took a swig. A big one. He chugged rather. He needed to disappear. He needed to go away now. ASAP. 

       He searched. He flailed. He slammed his laptop. It flickered. He swiped everything off his desk in flurry and got up knocking his chair down, he took his guitar by the neck and held it over his head and promptly smashed it on the corner of his dresser. It did not need a second smash. He tossed what was left clear across the room and found the cologne bottle he had knocked on the floor. The aluminum cover dented. He ripped it off and smashed the top against the window sill and threw the contents down his throat in one swallow. There was less in there than you'd think. He looked around and found the bottle of 151. He downed the 5th of what was left straight up. He did not feel it. 

             He whipped the bottle off to the side hard against the wall making a dent. He threw the tissue box on the floor and the lamp too. He flew into his closet and tore everything out. he found the pledge and the dog stain remover. It was called animal stain remover but he only had a stupid dog that had been outside this whole time. If it were up to him, he'd stay out quite a bit longer. If he accomplished his wish, he'd be out there until the sun came up again on the snow once or twice until someone found him out back. Or perhaps he'd already jumped the fence. He did that sometimes. 

                 The pledge was in a spray can, this would be hard. He smashed it against the wall and smashed it against the corner of the dresser and smashed it against the dresser again and across is "stupid fucking head" and smashed it against the floor and against the broken lamp on the floor and again and again. he frantically ripped open the pockets of his leather jacket and found his pocket knife. He took it and stabbed at the can. He was determined. He finally punctured a small sharp hole which he immediately attached his lips around and lifted the can up above his face as he stood, swallowing the entire contents. He rushed to the bathroom now. not to vomit although the urge overcame him. But no, he ripped open the medicine cabinet for something more potent and only found expired nausea pills. he ran back to his room and choked on the contents of that. Only 20 pills or so.

            "FUCK!" he screamed at the top his lungs in a blood curdling screech. In his drunken, aggravated and desperate state he flailed back into the bathroom. There was one orifice of the room he had not pillaged. The shower. He half-hearted an attempt to swipe the curtain aside to failure. So he ripped the whole rod down as it fell on him. Danny Threw it aside in a rage and found them all. All the bottles neatly lined. He reached for the conditioner and decided to opt for the dry scalp shampoo instead as it probably had more naughty chemicals in it. He twisted the top off and held it upside down over his upturned face. He waited.

           Finally drops fell out, then, the rest and then at a steady pace. He had to give it his best not to gag fully on the thick substance trickling down his throat into his body. He didn't have the time to wait for the rest. It was nearly empty anyway. The hair gel. He could simply squirt it into his mouth like yogurt. he did. But it was the next that really turned him on once he laid eyes upon it.

           The Noxema.

     NOXEMA LORD NOXEMA! The Noxema. He spun the cap off of the container and shoved his index and middle finger into it and swiped up a generous amount of the chalky substance and shoved it deep down his throat and swallowed. he did this 3 more times as he walked calmly back to his bed. Where he promptly laid down. Finishing off the contents of the Noxema like frosting. 

                Danny fell asleep. Surprisingly. Not worrying about the email anymore. or the woman. Not because he had forgotten. For he knew he would not be around in the morning to deal with any of it.

                  Any. Of. It. 

This book

Jeebus Cribbs. Let us break the 4th wall shall we? 

               I can write better than him. shit. I can't even go into detail much as I don't want him to find out. fuck it who cares? I do, a bit. I have this book in my hand. Well, it's not in my hand, it sits off to the side. It's small. It's not very good. It's 30 something pages and only half are writing and only half of that half is writing and even less is worth a shit. Actually none of it is good. It's shite. 

             But. It is in my hands. It's tangible. He did it. He fucking did it. He's self published several books. The illustrations are okay, because he hired them out, but his poetry is not good. It's less than "not good." But it is in my hands and mine is not in anyone's hands. It doesn't exist. Which is why I'm here. 

                See, he told me his secrets. He spilled. I can do this myself for pennies and he didn't even know I could do it or even better. Even if it's not good, I know it's better than that. I am sorry for feeling this way, but it is the way. He has me beat. Right up until these sweet words hit the hot press paper at the factory and you read them. The last sentence. If you read it, I've beaten him. It is not hard. As the great Bukowski had maintained all his life. "...I had to continue because they were so bad, not because I was so good. And I'm still not so good, but they're still very bad." I feel the same. 

            I have become conscious these past few years about my place in the world and what I'm here to do. I still don't yet fully know, if anything. But what I do is that I am an artist for better or worse. I cannot help it. I create. It began with music. I began as a drummer, and quickly learned the guitar because you cannot write much on the drums. You need a melodic instrument. The guitar lead to piano, the other highly melodic and chordal instrument. You can write melody easily on those two. Everything else is help. I'm writing lyrics and lines all day, every day. My life is a damn song. 

                  But throughout my life creativity has spurred and sputtered from other mediums. Film and video and the visual arts in that respect I find a creative outlet in. I can't paint or draw to save my life but I could put together a film if need be. It always came harder though. it's a lot of work. I never had the balls or energy or gumption and socializing it takes to create a really good short film. I've tried. I've also taken to blogging, (seriously in recent years), vlogging and audio logging my life in various forms. Mostly in the form of slightly comedic but sincere rhythmic writing. Someone more educated will be able to explain my style to you. Go ask. i don't know. 

           But sometimes my lyrics aren't quite suitable for music and my scripts are quite right for the moving picture and my blogs aren't really blogs but short stories or a bit more stylistic than a simple bitch-fest about my life and times. It deserves a different medium. Which may be this. It may also be my constant need for validation in this world. A stroking of the ego if you will as it were so it goes as the case may be. "Look! I've written a book!" Total narcissist. I am an artist after all. 

                 That being said, I've been told a few times I can write. Perhaps they're biased, or lying to me. The bar is so low these days. The fact that you've written more than 200 characters or eve words is considered a job well done today. What a sad world. So before I leave this life and times I might as well get another first over with. It is easy and if it's easy why can't we all do it? It's easier now, I should say. If it cost anything more than it did I'd probably tell myself it's not worth a shit and perhaps if you lived to a ripe middle-age with a mediocre job and a mediocre life, you'd get the few hundred bucks it took to collect a stack of unread books in a closet. But yet, now I have the luxury of only having a few books collect in the closet, instead of investing a stack. Isn't technology lovely?

            Back to Mr. Writer man. I met Mr. Writer man in a lovely little club in Maryland and he now has a few published works under his author sleeves and he had them all out of his suitcase and he dug my music and I was 2 PBR talls in and I had the liquid courage to pick his brain on his writings and books and how he got to do so. He handed me a pre-signed copy of his first book. Then we spoke for several minutes on how it was so easy. So very easy. Every step. I was already toying with the idea and several of them and even writing down these ideas and writing down the writing for these ideas and making sure these ideas were worth a damn and so forth. (a fancy author term, so forth) Even creating chapters and attempting to maintain continuity between them and merging and weaving and maintaining multiple story lines etc. This also includes abandoning and procrastinating these same stories and starting now unfinished or finished shorter writings. 

             So by picking the brain of someone who'd already done it so easily, I knew it was possible. Also, it wasn't very good. I was excited he had given me this book for free. but after returning, and reading it front to back in an hour in bed, it's actually quite horrible. But yet, charming and cute and very real. It feels good, to have a BOOK, with your name on it. 

               The tough part is, I wouldn't want my name on what he wrote. Which is probably why he handed it to me for free. 

        For the record, I would always and forever put my name at the end of anything I write and put out. But I am a hypocrite, because I enjoy having a pen name and I am still acquiring total comfort in bleeding on the page. The bleeding I'm natural at, the distribution and answering to, not so much.

                  Plus, I'm drunk. 

Surf's Over

We’re out of our heads. On cocaine and beach sand. The smell of the sea, sunscreen on her skin and the cold fried dough sitting next to me.

         We bought it earlier that day. The sun was out and oddly, there were few people on the boardwalk. Or on the beach for that matter. During the season, if it was anything under 80 nobody showed. All the better.   Fuck ‘em.

      We would walk up and down the boardwalk. We liked it better than the beach. Or rather I did. I secretly didn’t care what she wanted, but she’d indulged me. Up and down, up and down. Up. And down we’d walk. I loved people watching. The beach is one of the only places in the world where all walks of life meet in one place. Poor inner city kids. Living in the projects and the shunned sections and blocks of suburban cities, towns and shitholes alike. Even at their schools they were segregated. They were avoided at banks and especially the fast food joints. They never went to restaurants so the rest of the world felt safe there. But at the beach, no one was safe from their anger.

       They’d pile into their parents beater. 6 or 7 at a time and somehow make it to the beach. 10 bucks between them and they’d stretch it all night somehow. It was magic. Burgers, fries, photo booths, beach tees, caricatures, and the arcade. And boy were they pros. They could stretch 50 cents all night. They were aces at all the games this way. They couldn’t lose or the night was done.

            Then the rich fuckers. Boat shoes, lame shades and pink shorts. Those pink fucking shorts. Perfect hair, teeth, clothes they spent all their money on and expensive watches. At the beach. Getting there in 3 separate cars with all their women. Two each. Perfect women too. Wearing tight t shirts, tight pants, tight asses and tight tans. Their hair perfect. The most beautiful women you’d ever lay your eyes on. Most times leaving little to the imagination. Some whores, some not. Some unfortunates. Some fake. Some true. All these boat shoe-wearing boys with these women who walked ahead of the boys chasing them. Pulling them along on invisible leashes, googly-eyed, staring at the asses they’ll never score. Sometimes there’d be a one-off couple. You’d never see them with their lips apart.

              Kissing on the railing, kissing in the sand, kissing on the boardwalk, kissing in his car, her car. Kissing on the bench, kissing standing up, lying down, walking, sometimes a poor little dog on the end of the real leash. He’s eyeing the female dogs too. Like father like son. Animals the both of them. Sometimes they’d stop right in front of the fucking pizza place while everyone walks around them. Once, right in front of me at one of the many beach bars. No one can touch these people. They spend most of their time on the sand with their backs to the sky as if it’s their most important side. Jumping into the water only to cool off. Beach balls, boogie boards, and always a damn football being thrown over everybody on the beach. Everybody.

       Then there are people who don’t belong in either camp. Who show up and watch these two drastically different groups. We don’t belong anywhere. We don’t belong on either side, don’t belong in their cars, with their women, in their circles or lives or minds and we certainly don’t belong on their beach.

It sure is fun though watching both interact with each other. Like oil and water. They’re forced to. Stand in lines, share the beach, share parking, share the boardwalk, seats in the pizza place, and the water. It’s magic.

            But this day was different. A rare occurrence when I was alone, with a woman. Why the beach? Well that’s where you went when it was warm. Where dirt meets water. I just wanted to make fun of the yuppies and avoid being beaten by the tough kids. It was a fun game to play. I didn’t want to play ski ball or whack-a-mole or that stupid fucking game where you drop the coin in and it slides down and you have to get it into a spinning slot and if it misses it bouncing off into oblivion and you waste a fucking quarter and it’s so fucking stupid but if you get it in a slot you’ll win 10 tickets that’ll get you 80 tootsie rolls or a spider ring or half an airhead. Stupid. No, I wanted to play this game.

               We walked up to the orange shack where no one was standing in line. As it turns out, there are about 47 different styles of fried dough. All disgusting except the one where you simply get powdered sugar on it. Novel idea these days. She wolfed her, “apple cinnamon crisp twist fried dough”down in minutes. She was torn between that and the “chicken parmesan salsa fried dough” and the “apple cinnamon crisp twist fried dough.” I made a failed attempt at convincing her both were equally disgusting and gross and if she got anything but plain old powdered sugar that I’d split with her on the spot right there at the empty orange shack known as the fried dough place (that had a forgettable name) and walk away, drive home without her and never see her again, hoping she’d get taken out by a riptide, a lightning bolt on the sand, or perhaps a football hitting her in the temple by one of the yuppies who would not apologize but quickly complain to park rangers and life guards that she was in the way. But I was unsuccessful. She got her “apple cinnamon crisp twist fried dough” and we walked across the empty street, the empty parking lot, the perfectly empty benches and to the sand.

            We walked up and down the beach. Up and down, up and down, up and down. I looked up across the empty road and empty benches and empty parking lot. “We could’ve been doing the same thing up there.”I said.

                “Shhh! This is so much fun!” She ran ahead and spun around with her arms out in the warm sun. I squinted after her, my hand to my forehead to block the sun. What a crock of shit. She stopped and stared at the ground, pointing. “Look! Brine candy!”

         I walked up. “What’d you call it?” “Brine candy! You know, when the salt foams up and sits on the beach like that. Brine candy! It’s beautiful!” She walked on, grabbing my arm. “If you say so.” I shook my head and took a breath. What next?

               We walked a while and she picked a seemingly random spot to sit and lie down on. We had no towel, we had no beach chairs. I didn’t even have a damn bathing suit on and knew the minute I sat, I’d still be brushing sand out of my bed 3 weeks from now. But I sat. She was pretty and had those eyes. Those big eyes of hers. They could melt the ice on the lakes where fishermen, trucks and 4-wheelers never belonged. They could burn down the sand sculptures that kids would destroy on the beach. They burned right through your soul. They spoke to me.

              They also said, “I might have sex with you at some point in the future if you keep buying me tequila sunrises and haddock fillets.” So I sat. She sat indian style. The setting sun perfectly shining on the beach. The golden light and salty wind blowing her hair in her face. Truly a beautiful human being. Why she kept me around as long as she did I do not know.  She lied down. I lied on my side with a hand propping my head up. This was it. I thought. But as I watched her next move, she fell asleep. Right there. She fell asleep. I hadn’t even finished my cold fried dough. I wasn’t hungry anymore.

            I got angry. No one was around. It was perfect out. Fucking perfect. The warm air and the sound of the ocean and no one around and no footballs or cops or empty pockets or stupid seagulls or nagging children or adults or ice cream stains or surfers or shells or beer cans or beach vomit or anything. No one. This was our chance and she fell asleep.

             I got up, brushing the sand off my shirt. I walked down to the tide, right where it nearly comes up to your feet. I still had my shoes on. I looked out, took in the scene. There were a few bouys off in the distance, an island. A sailboat way way out. Not much else other than where it met the wispy orange sky. I looked left and right, and back at her, still passed out. Her chest rising and falling intensely. She was in a deep sleep. What a gal. I turned around, unzipped, and let out that whole can of moxy I had earlier.

               Right before we bumped our first hit in the pizza place bathroom, she dared me to order it. So I did.

          You’d think we would’ve bought it off the inner city kids. But we didn’t. The guy who ran the pizza place offered it to me. So I bought some. Well, I bought a lot. Too much, one might say. But was there such a thing? I continued pissing. I turned around, she was still passed out. What a fucking gal. She was beautiful but god damn. I had been bending over backwards all day. Hell, all month. Ever since we met. She hadn’t paid for a thing. I pissed.

         It felt great. Like going home. The piss was, that is. Like I was delivering it straight back to the source. I was bypassing all the middle men. I was being economical one would say, green. I pissed. I pissed and pissed and pissed and pissed. All that Moxy. I began to GET pissed. I looked back as I kept going. What a fucking asshole. MOXY! Who the fuck gets Moxy? I’ve sold my soul. I’ve let this person control me, my life. Who the hell was she to tell me what to do? Who was I now? Letting some leach push me around? She doesn’t OWN me!

        I zipped up. I walked back. I went through her purse and found it. I opened it up and stuck my nose in. Half of it went on the beach. But it didn’t matter. There was much left. I spent the next 20 minutes getting jacked. I got pissed.

                Moxy?!? Who the fuck drinks that shit? I do, that’s who. What a fucking asshole. She’s made me into an asshole. One of them. I wasn’t different. I was more of the same. What a shithead I am. A total and utter shithead.

                I shoved more up my nose and got angry. I threw the bag.
Right into her fucking face.

 

                                                      It.     

                                                              Went.

                                                                            Everywhere.

        It went in her hair, in her closed eyes, down her shirt, on her shorts, on the sand in front of her. And in her agape mouth. She woke. “What the hell!?!”

                I said nothing.

    “What the FUCK?!” She began to sit up. I shoved her head into the sand and before I knew it, I was kneeling above her with both of my hands in her hair pushing it as hard as I humanly could into the naked sand. She made not a sound. No one was around. My hands, my arms, and face were beat red, my veins popping from places I didn’t know they could. I pushed her head deeper and deeper into the soft earth until she stopped moving and still I pushed some more. I shook.

               I fell back, lying there. Both my elbows in the sand. I sat there staring out at the ocean, and down the beach occasionally as the sun went down. No one was around. Not on the boardwalk or the parking lot or the empty benches or the condos or the tow place or the beach bars or the arcades or  the guy who sold us coke at the pizza place or the lifeguards or the rangers or dog walkers or metal detector fuckers or the inner city kids or the yuppies and their footballs and tanned bodies or sailors or even a flying fucking seagull. Not a god damned thing.

     I was out of my head. On cocaine and beach sand. The smell of the sea, sunscreen on her skin and that paper plate of cold, sugar powdered fried dough sitting next to me. Her “apple cinnamon crisp twist fried dough” in her stomach. Her last meal. I stared out as the tide came in around us. I sat there and sat there and didn’t move. Fucking moxy. Who drinks that shit? Why do they still sell it?

                       Her body lie there in the setting sun.

 

                                   Brine candy,

                                                             foaming up around her skin.

 

             

Dedication

She did a line in the bathroom. "SHIT!" She lifted her head off the back of the toilet she was kneeling on. She wiped her nose and brushed her self off, slid back the latch to the stall and slowly swung it open to reveal the mirror. She stepped up to the sink, both hands on the counter and leaned over to the mirror slowly turning side to side slightly as she checked her face. Free of any residue. No one was in the bathroom thank god. She sniffed hard one more time and walked out of the bathroom.

             She had a problem, she knew it. but it got her through the day. She was incensed, obsessed, recklace and didn't know how bad. This was her new norm. it got worse and worse since she began but it always became the new norm. Always. Just the normalization of her using more and more as each week turned over into the next. As gradual as it was she didn't notice. She tried not thinking about it. When she did she used more. She had an endless supply. Nobody knew.   

               She had a stash in her purse. A stash in her laptop bag. A stash hidden in her filing cabinet locked up. A stash in her car, and plenty at home. She kept buying it and always bought more than she'd ever need. Shit, she'd need tubs in the basement at this rate. She used and used. She was so god damn productive.

        It began when a guy at a holiday party offered her some. She fell in love and he introduced her to his dealer, then he got fired. Boom. Magic. No one knew her secret. But things were getting out of hand. Very out of hand.  

            As productivity and focus grew, so did her responsibilities, therefore, so did her habit, which lead to better work and longer work and more efficient work, the endless cycle. She was in charge of people now. She was a boss, supervisor, team leader. Her complexion suffered so she wore expensive makeup. Instead of a cube, she moved to an office with a door she could lock. A desk to hide behind and drawers, cabinets and bookshelves to hide things. Her sniffles seemed like a quirk or common itch now. A mere tick. 

                   It began as a bump on the back of the toilet each day, leading to two breaks for a bump in the bathroom, leading to two bumps each visit. Leading to taking it in her office from a vile, leading to straight up doing lines right on her desk. She'd blow lines up, and head to meetings. Then, it began as an addiction and itch that needed to be scratched while she WALKED to the meetings. Then, as she walked ANYWHERE. She got good at piling as much as she could pack into tiny viles she bought online in bulk and popping their caps off in her pocket with notes and papers and folders and laptop in hand and with the other, single-handedly popping the top and pretending to scratch her nose as she inhaled the contents. She was excellent at this. A pro if you will. She'd get it all in one breath in from a single nostril and nobody knew. 

        She was excellent at making sure, without mirror or reflection that nothing was up her nose and she looked perfect walking in the minute the meeting started and commanding with great force and ability the whole meeting without falter and returning to her desk to grab 3 or 4 more pre-filled viles. All while carrying and inhaling a few on her way to and from anywhere. She would go so far as to inhale on the way to the bathroom, where her sole prupose for going was to do a few lines off the back of the pearlescent white porcelean. Whilie finishing her major binge, she'd inhale on the short walk back to her desk, where there she would prep and inhale more viles, more lines, more viles, more lines. 

           It became a game to her, a challenge. She would attempt in even more dangerous and obvious situations where she would call a meeting one-on-one with someone at her desk and freely inhale without any knowledge from the other that she was in fact, inhaling cocaine through one of her left or right nostrils. It was fun to her. A real adrenaline rush. The cocaine mixed with this rush heightened the experience and this need and the risk grew and nobody suspected.

                 7 months from her first bump to the present, she was taking inordinate amounts. All which she kept undetected and clean. her life now revolved around cocaine. The only reason she kept her position was because without it, there would be. no. cocaine. None. It fed her addiction. So she was the best at her job. Hell, they were looking at promoting her to the same position at a new startup off-shoot of the company that was growing exponentially because of her tireless effort in the field in California. She was intrigued by the idea. She toyed with it. As long as she had her stuff. 

           Then one day, she headed to the bathroom for her daily ritual. It was more of a boredom thing at this point. She went 4-5 times a day and would spend 10-15 there. She inhaled as she did on the way to the bathroom and got in the stall and locked the door behind her. As she did, she noticed her hand. It had a drop of blood on it. She then noticed it was her nose. She had a meeting in 20 and her nose was now bleeding. No problem. She reached for the toilet paper. 

       "Holy shit." It was all over her hand again. She whipped the paper so it spun out and out and out. She held a giant mess of it to her nose and in seconds it was soaked dripping. Frantically she spun some more out, now holding her head up, staring at the ceiling. In a matter of a minute or so she had gone through a roll and a half of toilet paper. Still not enough. She was bleeding out now. Things were foggy. 10 minutes to the meeting. She rushed out and stole a roll of paper towels that were sitting there on the counter not yet installed into the machine. She rushed back in and locked the stall, no one in the bathroom yet. 

            She did the same to no avail. Her head up, piles of toilet paper and paper towels now drenched on the floor in the stall, spilling out to the bathroom floor underneath. She was in trouble. "fuck." She heard someone coming in so she frantically knelt down to scoop up all the bloody towels and brush them back into her space. Blood all over her hands, her feet, the towels, the toilet. She got back up and it was much too fast. She fainted, busted her head on the back of the toilet seat, and died. She lied there for over 2 hours before anyone found her. 

                 She had leaked out her nose and promptly died. She didn't die from hitting her head, or bleeding out, or fainting. It was the cocaine. All that cocaine. When they found her, it had all crusted up around her. The towels sticking to the tile and the porcelain and her clothes. It had leaked some more out of her and it was all discolored near her face. All over her face and her blouse and even in her hair. She was a hot mess. A dead hot mess. 

                   Her children were devastated. When her poor husband was invited to go through her office. He found all the cocaine. Mountains of it. Piles and piles. There was more cocaine in her desk drawers than folders and papers and books. Blood was on the floor there too, blood was in the hall outside the door. Viles were scattered empty all over the office floor and in the trash and around the trash. It was a fucking mess. She was dead. There was more cocaine in her than life. Than her blood. Her autopsy report stated no one they had ever seen had ever had even remotely close to the amount of cocaine in their system than her. It was an incredibly heroic amount. She shouldn't of lived as long as she did. The thread was bare and torn. It was inevitable. 

       But nobody knew.  

                      

coming soon

I've always been told I could write, albeit by people whose opinions I don't care much for. But I enjoy it. And I've been writing them on the back of math papers and tests now since middle school days. My first was one of a troubled porcupine named billabons. Billabons was put in some incredible situations where he was tortured through unforeseen outrageous circumstances and his friends were killed with detailed descriptions of their deaths. I was and still have a knack for the sadistic style of writing stories crossing WELL over the line of insanity, morbid description and wild knack of the outrageous in painstaking detail. I can make up crazy detailed plots on the spot and given the right mood, can tell tales believable if needed, or simply insane in my constant quest for comedy. If it makes me laugh, I keep it. 

         Regardless, I still don't think I'm a writer, but if I decide that's what I want to do, it's gonna end up here. It's not comedy but the first part of a story i've been working on will be here in June. I hope you read it. 

The Mouse

I’m listening to a mouse die right now, as I write this. I’m living at my dad’s at the moment and he put a trap in my room. Two weeks ago it began stinking like all hell and I thought it was my trash. I tied it up and tossed it and it went away. It wasn’t the trash though. It turns out the trap got a mouse and it had died and fleas were crawling all over it. It had been sitting for days and I had no idea.

            So now, as I sit here figuring out what to do with my orphaned site, I hear the trap go off. It was about 4-5 minutes ago now. But instead of running over, I returned to my laptop and try focusing again. A minute goes by, and I hear a sound. It’s the mouse, still alive, trying to break free. I sit back now as I can no longer focus on my site. I wait, and it goes away, so once again I try to return to working. But there it is again. I sigh. It won’t go away. I wish it would go away already. It’s not frightening, but I’m not doing anything about it. I can’t bring myself to get up, and go over, and poke my head beyond the boxes, and look down in the darkness and see a mouse in a trap. It freaks me out.

            Now, mice don’t scare me. I know, “right” you’re thinking. But no, I was in an apartment, and we had an infestation! I mean a REAL infestation. The building was over 100 years in the world and there were large holes around the radiators and where other things used to be. These guys had free reign. I found one day hordes of mice crap on some shelves I hadn’t been frequenting in a while. It was bad. I would walk into the kitchen, and they’d run right to left on the floor underneath the window. Once or so was bearable, but these suckers got ballsy. Long story short, I caught one as I had held a cup with granola in it up to the shelf it was on. It got to the point where they wouldn’t even RUN when we came in the room. I couldn’t bear to kill it though, or at least witness it die. So as it was in the cup, I taped it shut and tossed it outside in the trash. Who knew if It lived or not. I moved out shortly after. Another time I caught one in a friend’s kitchen in a cup; Didn’t kill that one either. We ran it down the street to terrorize someone else, Or freeze, whichever came first.

            But back to the mouse.

            I’m not scared of mice. But the thought of looking and finding some horrible scene is what gives me the willys. I don’t know what it is. It’s that itchy-jumpy feeling you get when there’s a wasp in the room, or a spider on you. It’s long gone, but you still feel every little touch of your skin makes you twitch and freak out. Not one aspect of what might happen is too bad, but I know I can’t bring myself to look. What if I looked and it’s got it’s head half-cut off and it’s still wriggling around trying to break free? Yea it’s only a mouse, but damn you have to give it credit. It was only doing what mice do. I hate them as much as anyone else, they ruin your stuff and make a mess. But there’s less lethal ways of dealing with them. Even while still killing them. So instead, I sit here in stiff silence, wondering what to do, or not to do. While it clings to life. I feel bad a bit. Not because it’s a life taken, I mean, I’d like to think I’m a bit harder in that aspect, but in the assertion sense. I feel guilty because I know I should be doing something, ANYTHING, but I’m not and I won’t…

It’s done now, most likely dead. Sometime during my writing this, it rattled some more around in the trap, then stopped for a while, then one last rap and that’s been it for about 10 minutes now. It’s dead. I’m still not looking though. Not because it’s dead, but because it’s maimed, gross-looking, I’d feel the need to take care of it. I will wake tomorrow and know my dad will probably do it when I mention it. Immature? Probably. If I was alone, I would take care of it sure. My manliness overrides my fears of whatever might happen and I shut off all emotion and take care of it; Daddy Long Legs, bees, mice, moths, other insects. Alone, I’m a girl and would like nothing more than to avoid it and pretend it’s not there as long as it hasn’t got the ability to touch me, but with another there to impress, I wouldn’t think twice.

            So instead, before bed, I write this. Well before it died I thought of this. I was slaving over what the heck to do with my website that I hastily bought a month ago now, and have done little with, so hearing the trap, I immediately found it inspiring. I used the slow, painful death of this mouse to further my egotistical exploits into writing stories and blog-like posts, to which few may read. Personal gains, an increase in self-esteem, and ego, that’s what I gained from this death.

 

          What does that say about society?