Wednesday, December 14, 2011


Good morning, world...

Have you ever found yourself standing in front of a hole in the ground, looking down, not sure if you should turn around or jump? A choice to make and path to break, or keep, as you see fit. The hole is probably very deep, and very rough, and altogether much scarier than turning around and going home. You could try to traverse the pit with a great leap...but even then, all it would take is for a shoelace to be caught, or even for you to look down as you pass over, and glimpse what you're missing. What they don't tell you - those loving Mothers and Fathers - is that the holes in the ground, much like holes in the wall, can be a lot of fun. So maybe you stop for a second, and catch your breath. Fine. Understandable. It's a big step, throwing your life away for the pursuit of pleasure. But to you, what does your life mean? Are you anything more than the sum of your parts? What are you even throwing away? A future in which you live out some sick and tragic loop of footage. The same job every day, the same car, the same trophy wife, the same snot-nose children. The same lease, the same department store purchases, the same fucking bags of Healthy Choice Dog Food for Small Dogs. Your choices become phantoms of real choices, and then cease to exist altogether. The world leaves its teeth marks on life as it should be, you see things as they are and forget what they could be. You become assimilated, incorporated, consolidated. You are now another tool of capitalism, industry, the Western Standard.

Or, rather, you would have been. Now you've considered the walls in this maze. Now you've caught your breath.

So you do what anyone like you would do, and you make a long rope out of all the money you can access at the time. Money is an evil thing; you justify this action with that absurd sentiment. Money isn't are. But you rappel down into this lovely hole in the ground regardless, which is looking lovelier with each passing moment. You pass friends who have gotten hung up on the jagged rocks, but you don't hear what they have to say. Soon, your rope is at an end. You gaze upward to the mouth of this strange place, to where the sunlight still warms the ground. Its very cold where you are. 

Sunday, November 27, 2011

So Long, and So Long Ago

Good evening world, and mi dispiace for the inexcusable absence these last four months. At long last, I've written again. And before anyone asks, this is fiction...with a dash of truth, for flavor.

(Working Title)

It was something like one-thirty in the morning on a Sunday in the infant days of May. I had just stepped out of my girlfriend’s car and into the parking lot of the local American E-Z Shop, the kind that almost always ends up being run by a Muslim with a bad attitude and worse English. The whole day up to that point had been spent in the car and on foot - I and two others - traversing the environs of beautiful Belmont, Ohio. The first of these was my girlfriend, Colette, who was the best and last woman I felt I would ever end up with. But a girl who would steal your love when your love was all you had, well…she wasn’t much of a woman, was she?

The third passenger in the tiny little bubble of dope smoke careening across the cityscape was my close friend, Jean Passerson. Jean was special in the way that some defective toasters are special. She was a broken item, but one whose imperfections ended up granting her the bulk of her grace and character. I loved her like I loved myself, which was such a different love than that which I had for Colette. It was a brutal, aching thing that defied sexuality or borders. She was a reminder of my addictions, and from that resemblance came the bittersweet care I had for her. It could not be defined, and as I spent that day with the two of them, the juxtaposition of where exactly my heart’s efforts spilled into was at once both perplexing and choleric.

By the time I had gotten out of the car and bid both Colette and Jean safe and happy trails, I could barely form a coherent thought. I had four dollars in quarters held tightly in my right hand, and a ninety-nine cent burrito from the local taco dive in my left. As my feet took me slowly through the automatic doors of the convenient store, I had the strangest sensation of only vaguely knowing which hands’ contents would pay for the impending pack of menthol cigarettes.

The lights inside the place hummed with an intensity that you can only hear on drugs, and I was immediately aware that every eye was on me. Following an earlier meal of a hundred milligrams of molly and several glasses of high-concentrate orange juice, Colette had persuaded me to take a couple of hits of homemade acid. Candy flipping wasn’t unusual for me in those days, considering the circles which I would frequent, but something about this situation was all wrong. I was in public, mentally naked in front of these gawking suburban lemmings as they went about their lives. Belmont was always the perfect town for a user, as long as you never stayed fucked up in one place for long. 

I went to the counter as slowly as I had entered, breathing even slower and thinking even slower than that. I was blitzed, and by the look in the clerk’s eyes and the upward curl of his eyebrows as I approached, all shaking hands and sweat, I could see that he knew it. There was room here for improvisation if things went south, and a part of my brain that wasn’t in the process of frying to a delicious golden crisp was aware of this. Mark the exits, look for cameras and off-duty cops, don’t start fucking laughing at absolutely nothing. There were rules when you went into a gas station at almost 2 A.M. with a head full of psychedelics. You had to keep the back burner on at all times, so when push came to shove you didn’t wind up sitting in the back of a police car, looking at an F1 and a stint in the local shithouse while you contemplated the risks of leaving the house with a ton of gear in your pocket and just as much in your veins. 

It's a work in progress, but at least it's something. I was worried I'd forgotten how to write. Until next time, world...enjoy.

Sunday, July 24, 2011

I'm not sure why I never shared this

Did your parents never love you?
Was your house just not a home?
Did your friends decide to leave you?
Did your lovers tend to roam?

Would your tears show through as silence?
Would your cries go out unheard?
Did your family just ignore you?
Did they never hear a word?

Was the normal not your average?
Was the world a boring place?
Did you realize far too early
That there's only time and space?

Did your talent go unnoticed?
Were your pleas met with a fist?
Were there angry bottles broken
As the rage turned into mist?

Did you never learn of comfort?
Did you never feel content?
Were there bills to pay and mouths to feed
But all the money spent?

Did you have to be an outcast?
Did you have to be a stray?
Were there never enough hours
Just to fill another day?

Was temptation too abundant?
Was it something in your genes?
Could the answer lie inside you
Lurking deep behind the scenes?

Was the pen your only comrade?
Was your music your escape?
Was the wind forever blowing
To the lyrics on the tape?

Did the sun go down too early?
Did the moon rise up too soon?
Did your first love break your spirit
Leaving you to vainly swoon?

Was the mirror always dirty?
Did you hate what you would see?
Was the road without a signpost?
Was the map without a key?

Was is it fear of expectation?
Could you not live up to theirs?
Did you always walk through life
Alone, so conscious of the stares?

Until next time, world...enjoy.

Wednesday, April 27, 2011


Good evening, world. I know I've been away for some time now, but I swear it was with good reason. Well, mostly good reason. Either way, mi dispiace. 

 So recently myself and a very dear friend of mine came to the decision that we should start...investing in things, so to speak. She's been out of high school for about a year now, and is going to college for a music major. I'm at the cusp of graduating myself, and it's high time we both started thinking about ourselves for a change. It's like my old Native American friend Chief Bulltits once said. "Fuck 'em."

Because of this new investment idea, I've been trying to save up money and look for a job. The investment itself isn't taking place until this summer, when the stocks we're interested in are in high demand and we can make a real profit from selling them. But still, I wish I could save money faster. The more my business partner and I have when June 6th (the date we're pooling our collective funds and looking to buy said stocks) comes, the more of those stocks we can invest in. It's a dilemma, but not one I'm particularly concerned about at this junction. Things will work out for us. I have a good feeling.

Until next time, world...enjoy.

Wednesday, February 23, 2011

The Trouble I Have With Anything

Good morning, world. It's me, your favorite neurotic blogger.

Yes, I remember the restraining order you filed.

No, I'm pretty sure it was thirty feet and seven inches.



Ten. Hm.

 Well regardless, we're here now aren't we? Together again at last, just you and I in the dark shadowy comfort of this blog. Yes, that's right. Relax. Take off your jacket. Would you like some tea? We only have lemongrass, but I can give it a little kicker if you'd prefer.

No! Not that kind of kicker! Especially since you obviously knew exactly what I was talking about...

So, friend...soul-mate. How's your tea?

Feels good right? The tea, of course. Nothing in the tea. No hidden drugs or sedatives. I definitely didn't steal high-powered beaver tranquilizers from the Cleveland Zoo and lace your drink with them. Here, friend. Special friend. Take this marker. We're going to play connect the birthmarks!

Until next time, world...enjoy.

Wednesday, February 2, 2011


Good afternoon, world.

It's almost one o'clock, and I've gotten nothing done today. Granted, I've had no school today or yesterday due to inclement weather. But regardless, I think maybe I should do something productive. Aside from playing old Playstation games on my laptop.

Well...I don't really have much else to say at the moment. The NyQuil binge I went on with a few associates-in-crime yesterday has somewhat muddled my brain.

Until the next time, world...enjoy.

Sunday, January 30, 2011

The Sins of the Father

Good evening, world. Here are a few of my thoughts on this cold Sunday night; I hope they aren't misplaced.

You think some doorway up above has closed? You think your path has just ended altogether, never mind the things you see beyond? We'll wander through the forest like the roots of its trees, branching and twisting and looking for water. Sick little ponds of sick little people, we are the scum that collects at the surface when the murk and the creatures within can't handle their own refuse. We are the embodiment of that refuse, that twisted fireside tale told over embers and bent barrels. There's a truth so deep that we can't help but be a part of it, can't resist. We're the walking teenage dead, stitched up and made pretty for the public. But we aren't pretty, not really. Look close enough and you can still see our seams, our makeup, the preparations of some hollow mortician. A practiced hand is what put us here, and a shaking hand is what will expose us. You can't even tell we're here until you look at us in the moonlight, the bar-light, the buzzing halogen bathroom light. Our halos consist of smoke from black lungs, whispering and circling in front of our eyes like planes arriving at the wrong airport. What better metaphor is there? We came out of the fog, out of the nowhere and the here. So look right at us, from your car or your window or the couch in front of your TV. We're the ones on the other side of the police tape, perpetually. There are so many of us, yet there is only one outcome. Endless branches converging onto a single root. We're what falls from your eye when you think of the things you could have been. Not the tear; that's just a superficial token. We're the thought behind it, in all of our mismatched idealism. You saw the world as flawed, so rather than fix it you looked right past. We are the thing you missed as your eyes scanned quickly by. We are the underwhelming details, small corners that were never painted over. This house is pretty but the trim gives the truth away. We sit in every corner you disregard, every terminally broken dream. You said I would like to, they said you could never, we said you should have tried. We are the product of that terrible abdication, we are the anchor that keeps this ship ashore. Our fingers reach up every now and again to try to claw at you...cold dead probes looking for a reason. We were never given that same easy out that you received through what was seen as common sense. For you, it was "Try not to remember", for us it was "Don't ever forget". We bore your mistakes through genes and blood, and in that sense became the lesson behind the need. The example made, the "such a shame". We are the moral of your story. The sins of the father, destroying the son.

Until next time, world...enjoy.