So I started a new job. Or third job. I sort of work at a local comics shop, helping with promotions and working on the website, handling content. That doesn't pay though. It's just a resume enhancer (plus occasionally getting to read things for free).
I lost my job delivering in September and that threw everything out of whack. Since then I'd been living off of money that I'd borrowed months before.
I was pretty much down to the wire when I got a job. I'm doing delivery for a restaurant. One of the owners was kind enough to speak to me for a few minutes when I walked in the door. A week later the GM called to tell me I was hired. Bare in mind there was no interview. The guy talked to me informally, but I didn't have the time or forethought to ask basic questions which I now know I should have.
The thing is, I'm super neurotic. New jobs tend to highlight this aspect. I get into a blind panic. "What am I doing? I can't wash dishes? What if I fuck up?? What if I accidentally set the kitchen on fire??" You get the idea. Mostly this is retarded. But sometimes you just know? You know what I mean? Sometimes you know something is not right, that it won't work out. Sometimes YOU JUST KNOW.
I'd had this feeling of dread all week. It started with the day I went in for "orientation". I couldn't help but wonder what you need to orient a driver to. I spent half an hour trying to learn their computer system, which wasn't even set up properly. The rest I spent rolling to-go forks into napkins.
This did not help the dread.
It got progressively worse as I waited on my first shift Friday.
I won't go into all the details, because it would take too long. But make no mistake, there is a long list of signs from the Universe not included here that scream GET. OUT.
I was being trained by the host. He's the poor guy that gets stuck making deliveries when they dont have a driver... which is ALL THE TIME. See they only want me on Friday and Saturday. Those are the only days when they have enough deliveries to support a driver. Why? Well, I asked someone if I was the only driver. His response was "Oh yeah. You might not even have any deliveries." Umm. Excuse me? "Well you might have 2... or 4... or even 8." Interesting fact: if you deliver for a living, 10-15 orders is a decent night. Any less than 10, especially on a weekend, is a SHIT night.
I quickly got the impression that these people were inadvertently telling me things I was not supposed to know this early in the game. This restaurant has not existed more than a year at this location (the main branch still exists downtown) but apparently they've gone through drivers before. That's "drivers", plural. They can't keep a driver because they aren't set up as a delivery business. This is a restaurant. They don't really know how to run deliveries as a formal business. In my first 3 to 5 hours, I ran down a list of things that need to be done differently if they want to have a thriving delivery business. Were I hired to do so, which I am not, I could advise them to that end.
Now all this sounds like typical "this isn't the job for me" shit, right? Hardly a "nightmare" as I described it. But that is where you would be wrong, my friends.
I had 5 deliveries that night. It was about the time I was waiting on my first one that I was following my trainer to the kitchen. As we walked, my peripheral vision spotted something that made my brain say "Hey, pay attention asshole. Something massive is about to fuck you in the ass." YOu ever wake up one day and realize you're a fucking loser who delivers pizza for one of the popular kids you went to high school with? YEAH. THAT.
Let's call her Ginger.
GInger was the Queen Bee in my class. And by "Bee", I mean "Bitch". A lot of people disliked her. To be fair, no one liked anyone in my high school. It was like if Rwanda was filled with assholes who drove Camaros and fought with humiliation bombs. And instead of burning children, got really drunk. I'm not good at analogies.
ANyway, I never had a problem with Ginger. She went her way, I went mine. Never the 'tween shall meet. UNtil Senior year when we had a class together and I developed a... crush isn't the word. I developed a desire to be inside her. Too subtle? I wanted her to be on top of me imitating Charo yelling "Coochie Coochie!" ... let's just move on, shall we. This infatuation never went anywhere. Had I been a normal teenager, we'd have gone to separate colleges and moved on with our lives. This did not happen. See I used to be an artist of some sort. Senior year I took pictures of various classmates and drew illustrations of them. She was one.
Now cut to 15 years later. Life hasn't turned out the way I thought it would. I mean, I didn't get run over by a bus. I'm no longer a virgin... so that's good. I never really felt like a loser when I delivered pizza. I mean, I knew it was a shitty job, but I made money and it was fun. And then it wasn't fun, but I still made money. But here I am pumping gas for one of the rich kids from High School. I can't tell you the kind of blind panic that hit me when I realized this. It was like being struck down by Zeus' lightning bolt or face-fucked by Satan's cock. I was half considering setting myself on fire and running out of the building screaming "I HAVE MONKEY A.I.D.S! RUN!" just to escape.
It's not even like I hate this girl. It's not about HER. I just can't take the humiliation of having such a menial job in her employment. She left before we were forced to speak, thankfully. But I'm sure she knew who I was. My name is far too unusual for someone who knew me for 5 years to forget. She had to recognize it. UGH.
Oh, and to top it all off, I think one of the dudes hit on me. Actually, that was a highlight of the night. I mean, I'm not interested, but it's flattering. But with my luck it couldn't be a vaginal american.
So I don't know what to do. I need a job. But I need to make money at that job. And I don't want to feel like a loser, even if I am one. What sucks is, I actually liked the people I met. Under more profitable circumstances, they would be a fun group to work with.
...I don't know.
Monday, December 26, 2011
Friday, December 16, 2011
Even Magic Needs Help
I was reading the Magic Blogorail today. 4 Bloggers each made a list of things they'd love to see updated at Walt Disney World. I've been really sentimental about Disney lately and I don't know why. Maybe it's because I've only been there once in the last 2 years, and then only for 3 days. Or maybe it's because I want so badly to move on from this life and that was where I was happiest. Anyway, I thought I would play along.
(Some of these are the same attractions the blog posters mentioned.)
Magic Kingdom: Tomorrowland Speedway needs to be fixed. I've ridden it a few times. It's not just that it's boring (it kind of is). The ride isn't even all that well done. The actual ride should be smooth instead of bumping along the track to simulate driving (which it does not). Call VW and maybe create something based on Herbie The Love Bug.
I'd also like to see a Muppet presence. Maybe you could have Electric Mayhem playing Muppet songs. Or something involving the Muppet Babies.
EPCOT: I think the Land &; the Seas both need work. Soarin and Turtle Talk with Crush are both amazing, but a lot of the other attractions feel like they're lost in time. Keep the educational themes, but spruce them up. Also--- Captain EO is terrible. TERRIBLE. As much as I love Honey I Shrunk the Audience, I understand that most kids don't know that movie anymore. But did they have to put this up? Give Michael Jackson's music a pavilion somewhere, but please please please replace Captain EO.
Hollywood Studios: I think I heard they were ending the Backlot Tour. It's been a joke for years, so that's good. That frees up a lot of space. They could use it to give Narnia a proper attraction. Who wouldn't want to walk through a wardrobe into a magical Winter kingdom? Do it justice, unlike the previous attraction.
They're finally taking down Sounds Dangerous. I'd really like to see something The Incredibles here. This is one of Pixar's best movies and it's been absent in attraction form this entire time. And even though I know many would regard it as a Potter rip-off (and it isn't an unfair comparison), Disney could put in a Percy Jackson ride/ attraction. They publish the books.
Animal Kingdom: I kind of wish they would do a new version of Tapestry of Dreams here.
What I would most like to see is The Indiana Jones Adventure. I understand that Disney wants Disneyland to have certain exclusive attractions, but IJA is one of the best things Disney has ever done. It sucks that you have to go to California to see it, because WDW will always win out on my Disney vacations. I'm too poor to do both.
I'm sure there's more if I think about it, but I wanted to keep the list simple.
(Some of these are the same attractions the blog posters mentioned.)
I'd also like to see a Muppet presence. Maybe you could have Electric Mayhem playing Muppet songs. Or something involving the Muppet Babies.
EPCOT: I think the Land &; the Seas both need work. Soarin and Turtle Talk with Crush are both amazing, but a lot of the other attractions feel like they're lost in time. Keep the educational themes, but spruce them up. Also--- Captain EO is terrible. TERRIBLE. As much as I love Honey I Shrunk the Audience, I understand that most kids don't know that movie anymore. But did they have to put this up? Give Michael Jackson's music a pavilion somewhere, but please please please replace Captain EO.
Hollywood Studios: I think I heard they were ending the Backlot Tour. It's been a joke for years, so that's good. That frees up a lot of space. They could use it to give Narnia a proper attraction. Who wouldn't want to walk through a wardrobe into a magical Winter kingdom? Do it justice, unlike the previous attraction.
They're finally taking down Sounds Dangerous. I'd really like to see something The Incredibles here. This is one of Pixar's best movies and it's been absent in attraction form this entire time. And even though I know many would regard it as a Potter rip-off (and it isn't an unfair comparison), Disney could put in a Percy Jackson ride/ attraction. They publish the books.
Animal Kingdom: I kind of wish they would do a new version of Tapestry of Dreams here.
What I would most like to see is The Indiana Jones Adventure. I understand that Disney wants Disneyland to have certain exclusive attractions, but IJA is one of the best things Disney has ever done. It sucks that you have to go to California to see it, because WDW will always win out on my Disney vacations. I'm too poor to do both.
I'm sure there's more if I think about it, but I wanted to keep the list simple.
Thursday, December 15, 2011
If I Could Grow Wings
For him it was a desire to be competent in all endeavors and a need for freedom. That is to say, a life that isn't scheduled.
I thought about it for a moment. I'd never really tried to figure out what desire drives me. And I suppose it's freedom too, in a way. I hate sitting still in one place. It makes me feel trapped. I can't stand just sitting at home. I always want to be out and elsewhere. When I think about the happiest times in my life, they're all vacations. They're me out in the world.
I am a nomad by nature.
I just want to travel all the time. Cars, motorcycles, trains and planes. I want to see the world in all it's shapes and forms. I want to fly.
You meet these people whose job it is to travel cross-country all the time and they claim to hate it. I could see that if I had a wife or children. I don't. I'd love a job like that.
I'm not sure I'll ever be happy tied to one place.
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
short story: Take Me Down
I decided on a Tuesday morning. I was so excited I ran all the way to school to tell him. But for some reason, when I got there, I couldn't tell him. This wasn't something you just blurt out. This was important. It had to be introduced with grace. At the right time. In the right place.
So I told him at lunch in the cafeteria. Between bites of my cherry pop tart, as he drew smiley faces in his mashed potatoes, I told Brian his destiny. "I've decided to seduce you." He managed to look up from his mashed potatoes after that. "wh--- huhhh--- what?" No matter how it seems, Brian wasn't stupid. Far from it. He was just... a boy. And boys are just slow on the uptake when it comes to sex. Fact of life, I suppose.
But in every other way, he was just... rad. Stupendous. Perpendicular. (It makes sense because I say so; sue me.) He liked Tori Amos and Indiana Jones. If you asked him whether he likes chocolate or vanilla he would say "Rocky road." And most importantly, he was the only one who would jump off the big tree in the creek with me. How can you not adore the boy who jumps with you? And the best part was, he was still a hidden jem. No one else looked beyond the skinny boy with the thatch of brown tangled hair and chest freckles. No one but me. I looked into those baby blues all the time. Brian had kind eyes. He was the kind of boy that other girls ignore until they're old and worn out and ready to settle down. And then they spend the rest of their hag years bitching about how "all the good ones are either gay or taken". Because they just assumed that boys like Brian would remain boys and wait for them. Except they don't they grow into men. And guess what bitches? You ain't the only game in town with a push-up bra and a pair of legs.
I hate girls like that, and even then I was determined not to be one. I was alway mature for my age, you know? Daddy always said I was "too big fer my britches." He's old. He says things like that. So, anyway... I basically told the boy that I own him. Not that I needed to tell him that.
Do I have any choice in the matter?
Hmmmmm... no. No I'm going to seduce you.
I see. Why exactly?
Because I don't want one of these skeezy girls taking your virginity from you. You need a girl with talent and experience to guide you into manhood.
Layla... you're a virgin too.
... I meant EMOTIONAL experience. Like... maturity, you know.
God, I was full of shit as a kid. I was too proud to admit that I wanted HIM to make ME a woman. I mean, I wasn't in love with Brian, buuuuuttt... I knew sex would be an issue soon. I'd heard all these horror stories from my older sister and her friends about their first times. I really didn't want to lose my virginity while crying in the back of a Volkswagon. Brian was my best friend. I knew he would be gentle and loving. And somehow I knew it was important that we experience this together. All these years later, I can honestly say I was right. And I have no regrets about that.
Sooooo... how are you planning to seduce me.
Oh, that's easy. Like this: come to my house after 11 and I'll fuck you.
That... that's it? That's how you seduce me?
Is your dick hard?
...
See? You're seduced. You're welcome.
Eleven o'clock on the dot, there was a knock at my window. I opened it so he could come through. Unfortunately, as nervous as he was, he tripped on the window sill and fell to the ground with a loud thud. It's a miracle my Dad didn't burst through the door and kill him. But I had my music on pretty loud. I put on my Cranberries CD, both to muffle the sounds of our awkward humping, and to set the mood. No Need to Argue was depressing, but mellow. We were both a twitching bundle of nerves ready to snap at the slightest thing. Mellow was goooooood.
I... uhhh... I stole a condom from my Dad. Should.... should I put it on?
Umm.... no. Not yet. I got my sister to buy us some peppermint schnapps. Wanna drink?
Uhhh... yeah. Sounds like a plan.
We laid back on my bed like two kids having a sleepover, not even touching. We drank and passed back and forth until the bottle was nearly empty. And then the strangest thing happened. We stopped thinking. He looked at me with those blues and I melted. I just knew he was going to kiss me, and I wanted it more than I had ever wanted anything before. Boys don't ever seem to know how important the kiss is to a girl... well... this one did. I still have dreams about that kiss. Maybe it was the schnapps. Maybe it was his technique. Or maybe it was just the feeling of being with the boy you're meant to be with. Whatever it was, he was an amazing kisser.
My eyes were still shut tight as I melted into him, when he broke the kiss and started to undress me. Nothing was like I expected. He didn't try to rip anything off or fumble with my bra; he took his time. And as each article of clothing fell to my floor, he kissed me all over. On my neck... my breasts... my belly button... my legs... and eventually my pussy. When he was done giving me the tonguing of a lifetime, Brian looked up at me quizzically. I nodded nervously, and he smiled.
Brian knelt beside me and started taking his own clothes off. It freaked me out a little when he removed his pants, and with good reason as it turned out. Brian may not have had a whole lot of upper body strength back then, but as it turned out, all his muscle mass was in his third arm. Woof. It was pretty stupid, but I didn't make him wear the condom. I didn't care. Those moments were magic. Sure, at first, when he pushed in and broke my cherry it hurt. And it was awkward. His stroke wasn't nearly as nice as his tongue... but... there was something about being there with this boy inside me. Yeah, magic. That's what it was. Because for all his inexperience, that was among the best sex I've ever had. I still get tingles thinking about his big dick thrusting inside of me. I cried as I held onto him for hear life, and he kissed my tears away. I'll never forget, just as I started to cum, he said "I'm so glad it's you, Layla. It's always been you."
When it was over, I didn't want to risk cuddling and getting caught, so I sort of kicked him out. I did, however keep his underwear as a trophy.
The next day I told Brian it was a one time thing. That I loved him too much to become involved with him. And suddenly all the light in those baby blues went out. I thought for a moment that I had broken him, and I wanted to cry. But he didn't get mad. He was just hurt. "That's bullshit. You know it is." And then he left; his words still haunting the air.
By shear luck, we managed to remain friends. We stayed that way through the rest of High School. Afterwards, I went to Vasser. Brian... dear sweet Brian went to West Point to prove something. Or so he told me. "You may feel the need to prove yourself to everyone else... even you. But you never have to prove anything to me. I know how great you are." He graduated top of his class. We'd lost touch in college, but I was damn sure there for his Graduation. And the after party. And the drinking. And let's just say... things happened. Only this time he had learned tricks I hadn't even heard of. And afterward, I didn't kick him out of bed. We spooned as best we could on his tiny bed. Our hot, perspiring skin sticking to each other all night long. He kissed my neck and fondled me gently as I drifted off to the most comfortable sleep I'd ever had. I've never felt so safe as in his arms.
But it wasn't going to last. I tried to have "the talk" with him the next day over the breakfast he cooked for me. He put his hand over my mouth before I could say it. "Shhh. I know. I've always known." We made love one more time after breakfast. And then I left.
I lost track of Brian after that. His Mom kept me up to date on the major beats. He became a Flyboy. F-16s. Not long after the night we'd shared, he met his fiance`. I even scored an invitation. Never made it though. Neither did he. Brian was shot down over Afghanistan in 2003. I barely held it together at the funeral. Some military guy gave his Mom and the girl who would have been his widow a posthumous Purple Heart. He said Brian was a hero. It didn't make it any easier.
Sometimes I wonder if it's all a dream. Like maybe this is all in my mind and Brian never really existed. That would make it so much easier. Then I could just wake up from this pain. The pain of being truly, finally separated from him. The pain of not knowing.
It's funny. Only now do I realize that I ended up just like those girls I'd despised. My path was different than theirs. I held Brian at arms length out of fear of growing up and facing the future. But the truth is, I always thought he would wait for me. It seems so silly now. I never got to tell him how much I love him.
So I told him at lunch in the cafeteria. Between bites of my cherry pop tart, as he drew smiley faces in his mashed potatoes, I told Brian his destiny. "I've decided to seduce you." He managed to look up from his mashed potatoes after that. "wh--- huhhh--- what?" No matter how it seems, Brian wasn't stupid. Far from it. He was just... a boy. And boys are just slow on the uptake when it comes to sex. Fact of life, I suppose.
But in every other way, he was just... rad. Stupendous. Perpendicular. (It makes sense because I say so; sue me.) He liked Tori Amos and Indiana Jones. If you asked him whether he likes chocolate or vanilla he would say "Rocky road." And most importantly, he was the only one who would jump off the big tree in the creek with me. How can you not adore the boy who jumps with you? And the best part was, he was still a hidden jem. No one else looked beyond the skinny boy with the thatch of brown tangled hair and chest freckles. No one but me. I looked into those baby blues all the time. Brian had kind eyes. He was the kind of boy that other girls ignore until they're old and worn out and ready to settle down. And then they spend the rest of their hag years bitching about how "all the good ones are either gay or taken". Because they just assumed that boys like Brian would remain boys and wait for them. Except they don't they grow into men. And guess what bitches? You ain't the only game in town with a push-up bra and a pair of legs.
I hate girls like that, and even then I was determined not to be one. I was alway mature for my age, you know? Daddy always said I was "too big fer my britches." He's old. He says things like that. So, anyway... I basically told the boy that I own him. Not that I needed to tell him that.
Do I have any choice in the matter?
Hmmmmm... no. No I'm going to seduce you.
I see. Why exactly?
Because I don't want one of these skeezy girls taking your virginity from you. You need a girl with talent and experience to guide you into manhood.
Layla... you're a virgin too.
... I meant EMOTIONAL experience. Like... maturity, you know.
God, I was full of shit as a kid. I was too proud to admit that I wanted HIM to make ME a woman. I mean, I wasn't in love with Brian, buuuuuttt... I knew sex would be an issue soon. I'd heard all these horror stories from my older sister and her friends about their first times. I really didn't want to lose my virginity while crying in the back of a Volkswagon. Brian was my best friend. I knew he would be gentle and loving. And somehow I knew it was important that we experience this together. All these years later, I can honestly say I was right. And I have no regrets about that.
Sooooo... how are you planning to seduce me.
Oh, that's easy. Like this: come to my house after 11 and I'll fuck you.
That... that's it? That's how you seduce me?
Is your dick hard?
...
See? You're seduced. You're welcome.
Eleven o'clock on the dot, there was a knock at my window. I opened it so he could come through. Unfortunately, as nervous as he was, he tripped on the window sill and fell to the ground with a loud thud. It's a miracle my Dad didn't burst through the door and kill him. But I had my music on pretty loud. I put on my Cranberries CD, both to muffle the sounds of our awkward humping, and to set the mood. No Need to Argue was depressing, but mellow. We were both a twitching bundle of nerves ready to snap at the slightest thing. Mellow was goooooood.
I... uhhh... I stole a condom from my Dad. Should.... should I put it on?
Umm.... no. Not yet. I got my sister to buy us some peppermint schnapps. Wanna drink?
Uhhh... yeah. Sounds like a plan.
We laid back on my bed like two kids having a sleepover, not even touching. We drank and passed back and forth until the bottle was nearly empty. And then the strangest thing happened. We stopped thinking. He looked at me with those blues and I melted. I just knew he was going to kiss me, and I wanted it more than I had ever wanted anything before. Boys don't ever seem to know how important the kiss is to a girl... well... this one did. I still have dreams about that kiss. Maybe it was the schnapps. Maybe it was his technique. Or maybe it was just the feeling of being with the boy you're meant to be with. Whatever it was, he was an amazing kisser.
My eyes were still shut tight as I melted into him, when he broke the kiss and started to undress me. Nothing was like I expected. He didn't try to rip anything off or fumble with my bra; he took his time. And as each article of clothing fell to my floor, he kissed me all over. On my neck... my breasts... my belly button... my legs... and eventually my pussy. When he was done giving me the tonguing of a lifetime, Brian looked up at me quizzically. I nodded nervously, and he smiled.
Brian knelt beside me and started taking his own clothes off. It freaked me out a little when he removed his pants, and with good reason as it turned out. Brian may not have had a whole lot of upper body strength back then, but as it turned out, all his muscle mass was in his third arm. Woof. It was pretty stupid, but I didn't make him wear the condom. I didn't care. Those moments were magic. Sure, at first, when he pushed in and broke my cherry it hurt. And it was awkward. His stroke wasn't nearly as nice as his tongue... but... there was something about being there with this boy inside me. Yeah, magic. That's what it was. Because for all his inexperience, that was among the best sex I've ever had. I still get tingles thinking about his big dick thrusting inside of me. I cried as I held onto him for hear life, and he kissed my tears away. I'll never forget, just as I started to cum, he said "I'm so glad it's you, Layla. It's always been you."
When it was over, I didn't want to risk cuddling and getting caught, so I sort of kicked him out. I did, however keep his underwear as a trophy.
The next day I told Brian it was a one time thing. That I loved him too much to become involved with him. And suddenly all the light in those baby blues went out. I thought for a moment that I had broken him, and I wanted to cry. But he didn't get mad. He was just hurt. "That's bullshit. You know it is." And then he left; his words still haunting the air.
By shear luck, we managed to remain friends. We stayed that way through the rest of High School. Afterwards, I went to Vasser. Brian... dear sweet Brian went to West Point to prove something. Or so he told me. "You may feel the need to prove yourself to everyone else... even you. But you never have to prove anything to me. I know how great you are." He graduated top of his class. We'd lost touch in college, but I was damn sure there for his Graduation. And the after party. And the drinking. And let's just say... things happened. Only this time he had learned tricks I hadn't even heard of. And afterward, I didn't kick him out of bed. We spooned as best we could on his tiny bed. Our hot, perspiring skin sticking to each other all night long. He kissed my neck and fondled me gently as I drifted off to the most comfortable sleep I'd ever had. I've never felt so safe as in his arms.
But it wasn't going to last. I tried to have "the talk" with him the next day over the breakfast he cooked for me. He put his hand over my mouth before I could say it. "Shhh. I know. I've always known." We made love one more time after breakfast. And then I left.
I lost track of Brian after that. His Mom kept me up to date on the major beats. He became a Flyboy. F-16s. Not long after the night we'd shared, he met his fiance`. I even scored an invitation. Never made it though. Neither did he. Brian was shot down over Afghanistan in 2003. I barely held it together at the funeral. Some military guy gave his Mom and the girl who would have been his widow a posthumous Purple Heart. He said Brian was a hero. It didn't make it any easier.
Sometimes I wonder if it's all a dream. Like maybe this is all in my mind and Brian never really existed. That would make it so much easier. Then I could just wake up from this pain. The pain of being truly, finally separated from him. The pain of not knowing.
It's funny. Only now do I realize that I ended up just like those girls I'd despised. My path was different than theirs. I held Brian at arms length out of fear of growing up and facing the future. But the truth is, I always thought he would wait for me. It seems so silly now. I never got to tell him how much I love him.
Monday, December 12, 2011
A Pebble Adrift
Let me tell you about my little brother, Bobby.
Before he was born I used to pray for him. Literally, when he was a kid, I used to ask God to give me a little brother every night. And each night, at the end of each prayer, I promised I would be the best big brother there ever was. I was five at the time. A year later, God answered my prayers, and Bobby was born.
Of course, like all little kids, I had no idea what it was I'd committed to. I was used to being the baby of the family, and when Bobby started getting all the attention I began to resent him. It didn't help matters when Ma and Dad divorced and I was forced to babysit him while Ma worked long hours to keep us afloat. I was de facto man of the house and I hated every second of it. I hated being stuck with Bobby, with taking care of him and helping raise him, while everyone else my age was allowed to just... be. I hated it, and at times I hated him. A lot of my aggression at this crappy situation we found ourselves in was taken out on him. It kept us from being brothers. Instead I was a strict father figure, and it was like trying to squeeze sand in my palm. Typically, the tighter I squeezed, the more he rebelled. The more he rebelled, the stricter I became. I treated him like a kid. I never gave him a chance to grow up and be responsible for himself. I expected him to act like a child and he did; he never really grew up because I never let him. And so I blame myself for all of it.
Despite his untamed id, Bobby managed to find a nice life for himself. His wife Maria was everything that a man should want in a woman; beautiful, intelligent, graceful and funny, just the right amount of sass. My niece and nephew took after their Mom, but you could tell they were Bobby's kids by their eyes and that wild spirit. They were... they were the most beautiful things I ever saw in my whole life... I couldn't have loved them any more if they had been my own heart. Hell if they weren't.
After college, Bobby decided to follow in my footsteps. He got a job in the Chronal Variance Authority as a Monitor, looking for any chronal anomalies, any sign that someone was making an un-authorized time jump, or worse tampering with the timeflow. Of course we didn't technically work together. I'm a Level 9 Field Agent. So when he found someone playing dice with the Universe, it was my job to find them and stop them from breaking the timeflow if possible, or eliminate them if it wasn't. And Bobby was good at his job. He caught more unauthorized Jumpers than anyone in his department.
He was so good that the higher-ups decided he should be Head Monitor. I was in tears at his celebration party, realizing finally that he wasn't my little brother anymore. He was a grown man. "I'm so damn proud of you." I said. "I spent so much time waiting for you to screw up again that I never stopped to look at you. If I had, I would have seen how good a man and a husband and a father you've become. I'm so sorry I never recognized it." Yeah, I cried like a baby. He did too.
We stayed up most of that night talking. Too late, in fact. On the drive home, Bobby fell asleep at the wheel. Whether it was him or the drunk driver who was more at fault, no one can say. But it doesn't matter much anyway. Bobby barely had a scratch on him, and that made it so much worse. I was the first to get to the hospital. The first to see him. And when he told me, he could barely squeak the words out of his mouth, barely bring himself to say it... God... my heart was ripped out of my chest. As I held my baby brother to my chest, he kept asking over and over, "WHY????" I don't know if he was talking to me or God, but it didn't matter much. Neither of us had much to say that night.
The CVA tried to get Bobby to take a sabbatical, to get his head together. He refused. Sitting in that house just reminded him of their absence. There was no rest for him there with the ghosts of the past. He started staying at Ma's place just so he could sleep. The CVA reluctantly allowed him to go back to work. Unfortunately it didn't last long. He started showing up to work drunk. Not even just a little drunk. Many times he was so bombed out of his skull he could barely stand. And then one day, his boss John, an Overseer, told him to go home and sleep it off. And Bobby just snapped. His fist hit John in the gut with the impact of a prize fighter. Three of his coworkers tried to hold him down, but he fought like a mad man. By the time I got there, there was only one way I could think to subdue him. His face snapped back as my right cross hit his temple. He was on the ground and out. John told me to let him know he was fired when he woke. I carried him home knowing this would only make him fall apart even more. And I just wanted to fall apart too.
Bobby spent the next sixth months locked in the bedroom he'd grown up in. No booze. Very little food. Just him and three ghosts. And of course his regret. I guess Bobby got to thinking about time. I'm not sure why the idea didn't occur to him sooner.
They hadn't deactivated Bobby's codes yet. So it was a simple matter for him to get in. Of course, stealing a Jump Watch... that took skill. Or maybe just determination. So he turned the dial back a year. As soon as he jumped, I got the call. I set my own watch and went after him. I found him the next morning. He was watching his family, including himself, eating breakfast at Ma's house. I kept my distance and tried not to look in the window.
"Bobby... what have you done??"
He turned to me with a look on unbridled joy and relief and love. It was so simple and happy. I wanted desperately to join him.
"I saved them, Mike. I cut the battery wires on the car so we'd have to stay the night at Mom's house. They're alive, Mike. They're alive!" I wanted so badly to believe it. I wanted to run in that house and take them in my arms and tell them that I love them. But I knew it wasn't true. "You shouldn't have done it, Bobby. You don't understand.. you can't.." I could see the confusion on his face. The hurt at my words.
"I shouldn't have? What? I shouldn't have righted a wrong? I shouldn't have my family back??"
"There are rules..."
"To hell with your rules!!! Those are my damn kids in there! That is my wife! Your niece and nephew! MY GODDAMN CHILDREN! My babies! You're telling me they shouldn't get the chance to grow up??! To get married and have babies of their own?"
"The rules are in place for a reason!"
"Hang your rules! You and your damn rules! Ever since we were kids, that's all you've ever loved are rules! You don't love my kids! You just love you job. You want me to give up my family for a bunch of stupid rules? You are the most selfish son of a bitch I've ever met!!"
"You arrogant little punk. DO YOU THINK THIS ISN'T KILLING ME? I loved the three of them as much almost as much as you did. I would give anything. I would give my life if it would set it right! If they could... if they could just..."
"You don't have to, Mike! You can let this one go! We can have it all back!"
"You don't get it, do you? You have no idea what you've done. You haven't set anything right, Bobby. Isn't nearly as simple as you want to believe. Maria, Nikki, Alex... they're still dead."
"Wh.. what? No! What are you talking about? They're right there!"
"Look again. Look in the window, Bobby. You see that guy?"
"Yeah. It's me. The me from the past. Happy!"
"No, it's not. That's not you. Time isn't like a movie. You can't just put in an alternate ending. It a time "stream". Time is part of one cohesive Universal structure. It's sentient. It doesn't tolerate inconsistencies and paradoxes. We're in an alternate Universe. They're still dead."
"NO! No, take it back! You take it back!!!!" His hands pounded against my chest like a ten year old throwing a tantrum.
"There's rules, but I didn't make them. When you made a change to the timeline, you did more than save those people. The ripple changed the course of history. People will die because you changed the game. Babies won't be born. Empires will rise and fall over the course of human history, all because you cut some wires."
"But... I just..."
"I know. I'm sorry."
That was the final straw for him. Even after everything that he'd been through, that was all he could take. I could see it in his eyes. That was what finally broke him. "So... when we go back... they won't be?"
And he still hadn't gotten it. It was the worst moments of my life.
"There's no going back Bobby. For either of us. Like I said, the Universe knows what it's doing. When someone makes a change to the timeflow, the Universe sort of spackles over that person. You were replaced the second you clipped the battery. Your life will be lived out by that guy. You're unstuck in time. A Pebble adrift in the ocean."
"So... then what?"
"Did you know I've never eliminated a Jumper before? Killed I mean."
"I don't think I..."
"There's a reason for it. I've always caught the Jumpers before they changed the timeflow. Because once I eliminate a Jumper, I've made a change... and I become unstuck too."
"Mike? I'm your brother. Please? Please don't..."
"I don't have a choice. You don't know what happens to someone who makes a change. Jumpers who mess with the flow are purged. They're slowly disintegrated. Disappearing into nothingness. The pain is indescibable. If I do it... at least it won't be painful."
He didn't even respond. He just knelt in front of me. I sat down and held him in my arms, trying to burn that image in my mind. "I love you Mike." Then I took the syringe out of my pocket, and set him free. "I love you too little brother."
After stashing the body, I came out here, to the park. Nikki and Alex can't see me watching them. It's a risk though. But as I feel my body being torn apart, I don't care much. If I'm going to die, this is where I want to be. And I take a little solace in the fact that some part of them of will live on. And my niece and nephew will grow up, get married and have babies of their own.
It hurts so much. I'm glad Bobby didn't have to feel it. I hope I get to see him on the other side. I wonder what it'll fe..*
Before he was born I used to pray for him. Literally, when he was a kid, I used to ask God to give me a little brother every night. And each night, at the end of each prayer, I promised I would be the best big brother there ever was. I was five at the time. A year later, God answered my prayers, and Bobby was born.
Of course, like all little kids, I had no idea what it was I'd committed to. I was used to being the baby of the family, and when Bobby started getting all the attention I began to resent him. It didn't help matters when Ma and Dad divorced and I was forced to babysit him while Ma worked long hours to keep us afloat. I was de facto man of the house and I hated every second of it. I hated being stuck with Bobby, with taking care of him and helping raise him, while everyone else my age was allowed to just... be. I hated it, and at times I hated him. A lot of my aggression at this crappy situation we found ourselves in was taken out on him. It kept us from being brothers. Instead I was a strict father figure, and it was like trying to squeeze sand in my palm. Typically, the tighter I squeezed, the more he rebelled. The more he rebelled, the stricter I became. I treated him like a kid. I never gave him a chance to grow up and be responsible for himself. I expected him to act like a child and he did; he never really grew up because I never let him. And so I blame myself for all of it.
Despite his untamed id, Bobby managed to find a nice life for himself. His wife Maria was everything that a man should want in a woman; beautiful, intelligent, graceful and funny, just the right amount of sass. My niece and nephew took after their Mom, but you could tell they were Bobby's kids by their eyes and that wild spirit. They were... they were the most beautiful things I ever saw in my whole life... I couldn't have loved them any more if they had been my own heart. Hell if they weren't.
After college, Bobby decided to follow in my footsteps. He got a job in the Chronal Variance Authority as a Monitor, looking for any chronal anomalies, any sign that someone was making an un-authorized time jump, or worse tampering with the timeflow. Of course we didn't technically work together. I'm a Level 9 Field Agent. So when he found someone playing dice with the Universe, it was my job to find them and stop them from breaking the timeflow if possible, or eliminate them if it wasn't. And Bobby was good at his job. He caught more unauthorized Jumpers than anyone in his department.
He was so good that the higher-ups decided he should be Head Monitor. I was in tears at his celebration party, realizing finally that he wasn't my little brother anymore. He was a grown man. "I'm so damn proud of you." I said. "I spent so much time waiting for you to screw up again that I never stopped to look at you. If I had, I would have seen how good a man and a husband and a father you've become. I'm so sorry I never recognized it." Yeah, I cried like a baby. He did too.
We stayed up most of that night talking. Too late, in fact. On the drive home, Bobby fell asleep at the wheel. Whether it was him or the drunk driver who was more at fault, no one can say. But it doesn't matter much anyway. Bobby barely had a scratch on him, and that made it so much worse. I was the first to get to the hospital. The first to see him. And when he told me, he could barely squeak the words out of his mouth, barely bring himself to say it... God... my heart was ripped out of my chest. As I held my baby brother to my chest, he kept asking over and over, "WHY????" I don't know if he was talking to me or God, but it didn't matter much. Neither of us had much to say that night.
The CVA tried to get Bobby to take a sabbatical, to get his head together. He refused. Sitting in that house just reminded him of their absence. There was no rest for him there with the ghosts of the past. He started staying at Ma's place just so he could sleep. The CVA reluctantly allowed him to go back to work. Unfortunately it didn't last long. He started showing up to work drunk. Not even just a little drunk. Many times he was so bombed out of his skull he could barely stand. And then one day, his boss John, an Overseer, told him to go home and sleep it off. And Bobby just snapped. His fist hit John in the gut with the impact of a prize fighter. Three of his coworkers tried to hold him down, but he fought like a mad man. By the time I got there, there was only one way I could think to subdue him. His face snapped back as my right cross hit his temple. He was on the ground and out. John told me to let him know he was fired when he woke. I carried him home knowing this would only make him fall apart even more. And I just wanted to fall apart too.
Bobby spent the next sixth months locked in the bedroom he'd grown up in. No booze. Very little food. Just him and three ghosts. And of course his regret. I guess Bobby got to thinking about time. I'm not sure why the idea didn't occur to him sooner.
They hadn't deactivated Bobby's codes yet. So it was a simple matter for him to get in. Of course, stealing a Jump Watch... that took skill. Or maybe just determination. So he turned the dial back a year. As soon as he jumped, I got the call. I set my own watch and went after him. I found him the next morning. He was watching his family, including himself, eating breakfast at Ma's house. I kept my distance and tried not to look in the window.
"Bobby... what have you done??"
He turned to me with a look on unbridled joy and relief and love. It was so simple and happy. I wanted desperately to join him.
"I saved them, Mike. I cut the battery wires on the car so we'd have to stay the night at Mom's house. They're alive, Mike. They're alive!" I wanted so badly to believe it. I wanted to run in that house and take them in my arms and tell them that I love them. But I knew it wasn't true. "You shouldn't have done it, Bobby. You don't understand.. you can't.." I could see the confusion on his face. The hurt at my words.
"I shouldn't have? What? I shouldn't have righted a wrong? I shouldn't have my family back??"
"There are rules..."
"To hell with your rules!!! Those are my damn kids in there! That is my wife! Your niece and nephew! MY GODDAMN CHILDREN! My babies! You're telling me they shouldn't get the chance to grow up??! To get married and have babies of their own?"
"The rules are in place for a reason!"
"Hang your rules! You and your damn rules! Ever since we were kids, that's all you've ever loved are rules! You don't love my kids! You just love you job. You want me to give up my family for a bunch of stupid rules? You are the most selfish son of a bitch I've ever met!!"
"You arrogant little punk. DO YOU THINK THIS ISN'T KILLING ME? I loved the three of them as much almost as much as you did. I would give anything. I would give my life if it would set it right! If they could... if they could just..."
"You don't have to, Mike! You can let this one go! We can have it all back!"
"You don't get it, do you? You have no idea what you've done. You haven't set anything right, Bobby. Isn't nearly as simple as you want to believe. Maria, Nikki, Alex... they're still dead."
"Wh.. what? No! What are you talking about? They're right there!"
"Look again. Look in the window, Bobby. You see that guy?"
"Yeah. It's me. The me from the past. Happy!"
"No, it's not. That's not you. Time isn't like a movie. You can't just put in an alternate ending. It a time "stream". Time is part of one cohesive Universal structure. It's sentient. It doesn't tolerate inconsistencies and paradoxes. We're in an alternate Universe. They're still dead."
"NO! No, take it back! You take it back!!!!" His hands pounded against my chest like a ten year old throwing a tantrum.
"There's rules, but I didn't make them. When you made a change to the timeline, you did more than save those people. The ripple changed the course of history. People will die because you changed the game. Babies won't be born. Empires will rise and fall over the course of human history, all because you cut some wires."
"But... I just..."
"I know. I'm sorry."
That was the final straw for him. Even after everything that he'd been through, that was all he could take. I could see it in his eyes. That was what finally broke him. "So... when we go back... they won't be?"
And he still hadn't gotten it. It was the worst moments of my life.
"There's no going back Bobby. For either of us. Like I said, the Universe knows what it's doing. When someone makes a change to the timeflow, the Universe sort of spackles over that person. You were replaced the second you clipped the battery. Your life will be lived out by that guy. You're unstuck in time. A Pebble adrift in the ocean."
"So... then what?"
"Did you know I've never eliminated a Jumper before? Killed I mean."
"I don't think I..."
"There's a reason for it. I've always caught the Jumpers before they changed the timeflow. Because once I eliminate a Jumper, I've made a change... and I become unstuck too."
"Mike? I'm your brother. Please? Please don't..."
"I don't have a choice. You don't know what happens to someone who makes a change. Jumpers who mess with the flow are purged. They're slowly disintegrated. Disappearing into nothingness. The pain is indescibable. If I do it... at least it won't be painful."
He didn't even respond. He just knelt in front of me. I sat down and held him in my arms, trying to burn that image in my mind. "I love you Mike." Then I took the syringe out of my pocket, and set him free. "I love you too little brother."
After stashing the body, I came out here, to the park. Nikki and Alex can't see me watching them. It's a risk though. But as I feel my body being torn apart, I don't care much. If I'm going to die, this is where I want to be. And I take a little solace in the fact that some part of them of will live on. And my niece and nephew will grow up, get married and have babies of their own.
It hurts so much. I'm glad Bobby didn't have to feel it. I hope I get to see him on the other side. I wonder what it'll fe..*
Saturday, December 3, 2011
How to Spot a Hipster
I heard a joke not long ago.
the final stage of hipsterism is to claim you hated hipsters before hating hipsters was cool.
It's almost enough to make your brain implode from the stupidity.
Since hipsters have decided to hide in plain sight, I've decided to make a list of things to help you spot one. Upon spotting, feel free to beat them on the nose with a rolled up newspaper and yell "No!"
Hipsters:
-Like bands with stupid names that no one has ever EVER heard of. Bands with names like Neutral Milk Hotel, Deathcab for Cutie, Red Jumpsuit Apparatus, Philosophical Shmorgasboard and Bring Shannon Skechers. You'll hear them say things like "Have you heard the new Vaginal Anglican album? It's a-maz-ing!" And it isn't. No band with a name like that could possibly be good. It's as if a dog ate a dictionary and these bands choose their names from whatever was left of what the dog shat. Whatsmore it's clear they choose the names precisely because they're so awful. The other day, I read about a new kind of music called "dub step", and I thought "that can't be a real thing". Who the hell knows what dub step is? No one with a job.
-Like things "ironically". Except they don't, because that is a profound misunderstanding of the word "ironic". Ironic and facetious do not mean the same thing. The fact that these people don't know that, however, is ironic. Furthermore, by declaring they like something ironically, what they are in fact saying is that they like pretending to like something they have deemed terrible both to make fun of the people who do like it and to point out how clever and *AHEM* ironic they are. This is a complex way of saying you're a pretentious asshole and a complete fucking moron.
-Hate anyone and anything that is mainstream in popular culture. I had an argument online once about the fact Nickelback. This asswipe was telling me how uncool Nickelback is and that all the bands he listens too are a-maz-ing but will never be heard. (Which is really fine, because if they ever became popular he would have declared that he never listened to them.) I explained that I like Nickelback and I could care less if it's cool to like them, but that they were in fact "cool". One of the definitions of cool as a slang term is popular. Regardless of your personal opinion of the band, Nickelback made a lot of money. They were very popular. It's math. Nevertheless all the little hipster bitches explained that I was uncool.
Hey, I hate KISS. That doesn't mean that they aren't cool. I'm not the arbiter of popularity.
The point is, hipsters have a preternatural hate of anything popular. They have to like something before it's cool and then declare it and everyone around it a pariah as soon as it becomes discovered. Ever noticed how Dane Cook was the biggest comedian on the planet for 5 years and suddenly became a running gag for terrible comedians? Not a coincidence.
-Use the word "douche" a lot. "Ugh. That guy? Like, total douche." A hipster's favorite insult is douche, and everyone and everything they hate are "totally douche-tastic"... or something. Of course, there's nothing "douchier" than people who use the word douche all the time. And that, friends, actually is ironic.
-Hate corporations like Apple but think Steve Jobs was this generation's Einstein. And they declare their hate/love of such things on social networks like Facebook and Twitter. Also ironic.
-Use tweetspeak in real life (excuse me, IRL). Epic, fail, FTW... other things I don't understand.
-Think Betty White is awesome in anything she does. Also, Ellen Page. I don't get the Ellen Page thing at all. Juno was kind of a funny, quirky film... at first. When you watch it more than once, it's actually completely terrible. Or mostly, anyway. And Page just isn't that great. I guess it's because she's underrated to some people? As for Betty White... well she is great. But the sudden love of all things Betty sprouted overnight. Why? Because it's very weird and offbeat to tell people one of your favorite actresses is Betty White. That's the only reason. Of course no one talks about Betty White anymore. She was popular for too long. Whatever, I still love me some Golden Girls. And even like Hot in Cleveland, or as I like to call it Golden Girls: The Next Generation (also applicable to Sex and the City).
-Make declarations about what is and isn't Punk Rock. And don't know anything about the origins and history of punk rock, which wasn't a fashion statement.
-Read Graphic Novels, but not Comics because Comics are for losers. Never mind the fact that their favorite Graphic Novels are Watchmen and Sandman, neither of which are Graphic Novels. They're comics.
-Hate Country Music but somehow love Johnny Cash. I once saw a message-board post from a kid who said that he hates Country and that he listens to Johnny Cash. He then declared that "No Johnny Cash does not count as country because he's mother-frakkin Johnny Cash!" I can't tell you how much this makes me want to go on a killing spree in a vinyl record store. In the words of Eric Church, the Man in Black would have whipped your ass. Ever since Walk the Line came out (which I loved) it's become counter culture to declare Cash one of your heroes. The fact that he's dead only makes it more relevant. I like Cash, but he's not the greatest Country Singer of all time. And most of the people who claim him as a hero aren't familiar with a third of his catalog or even much outside the Walk the Line soundtrack, aside from A Boy Named Sue. Cash is awesome. Willie Nelson is better. It's just that he's alive and doesn't have a biopic.
----Here's the thing: I have nothing against people who don't like Apple or Dane Cook. If you dig Ellen Page and Alan Moore comics, that's great. And I support anyone who listens to a classic Country artist like Johnny Cash. (Maybe look into Waylon, while you're at it.) My problem is with the motivation behind it.
There is nothing more useless than someone whose decision making process revolves around what is or isn't cool or bad ass. You know what's cool? Not being afraid to say that your favorite film is FAME or that your favorite bands are REO Speedwagon and Conway Twitty without adding silly qualifiers like "guilty pleasure". Why should you be ashamed to like what you like? Screw that. Elitism is a fancy way of saying "self-absorbed and worthless".
You know what's bad ass? Getting a job and being a productive member of society; therefor not having time to worry about being cool. Oh, and not giving a shit about what other people think.
Rant over.
Did you hear about the Hipster who died in the volcano? He was into lava before lava was cool.It's a pretty clever joke. Funny because it's true, 'ya see? Hipsters are this generation's counter-culture, combined with the "meta". They aren't counter-culture because society runs opposite of them. They run in the opposite whatever direction society turns; rebels without a clue. They are contrary for contrary's sake. There is little I hate more than hipsters and all they represent. But a few months ago, I notice something. Suddenly everyone hates hipsters, even people that are clearly hipsters themselves. And it occurred to me:
the final stage of hipsterism is to claim you hated hipsters before hating hipsters was cool.
It's almost enough to make your brain implode from the stupidity.
Since hipsters have decided to hide in plain sight, I've decided to make a list of things to help you spot one. Upon spotting, feel free to beat them on the nose with a rolled up newspaper and yell "No!"
Hipsters:
-Like bands with stupid names that no one has ever EVER heard of. Bands with names like Neutral Milk Hotel, Deathcab for Cutie, Red Jumpsuit Apparatus, Philosophical Shmorgasboard and Bring Shannon Skechers. You'll hear them say things like "Have you heard the new Vaginal Anglican album? It's a-maz-ing!" And it isn't. No band with a name like that could possibly be good. It's as if a dog ate a dictionary and these bands choose their names from whatever was left of what the dog shat. Whatsmore it's clear they choose the names precisely because they're so awful. The other day, I read about a new kind of music called "dub step", and I thought "that can't be a real thing". Who the hell knows what dub step is? No one with a job.
-Like things "ironically". Except they don't, because that is a profound misunderstanding of the word "ironic". Ironic and facetious do not mean the same thing. The fact that these people don't know that, however, is ironic. Furthermore, by declaring they like something ironically, what they are in fact saying is that they like pretending to like something they have deemed terrible both to make fun of the people who do like it and to point out how clever and *AHEM* ironic they are. This is a complex way of saying you're a pretentious asshole and a complete fucking moron.
-Hate anyone and anything that is mainstream in popular culture. I had an argument online once about the fact Nickelback. This asswipe was telling me how uncool Nickelback is and that all the bands he listens too are a-maz-ing but will never be heard. (Which is really fine, because if they ever became popular he would have declared that he never listened to them.) I explained that I like Nickelback and I could care less if it's cool to like them, but that they were in fact "cool". One of the definitions of cool as a slang term is popular. Regardless of your personal opinion of the band, Nickelback made a lot of money. They were very popular. It's math. Nevertheless all the little hipster bitches explained that I was uncool.
Hey, I hate KISS. That doesn't mean that they aren't cool. I'm not the arbiter of popularity.
The point is, hipsters have a preternatural hate of anything popular. They have to like something before it's cool and then declare it and everyone around it a pariah as soon as it becomes discovered. Ever noticed how Dane Cook was the biggest comedian on the planet for 5 years and suddenly became a running gag for terrible comedians? Not a coincidence.
-Use the word "douche" a lot. "Ugh. That guy? Like, total douche." A hipster's favorite insult is douche, and everyone and everything they hate are "totally douche-tastic"... or something. Of course, there's nothing "douchier" than people who use the word douche all the time. And that, friends, actually is ironic.
-Hate corporations like Apple but think Steve Jobs was this generation's Einstein. And they declare their hate/love of such things on social networks like Facebook and Twitter. Also ironic.
-Use tweetspeak in real life (excuse me, IRL). Epic, fail, FTW... other things I don't understand.
-Think Betty White is awesome in anything she does. Also, Ellen Page. I don't get the Ellen Page thing at all. Juno was kind of a funny, quirky film... at first. When you watch it more than once, it's actually completely terrible. Or mostly, anyway. And Page just isn't that great. I guess it's because she's underrated to some people? As for Betty White... well she is great. But the sudden love of all things Betty sprouted overnight. Why? Because it's very weird and offbeat to tell people one of your favorite actresses is Betty White. That's the only reason. Of course no one talks about Betty White anymore. She was popular for too long. Whatever, I still love me some Golden Girls. And even like Hot in Cleveland, or as I like to call it Golden Girls: The Next Generation (also applicable to Sex and the City).
-Make declarations about what is and isn't Punk Rock. And don't know anything about the origins and history of punk rock, which wasn't a fashion statement.
-Read Graphic Novels, but not Comics because Comics are for losers. Never mind the fact that their favorite Graphic Novels are Watchmen and Sandman, neither of which are Graphic Novels. They're comics.
-Hate Country Music but somehow love Johnny Cash. I once saw a message-board post from a kid who said that he hates Country and that he listens to Johnny Cash. He then declared that "No Johnny Cash does not count as country because he's mother-frakkin Johnny Cash!" I can't tell you how much this makes me want to go on a killing spree in a vinyl record store. In the words of Eric Church, the Man in Black would have whipped your ass. Ever since Walk the Line came out (which I loved) it's become counter culture to declare Cash one of your heroes. The fact that he's dead only makes it more relevant. I like Cash, but he's not the greatest Country Singer of all time. And most of the people who claim him as a hero aren't familiar with a third of his catalog or even much outside the Walk the Line soundtrack, aside from A Boy Named Sue. Cash is awesome. Willie Nelson is better. It's just that he's alive and doesn't have a biopic.
----Here's the thing: I have nothing against people who don't like Apple or Dane Cook. If you dig Ellen Page and Alan Moore comics, that's great. And I support anyone who listens to a classic Country artist like Johnny Cash. (Maybe look into Waylon, while you're at it.) My problem is with the motivation behind it.
There is nothing more useless than someone whose decision making process revolves around what is or isn't cool or bad ass. You know what's cool? Not being afraid to say that your favorite film is FAME or that your favorite bands are REO Speedwagon and Conway Twitty without adding silly qualifiers like "guilty pleasure". Why should you be ashamed to like what you like? Screw that. Elitism is a fancy way of saying "self-absorbed and worthless".
You know what's bad ass? Getting a job and being a productive member of society; therefor not having time to worry about being cool. Oh, and not giving a shit about what other people think.
Rant over.
Monday, October 17, 2011
3 Blogs in 1
I've had a lot of stuff in my head lately and I wanted to write about them. Typically, I haven't had a lot of time or ability to sit down and do that. When I do, I just don't feel like writing. So I'm forcing myself to accomplish something. Of course I should be forcing myself to write the article I've been mulling around in my head for a week and a half, but I digress.
Blog 1. Letter to Me.
There's a Brad Paisley song, Letter to Me. It's not one of his best, but it's good.
It's about a dude who wishes he could write a letter to himself as a kid. I was thinking about that recently; what I would say to 18 year old me. And it wouldn't be much. {Skip college, but read more. Scrap the poetry and start writing. Get a full time job and work hard. Save money and start a business out of town; maybe a comic shop.} That first part is pretty key. I don't think there is any greater waste of my time and money than college. I learned nothing, gained no usable job skills and have greater debt as a result. Literally the only good thing to come out of college was my time at Disney. So it's a legitimate regret. I'm sure I could come up with other things to tell myself, but those are the bullet points.
Blog 2. Crazy Girls
You ever find yourself attracted to someone you don't like? Why is that? What the fuck is wrong with humans that we desire things we know are wrong? Cats don't stare longingly at dogs. Or fuck their best friend to get close to them.
See, there was this girl yesterday... We've met twice, and she was entirely unpleasant and unbelievably rude the first time. So when she was around yesterday, I was doing my best to ignore her. However, she wasn't being a cunt just then, so after a while it felt more like I was just being a dick. I tried to soften up and I wasn't entirely successful. Once I get to genuinely disliking someone, it takes A LOT for me to shift streams.
And so I still don't like her. But the whole time I kept thinking about pretty she was. And I kept looking and looking. I don't have a crush or anything, but there is desire there.
Don't get me wrong, I don't want a girlfriend right now. I couldn't afford one if I did. And beyond that, I'm concerned that this girl may be genuinely insane. But it's rare that I'm attracted to a woman on more than just a passing, sexual level. I see plenty of women on the street that I would like to have sex with, but that's usually about it. Maybe there's more wrong with me emotionally than even I suspect. UGH.
Blog 3. Sell Crazy Somewhere Else, Bitch
I'd like to preface this with a disclaimer. I was raised Catholic, but am not Catholic. I have no position on whether Jesus is the son of God. Religion, I decided long ago, is not for me. That said, one of my pet peeves is the current wave of Anti-Religious nonsense that seems to permeate culture these days. "Religious people are all crazy, brain washed idiots!" What the fuck ever. I'm not interested in your hypocrisy or extremism to the Left or the Right. Being an anti-religious zealot doesn't make you any better than being a religious zealot, and we've all got our own bullshit that we shovel on the pile.
Rant over.
So I've been fighting with the post office again. An important envelope was mailed to me that required my signature upon receipt, and since it was sent to my home, I haven't gotten it. I was able to sneak away from work briefly to make the long trek to my neighborhood post office both Thursday and Friday. Despite leaving a note that says {Please pick up your envelope at the post office.} the dumb bitch keeps trying to deliver it. It's frustrating.
My second attempt on Friday was significantly more frustrating. I went around 12, so I figured the Post Office would be packed and given my luck of late, I assumed something bad was going to happen. I parked a couple of buildings down bc the parking lot there is always full. I ran into the building praying no one would call a tow truck. To my shock there was only one woman in line. HALLELUJAH! Unfortunately it quickly became evident the woman wasn't making a transaction; she was merely holding up BOTH of the women behind the counter so she could get some shit off of her chest. Now I'm aggravated. I'm in a rush, bitch. Kindly get the fuck out so I can get my shit. That's enough to piss me off all by itself, but then I started listening to her.
Apparently this woman had some sort of prophetic dream in which one of the women behind the counter told her something (I have no idea what) and it happened. "OH MAH GAHD, you don't understand... when she said that, it was just like in my dream...." Now, we've all had weird deja vu experiences, and I know how that can freak you out. But I'm in a rush and I need to get my shit, and YOU- bitch- are holding me up. Well then she starts talking about how she doesn't think God is talking to her ---which I was glad, because if she DID think God was talking to her, I assumed that conversation would have taken a lot longer and possibly involved recommendations for deodorant. No, she explained God doesn't talk to the Gentiles anymore. Okaaaaaaay. And this has what to do with what? Madam, you are now testing my unwillingness to hurt women. Then she tells us that her husband died 2 months ago. So now I simultaneously feel like a dick and am realizing that she won't be leaving anytime soon and as a result, neither will I. "I know that my husband is in Heaven with the LAWD right now because he was a TRUE BELIEVER!" And she pointed to the ceiling when she mentioned Heaven, as if God was one floor up at the Post Office. Which is fucking frightening. If St Peter is a Government employee, we are collectively fucked.
I was still feeling a twinge of guilt as she migrated from the passing of her apparently Sainted husband to her general beliefs. Something about the difference between the Old Testament and the New Testament. "And if you read the Scripture, God doesn't talk to us like he used to." True. He mainly seems to talk to homeless people who dance with umbrellas in sunshine. Still I felt a little bad for her, but that was quickly passing. And then she said it.
"BUT THE JEEEEEEWWWSSS... NOW THE JEWS ARE DAMNED, BECAUSE THEY KILLED THE MESSIAH." (Yeah, she said it really fucking loud like that, I guess because she wanted to be sure we were paying attention. Or maybe she was trying to persecute someone outside.)
Okay... a couple of things. I realize some sects of Christianity do teach this despite the fact that it isn't entirely historically accurate, even by Christianity's own accounts. That said, I think only the most ardent and blind among the religious believe the Homos are Satan's butt-fucking minions and Jews are damned because of something a few people they never met did 2000 years ago. (In addition to the fact that Jesus died specifically to atone for the sins of mankind, including voting for his death. That's kind of the point of the fucking story.)
Secondly, I am well aware of the rampant Anti-Sematism that is growing in the world despite the Holocaust having happened less than 100 years ago. But still, what the fuck?
And lastly... I'm okay with racism and prejudice. It's human nature. As long as you don't attempt to injure someone when I can do something about it, I'll just ignore you. You have a right to your opinion as much as I have mine. That's the bitch of personal freedoms. But I truly don't get people who blurt shit like that out in front of total strangers. Granted, it's a fairly safe bet that the two black women weren't Jewish. They could have been though, and what about me? I could be Jewish. Or I could be married to someone Jewish. How the fuck does she know? Do I have FUCK DRADELS tattooed on my back? And beyond all that, WHAT THE FUCK DO THE SOULS OF JEWISH PEOPLE HAVE TO DO WITH YOUR DREAM?
...sigh. Thankfully, the woman left after that. But no, my letter still wasn't there.
Blog 1. Letter to Me.
There's a Brad Paisley song, Letter to Me. It's not one of his best, but it's good.
It's about a dude who wishes he could write a letter to himself as a kid. I was thinking about that recently; what I would say to 18 year old me. And it wouldn't be much. {Skip college, but read more. Scrap the poetry and start writing. Get a full time job and work hard. Save money and start a business out of town; maybe a comic shop.} That first part is pretty key. I don't think there is any greater waste of my time and money than college. I learned nothing, gained no usable job skills and have greater debt as a result. Literally the only good thing to come out of college was my time at Disney. So it's a legitimate regret. I'm sure I could come up with other things to tell myself, but those are the bullet points.
Blog 2. Crazy Girls
You ever find yourself attracted to someone you don't like? Why is that? What the fuck is wrong with humans that we desire things we know are wrong? Cats don't stare longingly at dogs. Or fuck their best friend to get close to them.
See, there was this girl yesterday... We've met twice, and she was entirely unpleasant and unbelievably rude the first time. So when she was around yesterday, I was doing my best to ignore her. However, she wasn't being a cunt just then, so after a while it felt more like I was just being a dick. I tried to soften up and I wasn't entirely successful. Once I get to genuinely disliking someone, it takes A LOT for me to shift streams.
And so I still don't like her. But the whole time I kept thinking about pretty she was. And I kept looking and looking. I don't have a crush or anything, but there is desire there.
Don't get me wrong, I don't want a girlfriend right now. I couldn't afford one if I did. And beyond that, I'm concerned that this girl may be genuinely insane. But it's rare that I'm attracted to a woman on more than just a passing, sexual level. I see plenty of women on the street that I would like to have sex with, but that's usually about it. Maybe there's more wrong with me emotionally than even I suspect. UGH.
Blog 3. Sell Crazy Somewhere Else, Bitch
I'd like to preface this with a disclaimer. I was raised Catholic, but am not Catholic. I have no position on whether Jesus is the son of God. Religion, I decided long ago, is not for me. That said, one of my pet peeves is the current wave of Anti-Religious nonsense that seems to permeate culture these days. "Religious people are all crazy, brain washed idiots!" What the fuck ever. I'm not interested in your hypocrisy or extremism to the Left or the Right. Being an anti-religious zealot doesn't make you any better than being a religious zealot, and we've all got our own bullshit that we shovel on the pile.
Rant over.
So I've been fighting with the post office again. An important envelope was mailed to me that required my signature upon receipt, and since it was sent to my home, I haven't gotten it. I was able to sneak away from work briefly to make the long trek to my neighborhood post office both Thursday and Friday. Despite leaving a note that says {Please pick up your envelope at the post office.} the dumb bitch keeps trying to deliver it. It's frustrating.
My second attempt on Friday was significantly more frustrating. I went around 12, so I figured the Post Office would be packed and given my luck of late, I assumed something bad was going to happen. I parked a couple of buildings down bc the parking lot there is always full. I ran into the building praying no one would call a tow truck. To my shock there was only one woman in line. HALLELUJAH! Unfortunately it quickly became evident the woman wasn't making a transaction; she was merely holding up BOTH of the women behind the counter so she could get some shit off of her chest. Now I'm aggravated. I'm in a rush, bitch. Kindly get the fuck out so I can get my shit. That's enough to piss me off all by itself, but then I started listening to her.
Apparently this woman had some sort of prophetic dream in which one of the women behind the counter told her something (I have no idea what) and it happened. "OH MAH GAHD, you don't understand... when she said that, it was just like in my dream...." Now, we've all had weird deja vu experiences, and I know how that can freak you out. But I'm in a rush and I need to get my shit, and YOU- bitch- are holding me up. Well then she starts talking about how she doesn't think God is talking to her ---which I was glad, because if she DID think God was talking to her, I assumed that conversation would have taken a lot longer and possibly involved recommendations for deodorant. No, she explained God doesn't talk to the Gentiles anymore. Okaaaaaaay. And this has what to do with what? Madam, you are now testing my unwillingness to hurt women. Then she tells us that her husband died 2 months ago. So now I simultaneously feel like a dick and am realizing that she won't be leaving anytime soon and as a result, neither will I. "I know that my husband is in Heaven with the LAWD right now because he was a TRUE BELIEVER!" And she pointed to the ceiling when she mentioned Heaven, as if God was one floor up at the Post Office. Which is fucking frightening. If St Peter is a Government employee, we are collectively fucked.
I was still feeling a twinge of guilt as she migrated from the passing of her apparently Sainted husband to her general beliefs. Something about the difference between the Old Testament and the New Testament. "And if you read the Scripture, God doesn't talk to us like he used to." True. He mainly seems to talk to homeless people who dance with umbrellas in sunshine. Still I felt a little bad for her, but that was quickly passing. And then she said it.
"BUT THE JEEEEEEWWWSSS... NOW THE JEWS ARE DAMNED, BECAUSE THEY KILLED THE MESSIAH." (Yeah, she said it really fucking loud like that, I guess because she wanted to be sure we were paying attention. Or maybe she was trying to persecute someone outside.)
Okay... a couple of things. I realize some sects of Christianity do teach this despite the fact that it isn't entirely historically accurate, even by Christianity's own accounts. That said, I think only the most ardent and blind among the religious believe the Homos are Satan's butt-fucking minions and Jews are damned because of something a few people they never met did 2000 years ago. (In addition to the fact that Jesus died specifically to atone for the sins of mankind, including voting for his death. That's kind of the point of the fucking story.)
Secondly, I am well aware of the rampant Anti-Sematism that is growing in the world despite the Holocaust having happened less than 100 years ago. But still, what the fuck?
And lastly... I'm okay with racism and prejudice. It's human nature. As long as you don't attempt to injure someone when I can do something about it, I'll just ignore you. You have a right to your opinion as much as I have mine. That's the bitch of personal freedoms. But I truly don't get people who blurt shit like that out in front of total strangers. Granted, it's a fairly safe bet that the two black women weren't Jewish. They could have been though, and what about me? I could be Jewish. Or I could be married to someone Jewish. How the fuck does she know? Do I have FUCK DRADELS tattooed on my back? And beyond all that, WHAT THE FUCK DO THE SOULS OF JEWISH PEOPLE HAVE TO DO WITH YOUR DREAM?
...sigh. Thankfully, the woman left after that. But no, my letter still wasn't there.
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
A Boy's Dream
If saying that I've been obsessed with Australia my entire life is hyperbole, it isn't far off. I've wanted to go there... to live there since I was 7 or 8 years old.
I come from the kind of town where people are born, they live and they die without ever leaving. New Orleans is only 20 minutes and a river crossing away, yet even that seems too far for some of them. They don't know how big the world is, and they could care less. But for as long as I can remember, I've wanted to see the world. Scotland, Japan, China, Italy... but for whatever reason, Australia has always intrigued me most.
I love the idea of Australia. As a child, the story of its settlement conjured images of a country teeming with outlaws, like stories of the Wild West, but here and now. Even now, in my mind's eye its spirit still feels a little wild and untamed; a vast beautiful land waiting for me to explore it. It enraptured me. Maybe it was how cool Crocodile Dundee seemed. Or it could be the crush that I still have to this day on Olivia Newton John. Or the constant episodes of Looney Tunes that led me to write a Second Grade report on the tiny island the Tasmanian Devil supposedly came from. That report actually earned me a chance to talk about Tasmania on a local television station.
I haven't made it to Australia. There's always been life or time or money between us. It sits at the top of a list of unfulfilled dreams that I will not rest without.
Send me to Australia. Send me away to the Beaches and Reefs. I'll ride horses in Cairns. I'll brave the rapids of the Tully River. I'll trek across Fraser Island on an ATV and cruise the beaches of Surfer's Paradise on the back of a Harley. You'll probably even get to see me crash and burn on a surf board at Coffs Harbour. I want to ride and surf. I want to delve into the country and take in all it has to give.
There's an image in my mind. It's me and my Nikon exploring a world I've only dreamt of. This is an adventure; the kind I've imagined since I was a boy. It comes only as a close second to finding true love or driving an Aston Martin. I can promise you, no one would appreciate this opportunity more than I would. This isn't just a vacation, it's the journey of a lifetime and a story I've waited my whole life to write.
Send me to Australia.
And if you don't... that's okay too. I'll just have to do it on my own.
Send me to Australia.
And if you don't... that's okay too. I'll just have to do it on my own.
Friday, July 8, 2011
Last Train to the Stars
I've been a little sad for the last few weeks leading up to today. Not steadily, but enough. When I lived in Florida, Cape Canaveral was just a stone's throw away. I'd always intended to see one of the Space Shuttle launches, but for whatever reason, I never got around to it. Now I never will.
July 8, 2011. The Space Shuttle Atlantis, STS-135 is the last shuttle into space.
Maybe I'm being overly sentimental, but the exploration of Space represents the best of humanity. It is the pinnacle of all we hope to achieve, the symbol for what we can do with determination, ingenuity and faith.
Seeing it end is a crushing blow.
There's certainly more important things for the US to do with it's money, such as paying off our massive debt. Yet I'd hate to see this as the end.
I've heard some talk about NASA having a future if we privatize space exploration. I don't fully understand how that works, but I support it. Federal space exploration is no longer a viable option.
The only way to achieve greatness, is to reach for it. Maybe someday we'll see the stars again.
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Before I Sleep...
You may have heard this rant before, but I hate the term "Bucket List". Maybe it's because it's too kitschy for my taste, or more likely because taking the term from a Hollywood buddy movie rubs me the wrong way. But whatever you call it, it's always good to have goals.
Not too long ago I wrote a (mostly) joking list of Nerd-things to do before I die. And I have made lists like this in the past. One of my big goals was to jump off of a waterfall. In truth, I didn't exactly do that one, but I did climb 40 feet up a cliff of solid lava rock in Hawaii and then jump off of it into the Pacific Ocean. I am never doing that again, so I'm crossing the waterfall one off my list. MISSION ACCOMPLISHED.
(Yeah, THAT.)
So here's my list in no particular order.
1) Travel to Australia and Scotland. Lifelong dreams unaccomplished.
2) Got to Club 33 in Disneyland, THE most exclusive restaurant in Disney History. Only a handful of people have ever been inside it. Here is one lucky person's accounting.
3. Talk to one of my writing heroes, such as JMS or Whedon.
4. Get some artwork from one of my favorite artists, such as Jim Lee, JH Williams, Tony Harris or Ryan Ottley.
5) Bro-out in Vegas with my friends. (because really-- why not??)
6. Write at least one novel and a book of a different nature. I'm not sure anyone would want to read my memoirs, but if I ever got back to work on my Disney adventures, that might be publishable.
7. Hot foreign girl. Nuff said.
8. Take my motorcycle across the Florida keys.
9) Drive across country.
10) Truly help someone who needs it.
11) Drive a Nascar racer. (Fortunately the Richard Petty Experience at WDW does indeed offer this opportunity.)
12. Go white water rafting on the Colorado River (something I am currently planning to do in the (relatively) near future.
13. Own a business.
Not too long ago I wrote a (mostly) joking list of Nerd-things to do before I die. And I have made lists like this in the past. One of my big goals was to jump off of a waterfall. In truth, I didn't exactly do that one, but I did climb 40 feet up a cliff of solid lava rock in Hawaii and then jump off of it into the Pacific Ocean. I am never doing that again, so I'm crossing the waterfall one off my list. MISSION ACCOMPLISHED.
(Yeah, THAT.)
So here's my list in no particular order.
1) Travel to Australia and Scotland. Lifelong dreams unaccomplished.
2) Got to Club 33 in Disneyland, THE most exclusive restaurant in Disney History. Only a handful of people have ever been inside it. Here is one lucky person's accounting.
3. Talk to one of my writing heroes, such as JMS or Whedon.
4. Get some artwork from one of my favorite artists, such as Jim Lee, JH Williams, Tony Harris or Ryan Ottley.
5) Bro-out in Vegas with my friends. (because really-- why not??)
6. Write at least one novel and a book of a different nature. I'm not sure anyone would want to read my memoirs, but if I ever got back to work on my Disney adventures, that might be publishable.
7. Hot foreign girl. Nuff said.
8. Take my motorcycle across the Florida keys.
9) Drive across country.
10) Truly help someone who needs it.
11) Drive a Nascar racer. (Fortunately the Richard Petty Experience at WDW does indeed offer this opportunity.)
12. Go white water rafting on the Colorado River (something I am currently planning to do in the (relatively) near future.
13. Own a business.
Monday, June 27, 2011
I Want to Poll Your Twitter
I have sort of a love/ hate relationship with twitter.
I love it, but I think it's completely moronic.
Frankly the idea that everyone needs to know every little thought we have is stupid. None of us are that wise or that interesting. When I decided to give twitter a try, I didn't know what to do with it. Why would anyone want to follow me? I subscribe to the Groucho Marx theory of connectivity. I wouldn't belong to any club that would have me as a member.
And that's when it hit me. I decided to make a point of how ridiculous twitter was. Most people try to be as "insightful" and interesting as possible in order to gain followers. My goal then became to be as offensive and unloved as possible to lose followers. It was an experiment. I'm fascinated by people's reactions. I wanted to know what I had to do to get someone to drop me.
Unfortunately it's had an adverse reaction. The worse I got, the more followers I gained.
The problem is I use twitter for business, personal and hedonistic reasons. And honestly, even my actual friends have admitted to wanting to or in some case choosing to delete me. It amuses me when random followers delete me. Not so with the people I actually talk to.
So now I'm thinking of having two accounts. One private, one for all my nonsense.
Should I do it? Or should I just say fuck 'em if they can't take a joke?
I love it, but I think it's completely moronic.
Frankly the idea that everyone needs to know every little thought we have is stupid. None of us are that wise or that interesting. When I decided to give twitter a try, I didn't know what to do with it. Why would anyone want to follow me? I subscribe to the Groucho Marx theory of connectivity. I wouldn't belong to any club that would have me as a member.
And that's when it hit me. I decided to make a point of how ridiculous twitter was. Most people try to be as "insightful" and interesting as possible in order to gain followers. My goal then became to be as offensive and unloved as possible to lose followers. It was an experiment. I'm fascinated by people's reactions. I wanted to know what I had to do to get someone to drop me.
Unfortunately it's had an adverse reaction. The worse I got, the more followers I gained.
The problem is I use twitter for business, personal and hedonistic reasons. And honestly, even my actual friends have admitted to wanting to or in some case choosing to delete me. It amuses me when random followers delete me. Not so with the people I actually talk to.
So now I'm thinking of having two accounts. One private, one for all my nonsense.
Should I do it? Or should I just say fuck 'em if they can't take a joke?
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Prelude
This story contains some graphic, possibly offensive imagery. I'm warning you beforehand. Proceed with caution.
Sully was having a bad day.
It started when the vending machine at the motel ran out of cigarettes. If there was ever a day when he needed a smoke, this was it. But that was Sully’s life in a nutshell; never a smoke when he needed one.
And then there was the rampant sense of paranoia. Maybe it was the lack of nicotine, or maybe it was the all day Judge Judy marathon that he was forced to watch because the receiver was busted on the TV. Something about that old bitch made him nervous. It was her forehead, Sully supposed. Something about her sweaty brow.
Sweaty was an operative word with him that day, because of course the AC was busted. It was a cheap “no tell mo-tel”, so the inconvenience was almost to be expected. But it was necessity. Sully like he privacy that such places of ill repute provided. You could literally sign your name Janet Jackson on the register so long as you paid cash. And the toothless hick behind the counter would just smile and say “Thank you Ms Jackson.” But honestly the main reason he was there was because it was cheap. The sedatives had cost quite a bit thanks to the rising costs of healthcare, and he was low on cash this week. It was literally a choice between eating and air conditioning.
So yeah, being cooped up in the motel with no smokes, no AC and only Judge Forehead to occupy him was making Sully a might squirrely. Of course there was always the girl. Damn she was hot. But he’d already had a few go’s on her. And while Sully was, he supposed, quite a Man... in the end he was still a man, and needed some time to recharge. And anyway, the mid-day heat would have made the act unbearable. She was dirty enough as it is.
It was about the time a man kicked in the door that Sully realized he wasn’t all that paranoid. He was smart. And a smart man knows when he’s about to lose.
Of course someone found him. Sully had known it would happen for weeks, as much as he tired to convince himself otherwise. He’d made a mess of the last one. He’d broken the rules. “When you break the rules, you have to pay.”; his mother always told him. And so Sully always lived by the rules... well, the ones he’d set for himself. But that day he couldn’t help himself. She was so damned pretty. She was a cute little tomboy with over-alls, pigtails and light-blonde hair. The pig tails had done it for him. He got overly excited, and when he was choking her.. well. Her blue eyes ran bloodshot as the life choked out of her. When he was done, Sully wondered if she’d enjoyed it as much as he had.
Unfortunately, Sully wasn’t used to killing. She was his first; a fact of which, Sully thought the little bitch should feel honored in whatever pit of Hell she found herself in. Unprepared as she was, all he could think to do was pour some bleach on her and dump the body in the river.
He should have laid low and let things cool down for a while. And he’d planned to. That is, until he saw this one. She was even prettier than the last one, and he knew he had to have her. Red hair and a soccer uniform. Red hair! The rarest of beasts! What man could resist? None, he knew. A few drugs and a room later, and the bitch was raring to go. And this time, he would take special care to control himself. No more breaking the rules, no matter how hot the piece. Not that it mattered now.
It might have even been worth it to kill her.
The door damn near exploded when the man kicked it in. In fact he’d kicked it in half, the top barely hanging by it’s hinges. Sully had expected cops, but he clearly wasn’t. Cops don’t wear black Armani and red silk ties. If it weren’t for the fact he was built like a professional wrestler, Sully might have assumed he was a business man. He didn’t even have a gun. But honestly, he clearly didn’t need one.
“Don’t. Move.” And Sully didn’t.
The Suit looked over at the girl, unconscious but breathing. See? He wasn’t all that bad! He didn’t kill this one. And the last one was an accident. They would all see. But he just kept staring silently at the girl for a long time. The silence was painful. But when the Suit finally turned his eyes to Sully, it was worse.
Sully could tell from the look in his eyes that he didn’t understand. Fucking puritanical fascist. The Suit couldn’t see the beauty of what Sully was doing. He was just showing them the Truth. They were all whores, even when they’re young. He was just giving them what they wanted. So he’d killed one... so what? In the end it’s just another dead whore. What’s one more?
He’d tried to explain to the brute what he was doing. Sully had even offered him a turn on the girl, which he felt was more than fair. What kind of man turns down a red head? Probably gay, Sully figured. The offer only seemed to enrage the Suit even more. He’d had it right the first time... clearly a fascist.
“Mother FUCKER.” Sully thought that was uncalled for. Only a simpleton resorted to name calling. And anyway, he’d never fucked an old one.
The Suit grabbed him by the throat and slammed him against the wall. The force of Sully’s body hitting it knocked a painting of a sail boat onto the floor, glass shattering everywhere. His hands were massive and strong as steel, but clean and manicured. His grip was steel as he choked the life out of Sully. He struggled. Kicked and swatted with all of his might, but to no avail. For all his effort, he hadn’t even managed to rip the Armani. Sully’s face was flushed red as the man slowly crushed his windpipe. Blooded flowed from his nose as if it were toothpaste being squeezed out of a tube. He tried to scream, but nothing came out. There were police sirens in the background, but they wouldn’t arrive in time. It seemed to him there truly was no such thing as justice. Finally after much struggle and a world of pain, Sully stopped moving. The last thing he’d seen was the look in the man’s eyes. It wasn’t satisfaction; it was pure, unfiltered hate. And that, Sully supposed, is what a monster looked like.
The man let his body fall to the floor like dead weight. The girl was unconscious, but still breathing. Perhaps she wouldn’t even remember what the bastard had done to her. He’d thanked God for small favors, if God could even be said to be involved in such affairs. He went to the bathroom to wash his hands and splash some water on his face.
The boys in blue were about a minute away from busting in on him and the dead body. So he sat away from the girl in a chair by the window. He lit his last cigarette and took a long, slow puff; blowing it into the air. Vincent was having a bad day.
The story is called Monster. It may or may not be a the prelude to a larger story starring Vincent. I apologize as to the graphic nature of it, but that is essentially the point. Obviously I did not intend to glorify child molestation, which I personally believe deserves the death penalty. I would appreciate any feedback as to how you reacted and how far I went.
Sully was having a bad day.
It started when the vending machine at the motel ran out of cigarettes. If there was ever a day when he needed a smoke, this was it. But that was Sully’s life in a nutshell; never a smoke when he needed one.
And then there was the rampant sense of paranoia. Maybe it was the lack of nicotine, or maybe it was the all day Judge Judy marathon that he was forced to watch because the receiver was busted on the TV. Something about that old bitch made him nervous. It was her forehead, Sully supposed. Something about her sweaty brow.
Sweaty was an operative word with him that day, because of course the AC was busted. It was a cheap “no tell mo-tel”, so the inconvenience was almost to be expected. But it was necessity. Sully like he privacy that such places of ill repute provided. You could literally sign your name Janet Jackson on the register so long as you paid cash. And the toothless hick behind the counter would just smile and say “Thank you Ms Jackson.” But honestly the main reason he was there was because it was cheap. The sedatives had cost quite a bit thanks to the rising costs of healthcare, and he was low on cash this week. It was literally a choice between eating and air conditioning.
So yeah, being cooped up in the motel with no smokes, no AC and only Judge Forehead to occupy him was making Sully a might squirrely. Of course there was always the girl. Damn she was hot. But he’d already had a few go’s on her. And while Sully was, he supposed, quite a Man... in the end he was still a man, and needed some time to recharge. And anyway, the mid-day heat would have made the act unbearable. She was dirty enough as it is.
It was about the time a man kicked in the door that Sully realized he wasn’t all that paranoid. He was smart. And a smart man knows when he’s about to lose.
Of course someone found him. Sully had known it would happen for weeks, as much as he tired to convince himself otherwise. He’d made a mess of the last one. He’d broken the rules. “When you break the rules, you have to pay.”; his mother always told him. And so Sully always lived by the rules... well, the ones he’d set for himself. But that day he couldn’t help himself. She was so damned pretty. She was a cute little tomboy with over-alls, pigtails and light-blonde hair. The pig tails had done it for him. He got overly excited, and when he was choking her.. well. Her blue eyes ran bloodshot as the life choked out of her. When he was done, Sully wondered if she’d enjoyed it as much as he had.
Unfortunately, Sully wasn’t used to killing. She was his first; a fact of which, Sully thought the little bitch should feel honored in whatever pit of Hell she found herself in. Unprepared as she was, all he could think to do was pour some bleach on her and dump the body in the river.
He should have laid low and let things cool down for a while. And he’d planned to. That is, until he saw this one. She was even prettier than the last one, and he knew he had to have her. Red hair and a soccer uniform. Red hair! The rarest of beasts! What man could resist? None, he knew. A few drugs and a room later, and the bitch was raring to go. And this time, he would take special care to control himself. No more breaking the rules, no matter how hot the piece. Not that it mattered now.
It might have even been worth it to kill her.
The door damn near exploded when the man kicked it in. In fact he’d kicked it in half, the top barely hanging by it’s hinges. Sully had expected cops, but he clearly wasn’t. Cops don’t wear black Armani and red silk ties. If it weren’t for the fact he was built like a professional wrestler, Sully might have assumed he was a business man. He didn’t even have a gun. But honestly, he clearly didn’t need one.
“Don’t. Move.” And Sully didn’t.
The Suit looked over at the girl, unconscious but breathing. See? He wasn’t all that bad! He didn’t kill this one. And the last one was an accident. They would all see. But he just kept staring silently at the girl for a long time. The silence was painful. But when the Suit finally turned his eyes to Sully, it was worse.
Sully could tell from the look in his eyes that he didn’t understand. Fucking puritanical fascist. The Suit couldn’t see the beauty of what Sully was doing. He was just showing them the Truth. They were all whores, even when they’re young. He was just giving them what they wanted. So he’d killed one... so what? In the end it’s just another dead whore. What’s one more?
He’d tried to explain to the brute what he was doing. Sully had even offered him a turn on the girl, which he felt was more than fair. What kind of man turns down a red head? Probably gay, Sully figured. The offer only seemed to enrage the Suit even more. He’d had it right the first time... clearly a fascist.
“Mother FUCKER.” Sully thought that was uncalled for. Only a simpleton resorted to name calling. And anyway, he’d never fucked an old one.
The Suit grabbed him by the throat and slammed him against the wall. The force of Sully’s body hitting it knocked a painting of a sail boat onto the floor, glass shattering everywhere. His hands were massive and strong as steel, but clean and manicured. His grip was steel as he choked the life out of Sully. He struggled. Kicked and swatted with all of his might, but to no avail. For all his effort, he hadn’t even managed to rip the Armani. Sully’s face was flushed red as the man slowly crushed his windpipe. Blooded flowed from his nose as if it were toothpaste being squeezed out of a tube. He tried to scream, but nothing came out. There were police sirens in the background, but they wouldn’t arrive in time. It seemed to him there truly was no such thing as justice. Finally after much struggle and a world of pain, Sully stopped moving. The last thing he’d seen was the look in the man’s eyes. It wasn’t satisfaction; it was pure, unfiltered hate. And that, Sully supposed, is what a monster looked like.
The man let his body fall to the floor like dead weight. The girl was unconscious, but still breathing. Perhaps she wouldn’t even remember what the bastard had done to her. He’d thanked God for small favors, if God could even be said to be involved in such affairs. He went to the bathroom to wash his hands and splash some water on his face.
The boys in blue were about a minute away from busting in on him and the dead body. So he sat away from the girl in a chair by the window. He lit his last cigarette and took a long, slow puff; blowing it into the air. Vincent was having a bad day.
The story is called Monster. It may or may not be a the prelude to a larger story starring Vincent. I apologize as to the graphic nature of it, but that is essentially the point. Obviously I did not intend to glorify child molestation, which I personally believe deserves the death penalty. I would appreciate any feedback as to how you reacted and how far I went.
Monday, June 20, 2011
Riding Motorcycles with My Old Man
My earliest memories of my father is of him putting me on the back of his motorcycle and taking me for rides. I was probably 4 or 5. Yes, people really do that. Though to be honest, I can't imagine why my Mother let him put me on there. But he did, and I loved it.
Bikes get in your blood. It's the closest thing I have to a heritage. And when it comes right down to it, bikes are the only thing I have in common with my Father. You see, my Dad really only loves two things: fishing and riding. To tell you the truth, the fishing is probably his one true love.
Like motorcycles, he tried to instill that love of fishing in me as well. It didn't take. He tried. But I hate Louisiana. I hate the humidity. And though I love boats I cannot stand sitting quietly on the water in the Louisiana heat for hours waiting for something to volunteer to be eaten. (Though I will damn sure eat it when it does.)
When I was still too young to have clear memories, he made one last attempt to make his son a fisherman. He told me if I caught the biggest fish, he'd give me 5 whole dollars. (Look, it was the 80's and I was six.) It wasn't much of a bet, as I'd never actually caught anything. Maybe it was a miracle, or maybe my father pulled a fast one on me, but on that day I caught a huge redfish. In my mind's eye it was the size of a barracuda, though it was probably just a decent sized redfish. When we got home I declared that I caught my fish, I got my five dollars and I was officially retired from fishing.
I'm certain that disappointed him. It's natural for a man to want to connect with his son on the things he loves. I think it was very evident from a young age that he wouldn't be able to have that with me.
Except there's motorcycles.
Yesterday, for Father's Day I took my Dad to lunch. We don't go to restaurants much. He likes take out. But for whatever reason he went along with it. And we got on our bikes and hit the road.
It may seem like nothing to you. Just two guys on bikes; you see it all the time. But for me... it's me and my Dad spending the closest we have to quality time. I don't like football or drinking or fishing. But I love riding.
He lead out and stayed slow. My bike has been having constant problems and I think he wanted to be sure I could keep up. And of course I can't keep up with him. He's the real deal. But it's nice to pretend. On the way back home, I decided to take a different route and left him behind. I got about a mile out when I remembered the whole point was to spend time with my Dad and I should have just followed behind him. It was about 3 miles later when I looked in my rear view mirror to see him smiling right behind me.
And when I forgot to shift gears and killed the bike, he was coaching me. Watching over me. We haven't had a whole lot of moments like that. But every once in a while I get to feel like I'm six years old, catching a redfish and I just won five dollars.
Saturday, June 4, 2011
Must Love Dicks
I've decided I need a girlfriend, internet. So get to searching.
I believe in honesty, so ladies, allow me to put all my cards on the table.
First, I probably won't be a great boyfriend. But I won't beat you unless you're into it. And if I decide to fuck other chicks, you will absolutely be consulted. At that point you can either leave me or join in. I'd probably be down for either.
I put the toilet seat down after I pee, but I leave my underwear on the floor 10 seconds after I get home. I DO push the undies off to the side though, so you won't step on them.
Cuddling and spooning are absolutely in, but if I give you the thermometer test in the middle of the night (possibly followed by the nipple test if I still can't tell if you're asleep), I don't think you should be mad at me.
If you make out with your dog in front of me, I'm having it put to sleep.
I love tits. And I don't believe in plastic surgery. So if we're together and you have small tits, that's cool. You're perfect (or at least acceptable) just the way you are. But I'm gonna look at other girls' tits. Not my fault; it's in my DNA. So shut the fuck up.
I do not expect sex every time after giving you a massage. If I try to touch your cooter and you're not into it, just say so. However, if I suck your toes, expect to have my cock in your mouth.
Speaking of which... I have an average size penis. If you tell your friends it's small, I reserve the right to kick you in the pussy.
If you talk bad about country music, I will throw you out of a moving vehicle.
I will cook for you. You will not ask me questions when I'm watching Dr Who.
Don't bother asking questions like which one of your friends I would sleep with. The answer is all of them. Even the dumpy one. Because that clown has been in the rodeo a few times.
No, you cannot drive my car. Ever.
I'm sure your father IS a better man that I'll ever be. Or he was before I stole his viagra prescription.
Sometimes a guy just wants to wear high heels and pretty dresses. Leave me be, woman.
I'm fine with watching The Notebook with you. Good movie. But if you try to put that Twilight shit on, I'm making you watch every Schwarzenegger film ever made. Even the one where he's pregnant.
If Robert Redford offers me money, it's going down.
I know where I'm going. If I wanted a navigator, I'd be in the fucking Navy.
I won't be jealous if you want to go party with your friends every once in a while. But if you cheat on me, I'm sending the pictures to your grandmother.
Sometimes I'll forget to open doors for you. It's not a big deal.
Engagements rings are fine. Pre-engagament/ promise rings are horseshit.
Yes you look fat in those jeans. But I still think you're beautiful. You'll know it's true because I haven't left you for your younger sister.
Sometimes I cry at the end of Where the Heart Is. You are not allowed to video tape it and show my friends.
I'm probably not going to like your family. And I expect you to hate mine. So let's change our names and move to New Guinea.
Any intentions of sticking a finger in my ass must be announced beforehand. Don't just shove it in and yell SURPRISE.
Treehuggers need not apply.
SO what do you think ladies? Wanna be my girlfriend? Accepting applications NOW!
Oh, and a little gift to sweeten the deal:
That's right girls. You've just been Big Time Rush'd. Are you in love yet?
I believe in honesty, so ladies, allow me to put all my cards on the table.
First, I probably won't be a great boyfriend. But I won't beat you unless you're into it. And if I decide to fuck other chicks, you will absolutely be consulted. At that point you can either leave me or join in. I'd probably be down for either.
I put the toilet seat down after I pee, but I leave my underwear on the floor 10 seconds after I get home. I DO push the undies off to the side though, so you won't step on them.
Cuddling and spooning are absolutely in, but if I give you the thermometer test in the middle of the night (possibly followed by the nipple test if I still can't tell if you're asleep), I don't think you should be mad at me.
If you make out with your dog in front of me, I'm having it put to sleep.
I love tits. And I don't believe in plastic surgery. So if we're together and you have small tits, that's cool. You're perfect (or at least acceptable) just the way you are. But I'm gonna look at other girls' tits. Not my fault; it's in my DNA. So shut the fuck up.
I do not expect sex every time after giving you a massage. If I try to touch your cooter and you're not into it, just say so. However, if I suck your toes, expect to have my cock in your mouth.
Speaking of which... I have an average size penis. If you tell your friends it's small, I reserve the right to kick you in the pussy.
If you talk bad about country music, I will throw you out of a moving vehicle.
I will cook for you. You will not ask me questions when I'm watching Dr Who.
Don't bother asking questions like which one of your friends I would sleep with. The answer is all of them. Even the dumpy one. Because that clown has been in the rodeo a few times.
No, you cannot drive my car. Ever.
I'm sure your father IS a better man that I'll ever be. Or he was before I stole his viagra prescription.
Sometimes a guy just wants to wear high heels and pretty dresses. Leave me be, woman.
I'm fine with watching The Notebook with you. Good movie. But if you try to put that Twilight shit on, I'm making you watch every Schwarzenegger film ever made. Even the one where he's pregnant.
If Robert Redford offers me money, it's going down.
I know where I'm going. If I wanted a navigator, I'd be in the fucking Navy.
I won't be jealous if you want to go party with your friends every once in a while. But if you cheat on me, I'm sending the pictures to your grandmother.
Sometimes I'll forget to open doors for you. It's not a big deal.
Engagements rings are fine. Pre-engagament/ promise rings are horseshit.
Yes you look fat in those jeans. But I still think you're beautiful. You'll know it's true because I haven't left you for your younger sister.
Sometimes I cry at the end of Where the Heart Is. You are not allowed to video tape it and show my friends.
I'm probably not going to like your family. And I expect you to hate mine. So let's change our names and move to New Guinea.
Any intentions of sticking a finger in my ass must be announced beforehand. Don't just shove it in and yell SURPRISE.
Treehuggers need not apply.
SO what do you think ladies? Wanna be my girlfriend? Accepting applications NOW!
Oh, and a little gift to sweeten the deal:
That's right girls. You've just been Big Time Rush'd. Are you in love yet?
Monday, April 18, 2011
Fear and Loathing in my Anus
(http://offourchests.com/heres-the-thing/#comment-1968) It's kind of long, but it's funny and it sort of creates the set up for what I'm talking about.
All fears essentially amount to a fear of death. No one actually has a fear of heights. We have a fear of falling. It's just that fallophobia sounds like a fear of penises. Claustrophobia is a fear of being crushed... or something to that effect. (What the fuck, am I Freud? Gimme a break.) Fear of spiders? They have venom sometimes, which can kill you. Also, they have 8 legs, which is just pure fucking evil. I mean, EIGHT LEGS? WHAT IS THAT?
Plus they're just icky.
And then there's fear of public speaking, which would seem to disprove my otherwise completely infallible and totally scientific theory. With the exception of late night talk show hosts, no one dies on stage holding a microphone. So maybe I'm wrong. Well, not totally. But I'll have to come back to that.
Fear and I have a funny relationship.
I can remember as a child being afraid of everything. Afraid of the dark. Afraid of heights. Afraid of Mr Ted, the neighbor who would sing What Is Love by Haddaway to me every time he saw me. Afraid of getting beaten up, which wasn't irrational, because it happened enough. As I got older, those fears expanded into a whole new universe of psychotic post-pubescent terror. I learned to be afraid of talking to and reaching out to others. And I was afraid of being alone. Those two things seem to conflict, but ... well, no they conflict. Yet here we are.
I'm no longer scared of the dark. That went away about the time I discovered the joy of chronic masturbation, as I discovered keeping the lights on made it that much more awkward when Mom walked in on me molesting myself to What's Happening re-runs. (See what I did there??) The fear of heights remains, though it's no longer crippling, so I can stand on a foot stool without pissing myself. As for getting beat up, I'm still not looking forward to getting punched in the fucking face, but in my experience when people see a 300 lb redneck with a scowl on his face, they tend not to chase you around with a bat yelling "Faggot."
Most of my fears are manageable now. Except for a few. I'm scared shitless of talking to people. Particularly women. Dudes are a little easier, because honestly if some pencil neck asswipe who watches Family Guy doesn't think you're worth being friends with, who gives a shit? Women though... they give you that look. That look that says "I know you have ass hair and the answer is no."
And it really shouldn't matter. Rationally, one judgmental chick acting like a cunt just because I don't drive a Porche doesn't invalidate me as a person. Nor should it emasculate me in the slightest. But I have to force myself to go up to bat every time, and when I do... I'm 13 again.
Understand. I've done things. I've exposed my bare fat ass to an entire beach full of people with not even a semi-erection. I've climbed a 50 foot wall of solid lava rock and cliff dived into the Pacific Ocean. I once sat through Oprah Winfrey's production of Beloved without killing myself. And on occasion I've asked complete strangers to dance because she was looking cute and I get +8 confidence points when I'm wearing a tie.
So why is it so hard to do the normal things, when the extraordinary isn't all that impossible? It's simple. Because whether you're afraid to stand in front of 20 people and give a speech about a parrot, or just scared to ask that girl with the cute freckles to share a hot dog with you in a crowded movie theater, it all amounts to the same thing. We're all just well and truly frightened of being vulnerable. Deep down inside we know that we're just human and fragile. And if people look at us with our guard down, they might just see us as flawed and breakable as we are. The cracks could show, and maybe we'll fall apart right then and there.
So what was my point? ...I don't really have one. Are you still reading this? I was just kidding earlier-- on that nude beach? I had a magnificent erection. People applauded. Women took pictures next to it making silly faces. Japanese tourists ran in terror speaking slightly out of sync with their lip movements.
He Ain't Heavy...
I have a friend whom I love like a brother.
That's a weird thing for a dude to say. It's not just the threat of implied homo-eroticism. Men don't talk about their feelings with each other. And you never use the L-word... no, the other one.
For men, I think in all of our relationships, we assume love is implied. You're supposed to know we love you. (Ladies, feel free to realize why so many of your past relationships were fucked up based on this premise.) I have no trouble telling my Mom or Dad, little brother, Aunts, Uncles, cousins or my server at Outback Steakhouse that I love them. But another man? No matter how close? Can't do it.
But that's not really what this is about.
I have a brother, who is not my brother. And we have known each other a very long time and been through a lot. In retrospect, probably more on his end than mine, but I've been through shit too. But things are different lately.
We had a pretty big fight last year, the second biggest we've ever had. And that might not normally be a big deal... I mean, families fight. God knows mine does.
He'd been picking fights with me for weeks at that point. He was looking for things to fight about. Whether that had something to do with me or not, I can't say. Maybe he was looking to take out his frustrations on me. Maybe I did something. The problem is that most of this fight was him saying terrible things to me. He said a few things that I don't excuse or forgive of others. But what disturbed me most was that the person he was describing didn't sound like someone he liked. If I knew someone like the person he claimed I am, I wouldn't be friends with them. Which led me to wonder, does he even like me? Why are you even talking to me if this is who you think I am?
We didn't talk for many months. He called and left a message. No apology or anything; just kind of a "hey, maybe we should forget about all that" message. I didn't call him back. I was still pretty hurt. Then I noticed he'd deleted me from his facebook. NOW WAIT, don't get the wrong idea. I could give a shit about facebook. People delete me from time to time for whatever reason, and I usually just shrug when I notice. Whatever. But there's only two reasons why someone deletes you from Facebook. Either they have things to hide from you, or they don't want you in their life or in their business. (or also if they just don't give a shit about you, so 3, I guess.) So after a while I went ahead and called him back. We didn't talk about anything that happened. We just went on with life. And for a while, things were okay.
He came in town early this year (he lives in another state) and asked to hang out at literally the last minute. I thought that was kind of fucked up, but whatever. People have lives and obligations, I get that. Really I do. But there's a feeling you get from someone when they do something like that, like they're only forcing you into their schedule because they have to. I dunno, maybe that says more about me than him.
While we were hanging out, he told me I should go up and visit him. The thing is, he says this all the time, and I always say no, because I have a job and no money. But about a week or so later, I realized I finally had time and money to go for a visit. And so I told him, I'd come up. And I immediately got a vibe off of him, like he didn't want me there. I made plans, and took vacation time. After a couple of weeks, he told me that probably wouldn't be a good week to come up, so I asked work if I could move it back a few weeks further. So I told him I'd move it back to a better week. And he said okay.
My plan was to drive up to a nearby city I wanted to visit on that Wednesday. Thursday, I would drive to the city he's in and do some sight seeing while he was in school. Then I'd just hang out at his place Thursday night & do some more sight seeing while he was in school Friday. Then we would actually go out Friday and Saturday night. We're both old though, so it wouldn't be late nights. Sunday I would drive home. So really, we would only be hanging out Friday night and Saturday. Barely a weekend.
I could tell he didn't want me up there though, and about a week and a half before the trip he said it wasn't a good time for me to be there. He was having a really hectic semester in school, and needed every minute to study.
Sounds logical. But then a week later he told me he spent that Friday night out on a date and went drinking all night with his friends from school. And he's been dating that girl all semester. They even went off for a weekend together once or twice. So what happened to studying every minute? Time for all those other people, but not a single measly weekend for an old friend? The same old friend who he asked to be the godfather of his daughter?
And since then we barely talk. When we do, everything is fine. But he almost always has some reason to get off the phone quickly. Even when I ask about his kids--- and I love the 2 of them dearly--- something isn't right. And you can tell that there are things not being said.
And I can't help but wonder if this is the end.
For most people, I'd be okay with that. Sometimes people just leave. But I'm not alright with this. It hurts in the one place I'm vulnerable. You lose family for all sorts of reasons. But to have one of them just up and decide they don't give a fuck about you anymore?
That just sucks.
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