“You find your demon’s your best friend”

Depression’s heavy. Cinder blocks lined on your shoulders heavy. Beached whale heavy. Burden-laden, love-ridden, endless insomniac nighttime, television watching heavy.

I lost myself in the rows of gravestones looking for his, Teddy’s–a high school friend who died before graduation. Izzy wanted to visit the cemetery, and since they have no dead relatives they knew or cared about, we sought out the people who I knew. I sat on the ground with Shaun in front of where my friend now rests. This being the second time I paid him a visit since he died in 2001. There was no privacy, so I didn’t talk to the dirt or rock. And it’s funny, though. After all these years of not believing in a god, a heaven or hell, a soul, or an afterlife, I still manage to talk to the dead as if their metaphysical selves linger on this earth. Some practices are not easily forgotten, and perhaps they aren’t due to therapeutic purposes.

Even if I was left to my thoughts, what words would I say? Hi, Teddy. Sorry I haven’t visited much. I’m too busy living, something you weren’t given the opportunity to experience. Not the in the same sense as the rest of us, anyway. And exactly what would have you become if you had? A doctor? A lawyer? A political figurehead that would have changed the game? Who cares about any of that, anyway? There’s this myth that it’s not who you are that defines you, but what you do that makes you who you are. I don’t think that’s true. It’s not who you are or what you do that defines a person, it’s those you leave behind in the end. The people who love you and carry you around long after your gone. This is my son and I love him dearly. His mother and I, well, we weren’t cut out for each other, I suppose. I really wish we were, though. But things are great. My son loves me. And I suppose if no one else does, at least I have that to keep me moving forward. And that’s what I most sorry for, Teddy. It’s not that you didn’t get the opportunity to make a mark on this world, it’s that you never got to feel what I’m feeling–never had the experience of fatherhood.

I’m not good at reading people’s emotions. I can’t say I lack empathy, but it’s not something I experience often enough. I tread lightly around others because I don’t know what they’re going to do. People are a mystery to me. What compels them to smile, cry, grow angry, or whatever is a mystery. I’m not a fan of Descartes, but to paraphrase him: I know I’m a creature of thought and ration, but what are you?

And the worse of it is, I never know how to react to others’ emotions. I never see them as angry or sad until it affects me. A reason, I may add, that makes me a terrible boyfriend.

A while ago, I stopped at my boss’s office to have a chat. Nothing major, just wanted to talk about–what else–my life (I’ve learned that this never works, as I’m often times pulled into a conversation that doesn’t pertain me, but I have to listen quietly because it’s social contract that if I want to talk about me, I have to listen as they talk about themselves). She starts off by stating something about the people upstairs (literal, not figuratively), then apologizes for crying (which I didn’t notice until she mentioned it). We spoke about this before. Told her a couple of times, actually. I can’t read people, and I never know how to react when someone is crying. Especially if that someone isn’t an intimate (at least I can hug them).

And something happened today, I became anxious. An emotion transferred to me by my coworkers. Even though I accredit it to the fact that their anxiety only made me anxious, and not empathy, I was proud of myself for a moment. It passed as I tried to read the face of my coworker and saw nothing. I looked at the face of my boss, and nothing.

Someone once told me I care too much about what people think of me. As a regular joe, I guess I do. But I lived my whole life not being able to see what people were thinking or feeling, that I don’t think it’s any more than I should.

When it was time to go, I punched out. But Angela was still in the back, so I remained at the seat until it was officially time for me to leave. I went to retrieve her when my ride arrived, and she looked at her watch (she’s one of the few people who I know who wears one) and asked why I didn’t call her before. “It’s called kindness,” I responded. “I do that sometimes.”

And I felt it. The creepy feeling I always get before the waves wash over me and I’m drowning. As I said my goodbyes, the undertow pulled me beneath the water and her voice and face were but a garble to my senses.

I played the absent lover in most of my relationships. The one loved the feeling of being loved, but resented the obligation of returning the affection.

Don’t misquote that. I have and still love certain people. The obvious people who I won’t list. And no matter who’s stuck around, there is one that has never left my side even in its absence. The personification of the illness that grows through me. That lies in wait for an opportunity to pounce and devour me. The thing that isolates me further. The curtain will fall one day, and hopefully I’ll understand this life when my last performance fades to black. Because, don’t we all get it in the end?

Doldrums · Music

Say Yes

I’m in love with the world through the eyes of a girl
who’s still around the morning after.
We broke up a month ago, and I grew up – I didn’t know
I’d be around the morning after

It’s always been wait and see
A happy day and then you’ll pay
And feel like shit the morning after
But now I feel changed around
And instead of falling down
I’m standing up the morning after
Situations get fucked up and turned around sooner or later
I could be another fool or an exception to the rule
You tell me the morning after.

Crooked spin can’t come to rest
I’m damaged bad at best
She’ll decide what she wants
I’ll probably be the last to know
No one says it ’til it shows
See how it is, they want you or they don’t
Say yes.

I’m in love with the world through the eyes of a girl
Who’s still around the morning after…

Sometimes there are things I wanna just get off my chest. But the privacy of my blog has changed drastically and I’m not ready to even begin to speak about these sort of things out loud in the company of others who will either reject or accept me. Instead, I lose myself in the white sun of afterthought and the cursed waves of forethought. Ashton told me she’d kick my ass if I wasn’t allowing myself some sliver of happiness, but there are somethings that take time to heal or even begin the process anew. I guess, what I’m trying to say is that I may have hope for something new in life, but I’m not giving up my hopes.


Never Underestimate the Power of A

Exhibit A: The Brits call it a fanny
Exhibit A: The Brits call it a fanny

You gotta laugh at yourself sometimes. But I prefer laughing with others. And usually at others. Saturday, Angela snapped this picture and sent it my way. I was eating with my family when I received it (thanks, by the way, Ang). “OK so does this logo on this sign seem weird to you?” she texted. We talk about my haircut because I honestly didn’t look at the picture because I was eating with my family (cannot emphasis that enough). She humored me for a bit, but pressed on (exaggeration), “So did you see anything odd with that sign logo?”

I look at it, smirk, but fear that I’ll be chastised for being a pervert, so I use a Brit slang that means something different here. “It looks like a fanny?” I replied.

“Haha. OK. That wasn’t my original thought though,” she replied.

“Oh. Then what am I not seeing?”

“Not gonna say.”

“Tell me :(,” then, “Please.”


“Pretty please,” then, “Sugar on top and all that jazz.”

“Lol. Fine. But remember you wanted to know. When I first saw it I thought it looked like lady parts.”

I responded how fanny to the British doesn’t mean butt, but the female genitalia. We chuckled about it (well, I chuckled). We talked vaginas and men for a bit. I made some jokes at myself. Yada yada yada. Flashforward to today, where we learned that shirty is a British synonym for angry. “How’s that angry?” to paraphrase Angela. And just before I can opine that the Brits are a funny people and why is fanny a pu…, a thought crosses my mind about the picture. And the same thought smacked her because I then see her taking out her phone and showing the Michaels the logo. “What does this look like to you?” she asks them. And they both reply, “An A.”

“Think dirty,” I say. Still nothing. They don’t see it. “I guess we’re the only ones with a dirty mind,” I say.

She tells them. Michael asks, “Top parts or bottom parts?”

“If you have to ask, then you obviously don’t see it,” she says.

It’s agreed that A will now be code for the word. Later, the third Michael walks in to which Mike tells Angela, “Show him your A.”

We laugh.

“I’m gonna have to write a story with a conversation that ends with the sentence, “Never doubt the power of A.” life goal,” I texted her later in the night.

“Second single from [fictional band name here]?” she replies.



Doldrums · Music

“Let’s consider change of scenery…”

Exhibit A: Books, when placed side by side, that best describe my current state
Exhibit A: Books, when placed side by side, that best describe my current state

I’m standing (not now, of course, but the present tense seems most appropriate) in front of the alcohol. The booze section of the local grocery store. All sorts of beer behind and semi-fancy wine in front of me. My attempt at exuding an air of mercurial personality is failing. Deep down, I’m still me and am befuddled by alcohol. I can imagine myself picking up a bottle of MD 20/20 and popping the cap and drinking it there in the aisle, but what would that prove? The only warmth the alcohol could bring is that of confirmation: I’m seeing myself more and more as a failure, and thus I have accepted my status in life.

I attempted to fill this chasm in my heart with greed. I attempted to fill it with affection. I attempted to fill it up with whatever I can get a hold of. And all I can think of is her. And not the her I should be thinking of. Not the her whose indifference toward me of late has left me bruised and beaten. Not the her who would have me a whim. The her that I… My existence is just a that. I exist to her as foreground. Or background. Or a footnote. And while my dreams are still of her–the her I should be thinking of, the one who comes to me like a friend and lures me with affection only to drop me, knowing I’ll come running back for more–my waking thoughts of are this other her. This anonymous. This vagrant sleeping on the park bench of my mind. The her who causes me to pour out awkward metaphors and similes.

Exhibit B: Coffee stain was added specifically for Angela so she's the only one who gets a copy
Exhibit B: Coffee stain was added specifically for Angela so she’s the only one who gets a copy

Last night, I compiled my first “mixed tape” CD in years. Angela’s to blame for that one, by the way. I forgot how much work goes into making one of these suckers. “Peripetia” (an accidental misspelling of Peripeteia, but after the third printing of the playlist, I gave up and left it) took me five or six hours of listening to music nonstop finding the right songs that fit in with both feeling and flowed into each other. And because I stamped the track list with a coffee stain (obviously, not a real one), the only person who gets a copy of this one was Angela (other than me, I mean, it was my hard work). I spent all day at work listening to this while shelving. I’m listening to it now as I’m typing this (playlist, not the CD, because homie, sadly, owns an iPod).

Whenever I made one of these CDs in the past–whenever I was serious, and not just making something to play while fucking on a half pipe–a story must be conveyed. With a title like “Peripetia” (in which peripeteia means the “sudden change,” the plot twist),I wanted to make the soundtrack to a fictional falling-out-of-and-back-in love story. And not necessarily with the same person. Of course not. what sort of twisted love story is that? Addiction was needed, because how else can love be described. The CD starts off with Blood Red Shoes‘ “It’s Getting Boring by the Sea” and ends with “As You Are” by Garfunkel and Oates. So faster, slightly upbeat songs and flowing into slower, sentimental lyrics.

Not all the songs I wanted made it, though. They either didn’t flow with music, or they didn’t fit lyrically. Music by Tim Minchin (too funny, or too Christmas-y), Dirt Bike Annie (none of the songs fit), and Innerpartysystem (too dance-y) didn’t make it. Perhaps a sequel is in the works?


“Sommes nous les jouets du destin”

Femme Fatale edited by Lana Fox (cover)
Exhibit A: Femme Fatale

Go Deeper Press invited yours truly to read (and review, of course) Femme Fatale (edited by the kinky divorcée herself, Lana Fox*). And it’s Lana’s story, “Smart Folks Won’t Screw Witless Girls,” that’s stuck with me.

Now, it’s no secret I don’t consider myself a straight man. I curve at the edges, if you will. Mental sexual. Whatever you want to label, I’m all right with (mostly because, at the end of the day, I don’t give two shits what you call me). So what’s so special about Lana’s story? You gotta read it, I’m afraid.

A few months ago, I had an idea about creating an alter ego who wrote bad erotica. As there seems to be a market for it, anyway. (Not that Femme Fatale is bad erotica. It’s pretty good shit, here. Like the pineapple express of erotica.) Still, I’ve mentioned my run in with bad writing (and not just erotica) that I pick up for Kindle free via Smashwords or Amazon. Poor story lines, clichés, editing mistakes, etc. Makes a guy want to throw a business card (if I had any) at them and offer my editing services. I know what you’re thinking, “Please. There are so many grammatical mistakes in your blog posts, how can you possibly offer such services?” It’s easier to see others’ mistakes than your own.

Or maybe you’re one of those people who thinks that I’m jealous that I lack the skill that they have. To that, I ask, what skill? “So if you can do it, why not?” Well, that’s the plan. With said alter ego, I’m going to write some pretty shitty things and see who takes the bait. And this isn’t a one man operation. My co-workers are helping. So stay tuned for that.

While we’re on topic, I’ve halted all research on my sex club influenced story. The storyline became muddled with a murder mystery plot (even though I aimed for that direction). Or maybe I’ve become jaded towards sex. Or I haven’t watched or read enough porn to get this story off. I have scenes in my head, but they all feel a tad cliché. I want something new and fresh. What I need is a muse. Someone who can bring my creative self to the surface. Or I need to go out there and live a little. Either way, this dry spell is quite knackering.

*I’m using the title to refer to her book. I don’t know Lana Fox personally, so don’t go around quoting me that she’s a divorcée. There isn’t a doubt in my mind, however about her kinkiness.



“If we shadows have offended”

Conspiracy theorists are a lot alike religious nut jobs in the sense they’re fucking annoying. Nothing pleases these people, nothing real anyway. Any evidence thrown their way is automatically tossed aside and chalked up to lizard people meddling in to blind us from the truth. Meanwhile, the truth is biting them in the ass and they can’t explain the itch. Instead, it’s the government pulling the strings. And not the government government, but a secret, shadow government sitting beneath the earth in a DC comic book hideout plotting the end of our world.

I think Alan Moore says it best (and I’m borrowing this image from The Polymath’s Dilemma) when he said:

Exhibit A: Alan fuckin' Moore
Exhibit A: Alan fuckin’ Moore

When did logic and reason cease being enough for people that we had to create myths and monsters to explain the ugly and beauty of this world? And when did we start believing every fucking thing that we read on the Internet? That’s their main argument: “The evidence is all over there Internet!

This blog stems from a Facebook post (I know, I know) a friend made where the denies that a couple of student-aged terrorists could pull off the Boston Marathon bombings. You know, because there’s no such thing as brainwashing children. There’s also no such thing as a child soldier or a terrorist camps.

But explain this to me, conspiracy theorists: Why Russian? If the government was setting us up, why not North Korean? Because while Russian and the USA are seemingly at odds, the big bad of the day isn’t Russia. It’s not even Al Qaeda anymore. It’s North Korea.

For all you “Awake” people our there, I know you’re gonna say something in the sense of “Nuh uh!” or state that I’m too brainwashed to understand because I watch mainstream media. But whatever. You can be “awake” all you want. The truth is, you’re just so scared of the truth that you have to bury it deeply and live in a fantasy. And to debunk your mainstream media myth, I don’t watch it.