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SOMETIMES I FRIGHTEN MYSELF. IT USUALLY HAPPENS WHEN I’M LOUNGING ON THE COUCH WITH THE TV RUNNING WITH NOTHING ON AND I START TO THINK ABOUT THE WORLD. CHER AND MICHAEL JACKSON SCARE THE HELL OUT OF ME. I LOVE THE MUSIC, JUST CANNOT LOOK AT THEM. IMAGINE THEY HOOKED UP AND BREEDED. SOME SORT OF HYBRID HUMAN/PLASTIC BEING. KIND OF LIKE A LIVING BREATHING BOOM BOX THAT DOESN’T NEED TO BE POWERED. THEN AGAIN YOU CAN’T SHUT IT OFF EITHER. NOW I’M FRIGHTENED. WHY AREN’T THE SIMPSON’S ON TONIGHT? NOW THAT’S A GREAT SHOW. REAL TRUE TO LIFE.
All I do is whine. Is that what our perfect little lives are? It makes me want to run and flying dropkick the office supply delivery man in the crotch because he backed into the loading dock a little to hard this morning and has a smug attitude about the manila envelopes he's delivering. "I use red ones you jackal aaaaaaaaaaiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiieeeeeeeeeeee!!!!!!!!!" I'm sure he's wearing a protective cup though, he's kind of shifty looking and probably been attacked for his paper clip supply. He needs a shave and a haircut, not a hairclip. Oh shit, I think I'm in lust.
My fish is swimming in green water. I have been pushed to the limit. The weather alert has been upgraded and the pressure for me to get home and save my fish makes me want to blindly reach out and punch the clerk behind the counter. He doesn’t realize the consequences of eating barbecue fritos and chicken salad together. I look for an escape and all I see is neon. I just wanted to pay for my gas. The clerk is chatting on his cell phone while incorrectly charging the guy in front of me for his soda and cigarettes.
It had rained all day and night. Out of habit I opened the windows and the cool night air wrapped me in a stiff but comforting blanket. I watched the traffic driving past as if it were my favorite movie. My thoughts focused on the rain, drop by drop, as each hit the pavement, and they were memories of something in my past long ago forgotten, now remembered briefly. I look to the rain as tears I cannot shed. I welcomed the relief and release and as the rain began to increase in intensity, my hand slid inside my pants.
It hurts me to watch him. Tears at the very heart of me to see him this way. He has been adrift and just going through the motions for too long. A lost soul wounded. I wanted so much to reach out and put my arms around him and take care of him. Something in his eyes captured me. Looking into their depths mirrored my own despair, aching, longing, but I hadn’t been hurt the way he had. I loved him in that instant, everlasting. I need to love him for my own salvation; I see it in his eyes.
I heard the squealing brakes, the thump and the silence. Followed by the howling. I didn’t want to hear that. I never want to hear that. I jumped to the window and seen people running, seen the car stopped in the middle of the street, seen it in slow motion. The wailing continued as if the audio track was out of synchronization with the video and turned to the highest level. I grabbed my remote, blasted the volume button to cover the noise. I heard the squealing of brakes, the thump and the silence. I turned off the TV immediately.
I couldn’t help but stare at myself in the mirror. Happiness. Anger. Fear. Weariness. Innocence. Loathing. Humility. Frustration. Temptation. Failure. Many were well represented. I almost didn’t recognize myself even though I know myself. I saw things etched there that no longer mattered, affected me throughout, things that haven’t taken there toll yet. I saw too much. I was still that timid little boy awed by the world around me. If I looked hard at myself I could catch a glimpse of him staring back at me in awe and wonder. How one could be marked and weathered and aged.
I have come upon knowledge that will destroy all those I love. Ultimately, I will be destroyed. Do I let it do me in without speaking up, or do I wreak havoc on those I cherish before I collapse in utter ruin? I am undecided at the moment; I am unfamiliar with the power I now possess. If I do love as I say, I let the knowledge defeat me. Let it consume me while I pretend everything is all right. It’s not all right, I am devastated and my life is not the same nor will I ever be.
He sat next to me on the flight home. I couldn’t describe him in any context that would make him remarkable, except that he was and I had to find out all I could about him. He didn’t speak unless spoken to. He answered in a hushed tone, as if he were ashamed of his own voice. I had to listen intently to get his story. I had no interest in his life really, only him, sitting next to me on this flight. Interested in sharing a few moments with this stranger, this man whom I will not remember later.
I just don’t want to deal with trivial things. Deciding between fries or onion rings is emotionally exhausting. Mix ‘em up, surprise me, don’t give me any, fuck, I don’t care. I just don’t want to deal with it. I ordered the fucking value meal to minimize the hassle and it’s become a fucking chore. Had I known I’d have to go to college just to order a fucking meal from the drive-through, I would have went home and ate my fucking leftovers from last nights debacle over coleslaw and mashed potatoes. No fucking way this would happen at McDonalds.
The show should be renamed squeal of fortune. All it is, is a bunch of loud, obnoxious, inane and just plain stupid people. Just give ‘em the $25,000 to shut the hell up. WHOOP! WOOOOOO! I used to be entertained by the show, now I just watch in disbelief as contestant after contestant fails to solve an easy puzzle. My favorite is when there is only one letter left to complete a phrase and the person spinning the wheel cannot figure it out, or when they call a letter already on the board. Now that’s entertaining. Stupid dumbass. WOOOOOO! WOOOOOO!
He lies incessantly. I have no idea why. He’s always been like that. From the time he was 5 years old he was telling stories. If you didn’t know him, you might believe what he has to say. He’s a master at tall tales. He lies to everyone, including himself. So good at deception, his lies are his truths. I used to get angry. Now I just add to his lies. He understands them, knows my intentions. He knows the truth behind my lies. Knows his lies are what they are. Still he lies, knowing that I know the truth.
I wanted to be Superman. But no, she had to go as Glenda the good witch and wanted me to be a munchkin. I am taller than that. Did she expect me to walk on my knees? I bet she would like that, me on my knees. Like I was begging her for attention, emotional support or even better, money. What a viscous manipulative bitch she is. How dare she insult my masculinity like that? I crawl for no one. I will be Superman at this costume party damn it. “I AM SUPERMAN!” I shouted. I went as a munchkin.
Driving to work this morning, a rainbow appeared. The last few days have been dark, rainy and gloomy. A second on appeared. They shimmered and the world was a wondrous place. I admired their beauty, fascinated by their elegance. Then I noticed the car directly behind me was tailgating. I took my foot off the gas pedal, waited until the driver pulled to the right to pass me, pressed the accelerator and wouldn’t let him get ahead of me. The rage subsided and the rainbows captivated my attention once more. They were beautiful. What a wonderful world we live in.
Stripped to the waist, he worked on my car aggressively. That morning it wouldn’t start. The engine overturned but nothing else. As I was trudging back to my apartment, cussing aloud, he appeared out of the building next to mine. Eyes connected, held. A few brief words and he was going to check it out for me. I checked him out. Nice taut muscles, brown hair and eyes, moist lips. I couldn’t venture past the waist or I’d betray my interest. He was talking, I was staring, he moved closer, I looked away, he took my hand, I thanked him.
I stared at the ceramic what-the-fuck-is-it entirely too long before I decided I had to buy it. It was only $1.99 on clearance. It’s something of a potter’s worst nightmare. Fired blue, cylindrical in shape with globs of globs scattered. The one arm fascinates me to no end. When this thing was being made, did the creator really think adding an arm would make it sell? Did the maker believe this was a fine piece of work? Was it some mistake? Was it a joke? I will spend countless hours and many smokes trying to see if it’s an ashtray.
It never ceases to amaze me. Every damn time I go to buy myself underwear, some old lady wanders into the aisle I am in stops right next to me and stands there. I kind of feel that buying underwear is a personal thing and I don’t want anyone watching while I decide between low-rise, thong or boxer-briefs. Not that I have a problem showing off my underwear in public though. I guess it’s the ritual of it, the intimate moment of man and material. Whatever it is, “GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE, I’M TRYING TO BUY SOME UNDERWEAR!!!!!”
I grabbed the closest thing to me to throw at the centipede crawling on the wall just inches above my head. It was a can of beets. I missed, put a dent in the plaster. Guess I’ll be hanging a picture out of Reader’s Digest to cover the window so I won’t be able to notice the bugs. I haven’t slept in 24 hours, been lying here figuring out just what it is about Jennifer Lopez’s mediocre talents that make me nauseous. I reached out and grabbed the closet thing to throw at the CD player. It was my sanity.
I remember when I wrote it. It was about innocence, betrayal, growing up, growing old. It was raining a year ago I don’t remember why, I came out of hiding, it doesn’t matter anyway. After reading my life out loud and seeing blood hasn’t spilled, you went underground, things aren’t that simple. It can never be the same, as long as I keep playing with the memories, it’s never the same. It can never be the same, all the while I think of you and the memories are never the same. Here’s to what will never be and what is.
I want to get naked with him. Not for sexual gratification, though I fantasize about it often. To be myself with him, show him who I really am. Strip away the façade and pretenses we live under and be ourselves. He is everything I want to be, strive to be. To me, he is beautiful. Even with his flaws. That engaging smile of his, the radiance of his eyes when he’s in conversation, the lanky build, the warm personality, his laid back mannerisms, his charm, wit and wisdom. He is definitely somebody I want to get naked with, REAL SOON.
We went to the stadium over the weekend. I got tickets through a guy at work. They were box seats. It would have impressed my date, but she wanted to be closer to the field. The stands were filled with Chicago Cubs fans, rowdy, drunken and entertaining. When number 21 stepped up to the plate, the crowd roared “Thammy, Thammy” Each time he struck out. “Thwingin’ Thammy Thotha thtrikes out” should have been the chant. We had servers to bring our food and drinks. Our server was devoid of any personality. I guess we should’ve ordered some on the side.
I lay upon the grass, naked. After the rain, fog rolled in off the lake, creating a damp atmosphere that felt exhilarating on my skin. 1:00am, thunderstorms past through, waking me. I became restlessly excited as the storm raged and I threw on some clothes and ran outside. All my senses heightened, I felt alive. I ran across the street into the park and lay down on the ground. As the rain, lightning and thunder overwhelmed me, I undressed. I wanted to be part of nature, to be one with the storm. I felt invigorated, stimulated. I stayed until dawn.
She is my rock. I am because she is. Strength, beauty and Irish crème. We have endured snapping pie-holes, faded beauty queens, ugly Samoans dancing, gum-snapping barrages, Jagermeister, 24 hour comas, husks, forgotten equipment, red-eye flights, freezing slot machines, Hilton boy, illuminatin’ gum, Asian glow sticks, disappointing Bomb, ROWRS, free beer hockey games, Everlasting concerts, vinyl, bleaches, comas, numbskulls, vortexes, “gen-u-ine” COMA tours, CL’s coma train, homeless Vegas nights, cold long beaches, COMAS, WOOT!!! Swingin’ doors, micro.sux, street festivals, equipment wrestling among the thousands of misadventures we have had. It is what friendships are and what ours is. Truly AWESOME.
She is my Muse. Mesmerized by her voice, her movement, Her. From the moment I met her I was hers. From the bar to the sidewalk to the roller coaster to the stalking. No one else has had the dramatic effect as she. I languish through days until I get to her. Blue hair polkas and free beer on cold days I am hers. Pearls and religion and water pistols and picnics and DJs I am at her side. Sisters or fireworks or chocolate parades or apartments, she captivates. Clover before everybody beat I am caught, my Muse, To fall.
The guy in the red Pontiac Grand Am looks hot. So does the guy in the silver Acura Integra. Look at him, on the Harley, shaved head, goatee, in leather, mighty fine, he can take me for a ride anytime, not to mention the red head jogging, look at him. The guy driving the black Jeep Wrangler is fine, so is the dude in the blue Chevy Cavalier, damn. The guy in the white Ford Mustang is gorgeous, riding with the top down and his shirt off, hey, how about the policeman driving past, sunglasses and patent leather shoes, oh . . .
I give up. I am tired of trying to be civil. I get gum snapped at me by greasy haired checkout girls, bread packed on the bottom of my grocery bags by pimply faced boys with tattoos and earrings, no assistance from the chubby girl in customer service wearing her little sisters outfit I think, blank stares from my boss because she can’t answer a simple question. Wait, That wasn’t very nice, I set her up, the stupid bitch, I get a kick out of looking at her ugly face as she tries to come up with an intelligent answer.
The $1,000,000 piece of artwork (shit) is falling apart. I find it humorous. It is the pride and joy of the owner of the company I work for. It is prominently displayed in the cafeteria. It is ugly as hell. Blue, brown and gray various sized semicircles intertwined in this hulking swirling mass. Each circle is lined with a different kind of precious metal, looks like tinfoil to me. The piece was specifically designed to hang in the cafeteria by the (con) artist. The metals are separating from the circles, exposing the cardboard and wire framework. Definitely worth the money.
Just got done reading Christopher Rice. Two very interesting and intense stories, A Density of Souls and The Snow Garden. Now I want to sleep with him. More for the fact that he could most accurately write my story than the fact that he’s absolutely gorgeous. I would fit into his literary world quite literally. I often wonder if I am a character in someone’s fiction. Things go astray constantly, I find myself in unimaginable circumstances, mostly laughable, at least my author has a sense of humor. I just hope Christopher doesn’t laugh at me when he sees me naked.
I remember writhing in pain and whimpering in agony, almost in tears, numb from the waist down, worrying if I wet myself just because I was afraid of a freaking lawnmower and too stupid to call for help while mowing 30 miles of grass in front of my parent’s house and another 30 miles of wilderness. I remember mentally shutting down, the blinding white-hot pain shooting the length of my spine. I remembered that I would be mowing again tonight. I am demented with convulsions, spasms and paralyzed from the waist down, except for an occasional uncontrolled twitching. HELP ME.
I was in line at the grocery store buying my favorite mocha flavored beverage when I got bumped from behind. I almost dropped my bottle. I almost bit my tongue off. No mumbled apology came. I turned around and there stood an old woman with a blank stare, waxen, gnarled and smelling of ben-gay. She looked like DEATH, living, breathing. I stepped out of line and wanted to scream out. I had to flee the vicinity immediately, so I chucked my purchases into the Wonderbread display and ran like hell, screaming like a banshee. Aiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii!! Aiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii!!! Nobody seemed to notice.
Is this all there is? It seems my story is not completed. I have not put it all down for you to celebrate. My legacy remains a mystery. Legacy? What the hell is that? When did society take a turn for the worse? Where is it written that people must produce a legacy? A legacy is not something you intentionally construct; it’s something that cannot be created. I am tired of the media. Tired of trying to live respectfully, tired of obeying laws. I want to be a hellion, want to raise a ruckus, want that to be my legacy.
The Tip Jar