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I grip the knife tightly and deliver an aggressive strike at my victim;
he delivers a bone-jarring blow to the radius bone of my forearm while jamming a finger into my right eye. My head goes backward and before I recover he follows up with a barrage of knees and elbows that doubles me over; subsequently, my hand holding the knife is wrenched into an inescapable wristlock and I crash hard to the floor, too quick to catch myself. My “victim” disarms me and slashes me hard across the jugular.
Thank God it’s only a training knife,
I recently stumbled upon this 100words site after failing to complete a 50,000-word novel in thirty days. Yeah, NaNoWriMo kicked my ass but it was my first attempt and I only fell short by about 8,000 words. Next year, victory will be mine. Oh, yes, it
Until then, I’ll amuse myself with having the discipline to put down whatever it is I have to say within the required parameters. One hundred words ain’t a lot but it’s enough to keep the juices flowing. Additionally, the succinctness can only help with my new obsession: writing haiku and tanka.
My cat annoys the shit out of me. Okay, not necessarily all the time but
of the time. When she isn’t meowing for me to pet her or feed her, she’s licking me or kneading me or clawing up my chairs.
The worst time is when I’m trying to sleep. She jumps on my bed, lies down next to my head and purrs loudly. So loudly that there’s no possible way I can fall asleep. Then, of course, she licks
herself! This makes me want to destroy her.
We were made for each other.
A guy and his girlfriend climb into the back of my cab and tell me their destination.
Two blocks into the ride, the guy asks, “What is this you’re listening to?”
I’m surprised he hears it; I have the stereo turned down extremely low.
“Elliott Smith,” I reply.
“Turn it off, turn it down, get rid of it,” he barks.
“Not a fan?” I ask.
“He was a good friend of mine, it’s a sore subject,” he says.
“It’s a sore subject for me and I never knew him,” I commiserate.
The remainder of the ride is spent in silence.
It’s such a wonderful feeling to work graveyard shift then go straight to a vigorous martial arts class. The combination of caffeine, sleep deprivation, and mental and physical fatigue is a cocktail that only the most discerning of tastes can appreciate. A fist landing solidly on one’s chin only accentuates the throbbing sensation behind one’s eyes and the lightheaded feeling that has steadily grown over the course of the two-hour class becomes more insidious. Some of the most important things to remember are: relax, breathe deeply from the abdomen, move efficiently and, most importantly, have fun; it'll be over soon.
I want my son to be “normal”, well adjusted, confident and happy. I hope my son never develops a drug and / or alcohol problem. I want my son to respect himself and others. I hope my son never gets into a fistfight. I want my son to excel at everything he does without sacrificing the enjoyment of doing them. I hope my son never feels neglected or unloved. I want my son to think for himself and remain open-minded. I hope my son aspires to be like me but even better. I want my son to never lose hope.
I love acupuncture. There’s something about lying face down with scads of needles protruding from my flesh that makes me content. If that’s not enough, I also receive shiatsu immediately after my acupuncture treatment. It’s one of those rituals that I never want to end. I have literally moaned my appreciation numerous times; that is, when I’m not outright snoring. The only downside to this type of treatment is the price: it’s about one hundred dollars per hour. Every Friday, when I get my treatment, I’m more and more thankful for the lady who rear-ended me; after all, she’s paying.
Seven empty beer bottles, a container of wet wipes, headphones, eight Pez dispensers, a checkbook, a pile of paper, a container of blank CDs, a cell phone, three bottle caps, one plastic skull, a Sharpie, a computer terminal, a monitor, a keyboard, a printer, speakers, three “free drink” coins, one Oxycontin, a box of tacks, a bag of raw almonds, a roll of clear tape, two candles, a lighter, comic books, a PSP, a debit card, three photographs, a fortune cookie fortune, a notebook, a battery, one paper airplane, two quarters, a dime and a nickel are on my desk.
The gray sky outside
is a harbinger of rain
and a warmer day;
I hope the rain screams murder
on our fair little city.
It’s like a cocoon
that envelops the people,
yet no one changes.
Or, if they do, it’s for worse
and I hear their discontent.
I can’t stop the rain
any more than I can stop
the earth from turning.
There’s a comfort in raindrops,
a comfort that is more real
than any of you
or the promises you make.
Or the tales you tell
to someone who’s a stranger
yet knows you like family.
When I have to teach an absolute beginner how to do a technique, it benefits me as much as, if not more than, the person I’m teaching because I am forced to
break down the technique; this calls for a high degree of competency on my part and has more than once left me feeling like a bumbling fool (
I have developed a greater appreciation for helping others learn due to the fact that most of my martial arts knowledge is a challenge for me to verbalize, especially when it comes to instructing a beginner.
HR was my high school sweetheart and she broke my heart.
CP took my virginity, broke my heart and eventually killed herself.
SK was rich and “slumming it” but she cultured me and supposedly I broke her heart.
CA was literally “love at first sight” but she was a sociopath and broke my heart.
JM was cute, drank like a fish and was incredibly dull. No heart problem.
GR was insane and manipulative and neither of our hearts was in it.
KF was exciting and carefree and, of course, broke my heart.
and removed my heart.
I wish I could travel back in time and kick my dead stepfather’s ass. I mean
just tear into that motherfucker and leave him permanently ruined: broken bones, missing teeth, nerve damage, and the works. For seven years I put up with abuse from that son of a bitch; Christ, he had 30+ years and 200 pounds on me, what the hell could I do? Yeah, I’d like to go back and catch him when he was in his prime and cave in his head with a tire iron. That’d be sweet.
I think I may have some issues…
I met the most beautiful girl recently and we established an instant connection from the moment the first words were exchanged between us. She was intelligent, witty, creative, and beautiful and had the most amazing eyes I’ve seen in a long time. One of the greatest parts about it was the genuineness of the conversation. She was truly a nice person and listened to what I had to say. I haven’t been that turned on in quite awhile. I had the pleasure of spending a good twenty minutes in her company before dropping her off at her boyfriend’s house. Typical.
Being locked in a jail cell for twenty-two out of twenty-four hours is only conducive to one thing: sleep. Seriously, the books in the jail “library” are all horrible, the food is worse and my cellmate was only interested in being ignorant and racist so the conversation was kept to a minimum. We were allowed out of our cells once in the morning for an hour and once in the evening for an hour. I read three books in two days and slept and slept and slept. Oh, why was I in jail for two days? “Hell hath no fury…”
“… like a woman scorned.” Yep, my ex-girlfriend and one of her co-workers totally exaggerated a situation and told the cops I threatened to shoot the co-worker. This led to me being arrested and held in jail for two days. No one bothered to get my side of the story and no one found it strange that I told my ex-girlfriend
I didn’t want to be with her and then, less than twelve hours later, I ended up being arrested. She told the cops she feared for her life but she ended up posting my bail. Go figure…
I love beer. Correction, I love
beer. You know, microbrews that actually have complex flavors and aromas and the taste actually changes while you’re drinking it because of subtleties that occur due to temperature change (if you can be patient enough). I believe that artisan beers are
as sophisticated as fine wines. My favorite beers are India Pale Ales and Imperial Pale Ales (the bitterer they are, the more I like ‘em!) but I’ll drink most anything that is
Budweiser, Miller, Coors, PBR and so on… Yeah, I’m a beer snob; wanna make somethin’ of it?
It starts innocently enough: you do a little “bump” of cocaine just to see what it feels like (and you don’t want to appear “square” in front of your friends) then you actually do a line or two (but only once in a while) and that turns into a quarter-gram per week (but only on the weekend) which rapidly accelerates into multiple lines per day every day (but it’s not a problem) and before you know it you’re shooting up (but only one time) then you’re shooting up multiple times per day every day (and death is all around you).
I was in a bar drinking and this girl walked up to me and immediately started laying it on hard and heavy: “What’s your name, where’re you from, are you seeing anyone?”, etcetera. I was congenial about it all until she said, “I’m a slut.” That was the absolute worst thing she could’ve said to me, or so I thought. She quickly followed that statement with a brief history of how her husband committed suicide, which led her to give her parents custody of her two kids. Man, I couldn’t drink fast enough to get the hell out of there.
It freaks me out when someone gets in my cab, tells me their destination is 22 miles away and then proceeds to ask me numerous questions about how much money I’ve made, whether or not the cameras in the cab work and if I’ve ever been robbed. I try and remain professional and polite but sometimes, when I’ve been put on edge like that, I want to say, “Man, shut the f**k up and let me drive or get the f**k out of my cab!” I have every right to do such a thing but it isn’t the greatest method.
I just watched a documentary about men who lived their lives with dolls. I’m not talking about Barbie dolls or G.I. Joe dolls but life-size versions of actual women. Most of the men built an unholy attachment to these dolls; talking to them as if they could actually hear, kissing and caressing them (in one case, giving a doll a foot massage) and forsaking all others for a fucking doll! Look, I’ve been rejected and have had problems meeting women but it’s nothing that I felt a doll could fix… Seriously, these guys could use a good ass kicking. Right?!?
Comic books were one of my first loves as a child. My uncle gave me a HUGE stack of X-Men comic books when I was nine years old and I never looked back. The writing and the artwork back in the late seventies and early eighties were so good and I couldn’t have been happier.
Unfortunately, I moved in with a girl thirteen years later and after a particularly nasty break-up, she took my entire comic collection (which was vast at that point) and sold it for sixty bucks; talk about someone wishing he could have superpowers to exact revenge…
I like staying in a hotel once or twice per month for no particular reason. I’m currently in the business office of a hotel as I type this. It’s fun to lounge on a big, fat bed and watch HBO or take a swim in an indoor pool and a nice long soak in a Jacuzzi. No one around to bother me, none of my friends can contact me and I can just
I think after this I’ll order a twelve dollar movie that’s still in the theaters (or two or three) and jump on that king sized bed…
I must’ve eaten some
bad chicken yesterday afternoon because most of last night and
of today I’ve felt extremely nauseous. My stomach has been cramping up and some of the most putrid odors have been escaping my rear end. Additionally, every time I burp (which is frequently) there is the most offensive flavor that assaults my taste buds.
The double whammy is the fact that I got the food from one of my favorite Chinese restaurants and now I’ll never be able to eat there again;
is how sick I feel. I wonder if it
So the fat man is scheduled to make his appearance around the world, breaking into millions and millions of homes, leaving toys and electronics (or coal, depending on one’s behavior), eating a heart-stopping amount of cookies and milk, and maybe getting a little action from various mothers who stay up late enough waiting for him. That’s why my fireplace is blocked off; let’s see that jolly red sucker make it into
house. Granted, some magic is supposedly involved so my backup plan is to be sitting in the dark waiting for him, with my .45-caliber handgun. Ho, ho, ho.
I guess I pissed the fat man off because all I got for Christmas was the flu.
It’s that nasty kind where just my clothing hurts my body.
I’m afraid to eat for fear that it’ll come right back up.
I slept for fifteen hours and all I want to do is go back to bed.
The only good thing about it was I didn’t have to work today; the bad thing is I’ll have to dip into my savings to pay bills / make rent.
Thanks a lot, fat man, you got away with another miserable Christmas.
I’m still ill but not quite as bad; I was able to eat some soup and keep it down. I’m still debating on whether or not I should go to work. How many people could I play a role in making sick? I figure if I have twenty to thirty fares and get all of them sick, they’ll give it to another person or two. That’s roughly twenty to sixty people sick and it just keeps on rippling outward. This isn’t scientifically accurate but it’s still gratifying to know if I suffer, there will be groups of people suffering, too.
You want a quick, easy and free high? Stay up for thirty-two consecutive hours without sleep, that’ll ail what cures you. That’s the state of mind I’m currently writing this in. “Lucky” for me I won’t be sleeping for
another two hours, possibly longer.
It’s great, my head’s spinning and everything seems to be a bit askew. My equilibrium is dancing from one side of my head to the other and I’m constantly tittering about everything and nothing at all. I’ve nearly pitched face first into a wall about six times and, visually, everything‘s foggy.
Who needs drugs?
I hate cleaning my house almost more than anything in the world. There is always some amount of clutter in some portion of my place that never seems to be completely eradicated. It’s usually moved from one spot to another and assimilates loose objects that are unlucky enough to cross its path.
In addition to the clutter, there are currently three piles of clean laundry that need to be folded and put away. By the time the dryer stops running there will be a fourth with a fifth close on its heels.
I guess I’ll go get something to eat.
I had one of the most horrible dreams last night. It involved a large robot that was intent on my destruction yet, somehow, I fended it off long enough to make my escape. The horrible parts of the dream involved my son being abducted by the murderous robot and the ten or fifteen quills that the robot had inserted lengthwise through my tongue. Each quill was approximately eight inches in length and hurt excruciatingly when I pulled it out; one of the quills actually pierced through the roof of my mouth and went through my left eyeball. It really sucked.
New Year’s Eve is tomorrow and I can only imagine the variety of people that are going to be in and out of my cab. I’m sure there’ll be people from high society to the dregs of society and everything in between. Not that that’s any different from any other night, it’ll just be amped to the Nth Degree.
I refer to nights like New Year’s Eve as “amateur nights” because everyone seems to behave like teenagers who are drunk for the first time.
crazy’s bound to happen; after all, the Wu Tang Clan is playing here tomorrow night.
Well, this is it: the last day of the year. One step closer to the grand finale of “life, the universe and everything” (thank you, Douglas Adams).
This time next year, Bush & Co.’s madness will nearly be at an end (
AND THANK YOU!) and all the restaurants and bars here in Puddletown will officially become non-smoking (what
Financially, I’m nearly broke (no savings, investments or 401Ks) so everything’s normal in that category.
Looking back, the only greatness I was blessed with in 2007 was my son (seven years running).
IT‘S GOOD TO BE ALIVE!
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