There was a time, when I stared into the sun, and realized that I never existed


“Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Lo-lee-ta.”

Shit. Shit. Shit. FUCKING SHIT! It’s all internal monologue as I shake awake. What was in that bud? Never. NEVER. Have I ever had an experience like this. Shit. Shit. Shit. Never. EVER. Get stoned and fall asleep watching Once Upon a Time in the West. Great film. Not so great nightmares about Johnny Law breaking down your door and arresting you for giving your at-the-time underage girlfriend cannabis laced brownies.  And to piss gasoline into the flames, I’m pretty sure that I just shat myself.


M and I are writers. That is we’re writers who haven’t written anything in a while. Sure, he has the shows and I have the blogs, but nothing worthwhile. He says the job is what killed his ability to write. Me? I blame hours of boob tube. In truth, however, it’s because I stopped living. That’s a laugh, right? Even when I was, I wasn’t.

And this isn’t a post about me being a father too young – I’m at the cusp of my late twenties and early thirties. If anything, I’ve waited too long to become a father.

So where did it all go? I read just as much as I did in college. I experience the same things…well, not exactly. Gone are the nights at the taco stand. Of watching people kill possums with beer bottles. Of eating pot brownies while studying logic. Not that those things were constant in my life, but it was something. More than coming home from work and sitting down in front of the TV and catch up with whoever the fuck is on it.

Gone, too, is the social interaction that I loathed. Sure there are the kids at work, but they’re more interested in playing on computers than holding a conversation. And when they start going on about League of Legends, my mind sorta just drifts. Somehow, I’m back at the cubical talking to the RPGers, sans the pot.

An old friend told me to go out and have a drink with a friend. I don’t drink. I don’t even enjoy coffee. Especially not in the summer.

I see the smile on my son’s mouth and I want to cry each time. I’m away too much. I lie to my coworkers, giving them reports that I get. And that human feeling that I used to treasure so much? Well, that’s pretty much gone, too. It’s a war I’m too tired to continue to fight. Then again, I don’t see the point in fighting it anymore. Because give another three years and something else will appear. And another thing. It’ll continue. And it’ll keep pulling me down to levels of self-hatred. As long as I get to see him and be in his life, that’s all that matters to me now. Everything is just static.


I hear myself mouth the words, and even I know I’m not ever going to give up. That’s the problem with us junkies. No matter the junk floating in our veins, you never give up on what you love. And that’s the problem. No matter how much I can hate a person, I still love them.

Bathroom or Bust

There are several plans I’ve made in my head to get me to the bathroom without anyone knowing I just shat myself. Most of them have me crawling. Another just has me fessing up to my so-called crimes. Fuck it. Just run.

The story ends happily. To a point, anyway. At least there wasn’t any shit.


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