When you’ve spent as long escaping your problems as I have, you slowly realize you’ve outrun nothing. Every flaw I’ve distracted myself from, every lie I told myself to keep pushing through the day, to keep earning paychecks and in a sense, a modicum of respect, is floating to the surface of my consciousness. I am so aware of how royally fucked I am right now, how neglectful I’ve been over my duties to provide and acquire income over the past year. I kept telling myself, the unemployment will only last a week, or a month, a couple months, or it’s about to end so you better get your shit together, or oh fuck, you no longer have any unemployment benefits and are now certifiably broke. Everything that I’ve told myself will come hasn’t and I only have myself to blame. In a way, I am a coward and I will always be a coward. Every day mundane events that you yawn your way through have me so riled up and anxious that it becomes hard for me to actually enjoy myself doing anything. People want to go out and have fun? Well, too bad I’m nervous over not having money, or not having medicine, or not having anyone in my life that I feel loves me, outside of my family, and even with them, I can tell their patience is starting to wear a little thin. You’re almost 30, they tell me. Facebook reminds me of all the children I am not pumping out, all the raises and career paths I haven’t opted into, all the housing I won’t be buying, all the cars I won’t own, and all that other materialistic bullshit that somehow can make you feel empty, whether you have it or not. For awhile I had a loving girlfriend who was so passionate about keeping me honest and making sure I wasn’t doing anything sketchy (I wasn’t) that she went into my phone and read all my messages, all my emails, anything on snapchat she can find, facebook messenger, and so on until she basically had read every message I had ever sent out. After she did this, after combing through my phone and not finding any infidelities, she did change her attitude towards me permanently. She’s a little more cold, a little less reachable, less eager to talk about her feelings and express any kind of emotions towards me other than she’s busy or she’s tired or both. I get to see my girlfriend if I visit her at work or when she needs to run to the dispensary I used to work at; she’ll drive us, she’ll even spot me a gram of something to smoke with me before she takes off, and then when she’s gone, just like the clouds of smoke we blow out, she evaporates into nothing and I’m left wondering if she was ever there at all. Marijuana culture and the “lifestyle” are not something I would say I fit into; I don’t own any Bob Marley shirts or CDs or posters. You won’t find 420 or THC or the chemical components of THC tattooed anywhere on my body. I keep my glassware outside at all times, cleaning it every few days. When I get my medicine, I immediately grind it up and put it into a glass container that I store in another airtight container. I don’t make a big show of it, I don’t dance around like an idiot or interweave fancy joints, blunts, or concentrates to make an even more intricate smoking apparatus. My bowls are packed with a 1/4 teaspoon scooper so I don’t get plant matter and residue all over my fingers, hands, and clothes. When I smoke, I smoke half a bowl, maybe less, and then go about my day, maybe taking my dog for a walk or mowing the lawn, some simple, menial housework usually. I don’t really enjoy purging on munchies and other fatty foods because I am missing my gallbladder and 9 out 10 meals physically pains me to digest/process, so I prefer to eat less to more, and prefer strains that don’t give me the munchies to the one’s that do. I can sit here and talk about all the wonderful medicine I’ve ingested over the past few years and not feel compelled to go and put more in my body; it’s fun to just reminisce and remember the good times, i.e. like the time me and my friend James switch beer pong with bowl pong. Then, when the real kickbacks would happen and all the social boozers would come out in their fancy athletic nightwear, me and my associate would be ready to participate in the games, although we would usually lose because a beer buzz is different than a bong buzz. For me, it was so natural to smoke the herb and gain confidence to go out in the world and not be afraid of a panic attack, because panic attacks were just something that happened that I had to deal with, no matter what. Now that I am on a budget induced tolerance break, and all my indecision is catching up with me, I feel like all I can really do is sit here at this computer and type my little fingers off until this situation is right, until I print out the perfect resume and application, or until, god willing, I write something I feel comfortable enough sharing and excited enough to keep on writing it.
I can’t control what my girlfriend is doing or how she feels about me, even if I send her messages and don’t get any replies. There’s nothing I can do about sending out state applications and not getting replies BUT I can send out MORE. Instead of being fearful and hesitant to write because I’m not positive on the way it’ll turn out or I don’t have the idea fully flushed, why don’t I just commit to writing just to write. Not every story has to be a novel and not every word has to be some life changing, mind altering, and inspiring piece of verbiage that scholars and historians will recite, even though I would like for my words to carry weight and mean something. I would like to stand up for all those other disenfranchised folks who feel like their work goes unnoticed, that they slave away to a system without merit and without equality/justice. No one born into this earth deserves to have any easier of a ride just because of who they born into or what country. Happiness, confidence and a feeling of self-worth shouldn’t only be relegated to those with money in their pockets. The loudness of my voice shouldn’t depend on the depth of my wallet but rather the strength of my vocal chords. If you hear me, it should be because I am louder and outspoken, not because I am paying you to listen to me. But that’s where we are today. You only get heard if your shit plays out and fattens someone else’s pocket. God forbid you try to change the rigged system to try to help other people who were otherwise marginalized and put down. Before 2008, I wouldn’t have a shot at hell at health insurance, with my pre-existing conditions which one doctor once labeled as “anorexic”, with a system that treats the symptoms and not the issue, there’s no way I would have been able to afford a $250.00 monthly premium, with $25.00 co-pays and only a percentage off of my prescriptions. But the president decides to push forward the health insurance reform, and suddenly I receive health insurance and the right to be seen and treated by doctors even though I can’t afford it, and people across the states want to convince you that this is a bad thing, that me receiving free vaccines and preventive health hurts us all in the long run. What kind of bullshit message is that where health is what’s secondary but what’s in your coffer should be the primary concern, and why is that all of a sudden? Because we’re in a global economic crisis in which the rich get richer and more influential while the poor just get crazier and dirtier and more desperate to survive. I was furious when my identity was being stolen and these scumbags in the same city I was living in were trying to take advantage of me for no other reason other than for financial gain. They didn’t know me, they didn’t care to know me, they just looked at my name and address as a source of income, and you know what, part of me deep down, the pathetic part of me that has taken $10.00 out of my mom’s purse so I can get a meal to quiet my starving stomach, or to go to the club and throw down on an eighth that will calm my upset stomach, that part of me empathizes with the fact that there just aren’t a lot of options out there for hard working honest folks, because at the end of the day, they’re all getting taken advantage of. Their tax dollars going to immigrants who want to raise families in our country but do little to provide anything back, and I’m not saying all immigrants are worthless, I am saying that there is a system to become a citizen that is fair and accessible and many people choose not to go that route simply to stay off the radar and not pay taxes, but then have no problem filing for public assistance when they need it. If the 1% had shared some of their wealth and some of us more level headed folk had influence or sway to do things for these people, there would be a lot less public arguing and a lot more private doing. If there was someone who believe me in along the way, really believed in me, I wouldn’t be sitting here on my 45th Monday with no job to go to, no work to work on, and no real goals. My goals are so far away they might as well be for another life time. And yet I’ve worked and committed myself to sacrificing for the greater good and pitching in when others above me didn’t really do the same, and it’s the same fucking tune each time: “We really appreciate the help but we just can’t afford to keep you on.” I’m not asking for a six figure salary. The highest grossing wage I had was fresh out of college at like $1300.00 every other week. After that job laid me off, I bounced, and that paid thirteen an hour. Then I went and sold medicinal cannabis, and that paid me $16.00 an hour. I work working forty hour weeks, maybe more, and they were asking us managers to work overtime after clocking out so we wouldn’t get paid for it. At one point, I calculated that after bringing in something like $50,000.00 for the day and being the sole manager in charge for the night, my take home from that was between .2% and .3%, not two and three percent but point two percent and point three perecent. I was busting my ass making everyone else rich, and when I was worn out and worn down from being overworked and under supported, they let me go. That’s the American dream folks, where you hire someone else to work their ass off for you and then once they’ve done a good job and provided for you, you put them in their place and remind them how low to the ground they really are. Well I am low, brother, like way low. I know suicide runs on my father’s side, as does addiction, so when things get really grim, I have to ward off terrible thoughts of self harm and nothingness, because sometimes, when I am feeling really shitty, like, no love from the girlfriend, all my “friends” are out partying and doing stuff without me, my folks disappointed in me for not having my own place and own career, my nerd friends unavailable to play video games with, and no smoking buddies because I don’t have many, sometimes I think feeling nothing at all might be better than all the disappointment and grief that comes rushing into me. But nothing isn’t better than anything, it’s just nothing. There is no value attached to it, there is nothing that nothing accomplishes. You can’t learn from nothing, you can’t enjoy nothing, you can’t share nothing with someone. I love to share and I love to experience things, two things I couldn’t do if I were nothing. So I’m trying so hard to be something, to be someone. Trying hard to be someone you can look up to and come to when things are rough and not making sense, and while I may not always have the answers and sometimes myself be lost in such a funk that I’m doing more harm than good, I can promise I am only trying to help and only trying to make things better for everyone, not just me. The past two days, I’ve written to self-style entries that contain a lot of what I am feeling and experiencing, before these two days, I don’t think I’d written in weeks or months. This is progress, this is putting one foot in front of the next, and the exact reason as to why I am taking a tolerance break.
I’ve had a lot of time to think about my life and where it’s going. Having just gotten back from nerdfest with my friends James, Drew, and Scott, with newcomber Adam, it only seemed appropriate I do what I know how to do best: smoke weed and get high. Now, normally, I would find myself smoking on some choice chronic herb, some of that medicinal good good that those who find themselves lyrically gifted are rapping about it. I didn’t always smoke weed and I didn’t always think it was a good thing, but, now that the only time I see my girlfriend, who is 22 when I am approaching 30, is when she’s low on her BHO concentrates, which has me questioning my manhood to the nth degree. Every morning I wake up and I wonder if this is the day that she’ll finally break up with me, I wonder if this is the day that my little house of cards comes crashing down. For the longest time I worked and worked and worked. People told me that I had to go to college, I had to get an education, and I had to work. There was no if’s and’s or butt’s about it: if you wanted to be successful in life, and we’re talking facebook successful where you get to share your leisure and fun activities without fear of people judging you for actually enjoying life, there was a formula for success and all you had to do was follow it and not ask questions. Finish up high school and go to college. It didn’t matter what degree you got because shoot you’d eventually find yourself in an area you were destined to be in right? Wrong. Not all of us wake up and realize one fucking day we were meant to be some corporate overlord tasked with cracking the whip on the underlings. Some of us just want to enjoy what little time we have left on this floating rock without worrying about what mark we’ll leave or how much or bank account will have totaled once we hang ‘em up. Honest to god, some of us are so fed up with your bullshit lifestyles being forced down are thoughts that we have to smoke ourselves fucking retarded just so we can experience something other than what you want. It’s ok to be numb, it’s okay to drink yourself into a torpor so strong you don’t even remember hitting your girlfriend or getting behind the wheel, but god forbid a few of us toke up instead of drinking up. But, it’s irrelevant. You all made your case. I smoke weed every day, I’m a fucking loser. I’ve applied to the state, trying to be some kind of analyst for hire, but honestly, I have no interest sitting at some desk all day crunching numbers because someone who gets paid more than me can control what my efforts are wasted on. What if I enjoy my private time and being alone more than I enjoy working in a high paced, pressure laden workplace where I slave away, sacrifice my body and my time, only to be let go or fired when it’s no longer convenient for you to put up with me. I’ve spent my whole life trying to be helpful to people, trying to make everyone else’s path on this chunk of mineral a little easier and a little more tolerable but I swear to you it seems like there are some people who not only eagerly put you down but seem to look forward to it or derive pleasure from it. That’s now how I was raised, that’s not what I was taught growing up, and that’s a way of life I don’t endorse or encourage: if EVERYONE lived as selfishly as those who get away with it, there would be nothing left to take. Just a bunch of open hands and empty coffers. And it worries me and it depresses me that all these people with influence and power could honestly not give a fuck about any of us. They literally care about their bottom line, their bank account, their holiday beach house they get to vacation to while the rest of us dumb schmucks, slaves in white collars, grind away towards some goal or destination we’ll likely never achieve. We have literally decided as a collective community it is better for 1% to get everything and have unchecked power and sway over the rest of us than to question or consider a redistribution of wealth. The 1% has locked onto their earnings with vice-like grips that no ordinary man or woman could hope to pry away; their influence and impact on our culture is so severe that they have us convinced that we live in some kind of dog eat dog world where if I succeed and survive it’s only because you failed and perished. I can only climb to the top on the backs of those poor suckers who didn’t have the courage, or the discipline, or the conviction that I had so fuck them because they’re obviously inferior and weak, right? Is this what we believe as a society? That only the strong and privileged should be heard or allowed to voice their concerns? And it bothers me where we would place blame, where we would draw attention to an incendiary event if only to distract from the real injustices in the world: the American dream is dead and no one gives a fuck. I can work my whole life away, have my money ripped off by some sleazeball in a suit, and while he may rot in a prison somewhere until the day he dies, there is nothing being done to protect or ensure that this kind of thing doesn’t happen again. You have people faking to be other miserable people just to gain a slight advantage or monetary gain. People have literally walked down to the post office pretending to be me or other family members, and while they were successful in transferring some of our mail to their residence, we were unsuccessful in doing anything about it. Contacted the post master, called the police; no one gives a fuck about a household of shady individuals impacting another family’s life through fraud. No one cares about any of these situations or trying to fix them. We’re all so caught up in this mess, it’s like we leap from one kitchen fire to the next, too busy to notice it’s the whole facility on fire, not just the kitchens. We heap blame. Thanks Obama. Thanks guns. Thanks terrorists. Thanks tea party and absent congress. Thanks media for broadcasting and highlighting all the bullshit race related stories that only serve to cause anger and fear in those that watch your programming. Thanks to social media for poking fun at all the mentally disturbed and addicted people out there, all the other losers. I can rest easy knowing if I want to poke fun at some alcoholic or drug dependent adult, all I have to do is go to reddit and look at the front page. Look at those losers engaging in trivial arguments, running into each other and yelling at one another indiscriminately. How we all laugh at the people who are weirder than us, different than us. These miserable fucking people were probably born that way, right? They probably wake up every day, look in the mirror, and tell themselves, “You’re a fucking loser, and I love you just the way you are. Never change.” And how funny it is when they don’t change and continue to display the same erratic behavior and speech. How funny it will be when we lock them up and pay for their “wellbeing” and “upkeep” as they rot away in some state sponsored prison or mental health facility. God it’s so funny, here’s some more money so you can make sure it never stops. We love to lock these problem people away and tell the state it’s their problem, since we don’t know how to deal with them. But they’re people too. They may not own a fortune 500 company, they may not star in the latest Hollywood blockbuster superhero movie. They do, however, wake up every morning, just like you, brought into this world by someone else without ever choosing to be who they were or who they were born to, but it’s so much easier to think of them as some kind of lame, Darwin-award candidate, right? It’s all fun and good until it’s someone you know or love that it’s happening to. I’ve suffered from anxiety my whole life. I never asked for it. I didn’t ask to be abused by my brother who was sexually abused by our neighbor. I didn’t ask to be his target for his anger and his frustration and his confusion. When he came at me with a knife one day after school, threatening to stab me and kill me, I didn’t throw a hissy fit to my father who came home just early enough to stop my brother. I took my grounding, I went to my room, and I thought about what happened. My brother went crazy, acted out violently against me, and I was being punished. I’ve lived my whole life the only way I know how: to do for others as I would have them do to me. Sometimes I fuck up and say something stupid, or mean, or disingenuous. When I was a kid, I remember doing something violent that made me and my friends feel absolutely horrible and ruined any fun we’re having; it was then that I realized I have to control myself, control my emotions, and even though I feel like my girlfriend doesn’t give a fuck about me, that you don’t give a fuck about me, that I could overdose on my valium tonight and no one would even notice til maybe the afternoon, I still feel some sort of obligation or sense of duty. No, I’m not married, no, I am not gainfully employed at some job with a future and a career. I’m stuck at home, living with my parents who are kind enough to feed me and provide a shelter over my head. This, to me, is a complete lack of success and a daily reminder of how “far behind” I am, of all those people posting “we’re expecting!” notices or going to bachelor parties or investing in property. No, all I do is masturbate and smoke tree, occasionally “nerding” out with my friends, which entails sitting around a table, rolling dice. They’re fun stories and I love being a part of them. Part of me wishes I could just transfer the stories from spoken form to written and share them that way, maybe even make a little money off of it, but that same part of me wishes I would just speak my mind and share what I’m really feeling. Well, here’s what I am really feeling: I am a fucking loser with no future and no goals. I want to provide for myself and move out from under my parents’ influence, but with every application sent, and every day that goes by where I don’t hear from an employer, that I don’t hear from my girlfriend, that I don’t hear the universe call out to me and tell me, this is what you’re supposed to do, idiot, not THAT! But the universe is quiet and unassuming. The universe is full of choice and consequence. It wants me to choose my own path, it wants me to take responsibility for my own successes or failures but I am so scared of being a failure, so scared of being that mentally handicapped piece of shit no one wants anything to do with that I am frozen in fear. I question everything, even if writing this will be productive or another long exercise in the futility of my efforts. Well, I have written in what seems like months so at least something positive happened today even if it wasn’t what I planned or had hoped for. All I really want is to be appreciated for what I bring to the table and not looked down upon for being different. Every job I have gone to, my sensitivity, my proneness to panic attacks, is often looked at as a weakness or a pitfall. Oh, he’d be the perfect employee, if only he didn’t do THAT. And that kind of realization is so heartbreaking and debilitating. I work my ass off and it’s never good enough because of how normal I look and how hard I try to act/behave normally, even if I am having a full blown panic attack, it always seems like it’s in my best interest to just shut the fuck up and weather the storm without telling people how painful and excruciating it can be.
Well even though I am semi buzzed, I am sensing some tightness in my wrist so I guess I should wrap this up. I am sorry I am not what you want me to be, I am sorry I don’t have a wife and kids and the house with the white picket fence. I am sorry I am flawed and don’t live up to your standards for what makes a successful human being, not a successful capitalist. Maybe it’s for the best that I am poor as fuck because if I was rich, I probably wouldn’t understand the plight of the poor man just as it took me some years to appreciate the struggles the folks in the mentally fatigued community deal with; these folks often live their whole lives as shut ins or addicts/alcoholics because a life that harmful and that negative, as hard as it may be, is still easier than admitting to those around you who you are and that sometimes you need help. It’s ok if we build handicap ramps to help those in wheel chairs, but god forbid we start considering what we can do to make those folks with problems you can’t see a little easier to deal with. I apologize if this comes off as abrasive or hostile but, once again, I am so fed up with the double standard we have for health that I feel like it would be irresponsible of me to just stand back and watch it all play out. You can vilify me, tell me I’m some kind of burnout junkie. I know I’m a loser, but at least I’m doing something about it.
The Knight and the Princess
She hadn’t run off in the night. He was sure she was going to, especially after his mark revealed itself. There wasn’t much a man could do with a mark as pronounced and obvious, although many folks he had met through his encounters had commented it might be possible to hide it with some hair or a helmet, but he liked it short, and helmets got in the way of his vision, thus impeding his movement, and moving freely was the highest priority for a man of his nature. The armor he wore was light and sleek, designed to stop cheap shots and low-blows, but not really have much of an impact against a heavier attack. Short brown hair was cropped against his skull so that it did not sway within his vision or allow for an enemy to grab hold of and wrestle him to the ground, which he had seen occur to a knight with beautiful locks of hair that adorned his head like a flowing crown. Unfortunately, this knight was shortly thereafter beheaded for being an enemy of the state, but people in remote villages still spoke of his coiffure. Not many had heard of this knight, as he was more of a ronin than a samurai: wandering around looking for purpose and work in a world that was eager to give him neither. So, instead, he took his time getting to know people, sorting the shady from the stalwart, the needy from the needless, and made sure to never stick around too long in one spot for fear of discovery.
The tavern he had been at was attacked by no coincidence; there had been a pack of men dispatched to capture and conceal him so the public need not fear the man with the mark. Really, the only mystery to the knight as he sat there pondering the nights’ events, was why the townsfolk had encircled the man and his lady accomplice when there was no such group of armed men nearby? A hulking mammoth of a man with arms like tree trunks bulging through his underwhelming cloth tunic, swords strapped to his sides like a modern day gunslinger holsters his weapons, only this swordsman did more damage to the shop around him than he did to his intended targets, the knight and the princess. He started to feel frustrated in his situation, in the complete despair of feeling lost and purposeless, but she had come along at just the right time, giving him a reason to stand up and fight when a group of alcohol soaked locals started surrounding her and berating her. Admittedly, she did stand out at a seedy joint like this one, but that gave them no right to badger her and assault her while she tried to enjoy a beverage she paid for, the same as anyone else in that tavern. First it started with wandering eyes, whispers, and people pointing who thought they were being more discreet than they actually were. Next, people started sizing her up, nodding their heads as they agreed that she did in fact look familiar, a sure sign that she was somebody. A good sized, mild mannered young lad was the first to approach her, asking her if he could sit down and join her for a drink or two, his treat, when she cut him off mid speech and asked him nicely if it was ok if she was left alone. Narrowing his eyes as his mug full of ale rested at his side, he tilted his head and slowly brought the drink to his lips, sipping at it while he formulated a response. Not trying to offend anyone, the young lady kept her eyes focused on her own drink in front of her, while a larger man came barreling down the aisle way to push the first bachelor out of the way.
“That ale’s for tulips and daisies! You look more like a rose, amiright!?” he exclaimed as he pushed the first suitor and a hostess out of the way to grab a seat next to the women. She darted up, bringing her cup with her as the men crashed down so hard on the bench, a couple at the end of the table leapt upwards as the bench see-sawed them into the air. Seeing this happen, the pig like man snorted with laughter and took a big gulp of his drink. While backing up, away from the table, the woman bumped into a man leaning against a pillar. “Oh, I’m so sorry about that, will you please forgive me?” She asked the man she bumped into, turning into him to meet his eyes. “Fuck, lass. You went and made me spill my beer all over meself!” He rung his hands in the air and attempted to brush himself off. A bright redness rushed to the woman’s cheeks as she attempted to grab a discarded shirt from the table to clean off the beer soaked man’s shirt. “I’m so sorry about that, here let me,” she reached for the man’s vest, but he slapped her hands away, with an audible swatting noise. “Fuck you, you already gone and mucked it up! Leave me alone or next time it’s your face!” He raised his hand high above his head as if to demonstrate how far he could bring his hand down. A hand reached out and grabbed his wrist. The man covered in beer looked up to see what just grabbed him, when the sudden impact of a fist to his stomach made him lurch forward and sink into the man’s arms who just incapacitated him. The knight slowly lowered the man into a chair as no one really seemed to notice what just happened, the knight telling his friends at the table that he really needed to watch where he was going because of all the low hanging animal’s heads and chandeliers. All three men at the table nodded, looking concerned for their friend, and thought nothing else of it as the knight turned to look at the woman clinging to her mug. He shrugged at her and she flashed a smile, which quickly turned into a look of horror as a clay mug came crashing down over the knight’s head. He grunted and brought a hand instinctively up to his head, but it wasn’t very strong clay and the hazard would be from broken shards piercing his skin, but there didn’t seem to be any. Now the angry beer soaked man exclaimed, “You! You hit me!” The knight backed up, touching shoulders with the woman. “Well, now, to be fair, it was 95% ale and 4% gravity. My fist was just the 1% that put it all in motion and look, you’re fine! No damage done, and now you know never to raise your hand to a lady,” The knight put his hands up in front of him, bracing for a punch or a swing. Instead, the tavern got suspiciously quiet as the main attraction had become this confrontation unfolding before everyone’s eyes. A circle had formed around the table, and people were starting to put down their beverages and cross their arms. Something caught the knight’s attention out of the corner of his eye, and now he was starring at one of the largest men he had ever seen. This man was so impossibly large, the knight questioned how he was even able to fit inside his room as his head seemed to drag against the ceiling. People seemed to get out of his way until it was this giant at the edge of the ring and the knight starring up at him. “How the hell did you get in here, I would have remembered seeing you?” The giant grinned back, “I’m sneaky for my size,” and then he reached down for his weapon with his left hand while his right hand unsheathed a scimitar like sword and brought it down in front of him, slamming into the table. Pushing back with his feet, the knight bounced backwards, dislodging himself and carrying the lady with him so he would back into the crowd of people and shield her from the impact and the crowd itself. Now the giant came rushing forward, swinging the sword in his left hand down in front of him. The knight reacted quickly, shoving the lady to the left and pushing himself off her to the right. This gave the giant a chance to raise both weapons in the air, giving the knight the rush of an impending death blow falling upon him. He instead thrust his arms up, catching the giant’s forearms, and pushing his arms even higher, so the blades stuck in the ceiling. Confused, the giant looked down at the knight, who in turn head-butted the confused enormous monster of a man square on the bridge of the nose. Responding to the blow, the giant brought his hands up to his face, and the knight lunged for the woman, grabbing her by the wrist and leading her outside of the tavern.
They had been riding until they could no longer make out the lights of the city, finding a nice quiet patch of trees off the beaten path to setup camp and get some sleep. In the morning, the knight told himself, I’ll figure out her story and move from there, but tonight, we both need our rest. He looked over at her, with her back turned to him, her obvious curves revealing a formidable backside even through the thickness of the bedroll. Internally, he sighed, knowing nice things like this don’t last. Fully expecting to wake up and find her gone, he decided he was going to keep an eye on her as long as possible. Inside his imaginative mind, he considered her origins, trying to put together what an attractive, intelligent woman was doing sleeping outside in the frigid cold with him, and nothing seemed to be a convenient or observable scenario. Chasing itself in circles, it was only a matter of a few minutes before the knight had worn himself out and the stillness of sleep took him over.
Her phone loves me, Her phone loves me NOT
I hate technology sometimes.
Watching Kung Fu movies to fall asleep…
Man of Tai Chi. Keanu Reeves. Evil Chinese. I can feel my eyes growing heavy already… It’s time to go to bed, and I am ready. Not feelin’ to heady, and my eyes gettin’ a lil heavy.
I guess Keanu is the bad guy.
No more morpheus and the ability to fly.
Nah, unlike Neo, this guy’s meant to die.
Tiger gonna move like a butterfly
Sting like a bee,
Gonna keep swinging until he hits me
Gets me and beats me, no fee
This ass whooping I receive for free
But the story progresses, and Tiger’s fired
Keanu has a bloothooth, not wired.
Tiger keeps winning, he’s obviously not tired
He keeps swinging those fists until he’s hired
This diddy is getting a little silly.
It’s now time for bed, do you think you feel me?
And if you don’t, no worries, you can’t see
All of these things that keep me from being free
The anxiety, the fear, and the cold shoulder
At first they were flaws, but now I’m getting older
And with age comes wisdom and power
Now my flaws will help construct this ivory tower
A place to go, to meditate, to learn
A place for which my heart will always yearn
So peaceful, so quiet, no stress to churn
Yet deep in the quiet, a strong flame does burn
It motivates and lifts my spirits
Knowing no one else dare come near it
You fear what you don’t know, ignorant
Foreign to these lands, straight immigrant
Let me show you the ropes, teach you the ways
After so much exposure, nothing stays
The same. Gravity keeps us grounded, feet planted firmly
Michael Sam ain’t straight so that make him curly?
After having acquiesced to the notion that I will never be anything that I want to be, or do anything that I truly want to do, that I am a victim of my environment, my times, and my genetics, I found quite some peace in being able to just be free, be myself, and let go of all these silly feelings and thoughts that were holding me back. I have longed to be a writer. Dreamt of it, day and night, talked about it, wrote about it, and for some reason, it just doesn’t seem to stick. It seems like a destiny or a journey a planet’s length away, and my chances of launching some kind of rudimentary device to get there intact is slim-to-fucking-zero. But knowing it’s out there, and I’ve had some successful launches to areas nearby, to complete the analogy, I realized, “Who really cares if I fail or succeed?” Honest. No one. If I fail, my friends and family and environment around me will encourage me to continue writing and sharing my warped thoughts. If I succeed, well, holy fuck, why are we reading this dreadful, sob-story? Let’s get to that good sci-fi or fantasy writing that got you all hooked on my style in the first place…
So why am I writing? That’s a fair question, and one I’ve asked myself a lot lately, or actually, why am I NOT writing? Because for the longest time, I didn’t feel like I had anything to share. And anything that I could share would be dismissed as boring or pedantic (I don’t think I’ve ever used that word in a natural sentence. See, maybe I am destined for this) so I’ve naturally kept every thought and inkling to myself out of some irrational fear that this one thing that I might be good at, I’m really not good at. I wasn’t great at most of my other jobs: Jamba Juice, GameStop out of high school, gift wrapper at Shane Co., guy who trained disabled veterans to use computers, bouncer/bar-back, and my last job, the guy who recommended you which strain of weed to get. Technically, I have something published, although since the website it was published for was taken down, I doubt it exists anywhere on the internet anymore. Shame. So the work I did have published is unsearchable, and the website I interned for has moved on to another domain name, basically making it seem like I have no experience writing. But, the honest truth is I have been writing my whole life. I would get bored in physics class, and write a short story about some character I had in a Vampire the Masquerade role-playing game, which I will explain later, if given the chance. Even before that, I was writing stories in my head every day. Stories about how I was dying, or drowning, or suffocating because of anthrax (during a more pronounced panic attack, I was almost certain I had been exposed to anthrax, all thanks to a university class I was taking on toxicology and poisons. Sigh.), and they were all fiction, because none of that happened as evidenced by my still being here. As I’m writing this, I realize how gullible I must be: to believe the same fictitious detailing of my imminent demise over, and over, and over, every day, by the same narrator, in the same panicked tone, and to believe it with certainty. To know that I am dying, and this is the thing that is going to be the thing to kill me, whatever it happens to be that day, yesterday it was probably a combination of not eating, being out and about in waiting rooms all day or on the road waiting in traffic, and then coming home and smoking a copious amount of weed (my medicine) before slamming an entire Chipotle burrito, the only thing I had and did eat all day. When my body is introduced to that foreign energy, it always reacts in a precarious manner, like if you fueled your car and when you tapped the gas, it reacted as if you slammed it down to the floor and goes flying forward; it feels like, over the course of the seventeen years that I’ve been dealing with this, that whenever I introduce food, or caffeine, or a super racy Sativa like Trainwreck, my body is overloaded with energy and my nervous system acts out by overreacting: sweaty palms, accelerated breathing, increased heart rate, I feel nervous, my thoughts begin to turn inwards and I begin to analyze every part of my being and consciousness until I find something wrong and lock onto it. Could be a dry mouth, a sore throat, an aching arm or back, or worst, my chest. Maybe I haven’t drank enough water and I’m dehydrated, so I begin to have a headache. My mind immediately associates the headache with something awful: brain an heurism, stroke, migraine, but really it’s just a mild headache more often than not and it passes with time or some Advil/Ibuprofen. I’ve had to train myself, every day, to recognize these feelings of doom, process that they’re actually incorrect interpretations of what’s going on with my body and what I’m feeling, and finally convince myself, I’m not dying, I’m just having my 10,578th panic attack. Part of me likes to believe there are others out there just like me, with similar problems and similar feelings that they are struggling with every day, just like me. Part of me wants to be that beacon of light, that guide to help those that are lost to the surface, so they can enjoy this beautiful thing called life and not be so reliant on where or how a panic attack is going to hit them, because that’s all I used to worry about. I would panic about getting a panic attack. I still do, who am I kidding, because for me, that is the worst outcome, and I would rather die. It would be less painful, and it would be over, no more panic attacks, no more anticipating the unanticipateable (I know it’s not a word. Deal with it.), just peace, or nothing, which is the opposite of what I have now, which is chaos. There is a war raging within and every day is a control to make sure it doesn’t break through to the surface and make me lock up or freeze up. And the only reason I am writing this is to give a sense to others who may have friends or family who have panic attacks, but have no idea what the hell to do or how to act around them while that’s occurring. I am writing this in the hopes it sheds some light to the plight of our people, and that just because there isn’t an open, visible wound that you can see, touch, smell, taste (please don’t taste wounds), does NOT mean that the person isn’t hurting and needing help (I know, the double negative makes it confusing). On the outside, I am a perfectly healthy twenty-nine year old male; on the inside, I am a scared child who has been running from the shadow of a monster so long he’s forgotten what he’s actually running from and now starting to ask questions and size this beast up. And it hurts when that pain isn’t recognized. Before I got laid off from my last job due to budgetary concerns, we had an open meeting where team members are allowed to suggest things. At this dispensary, they have all these wonderful programs: cancer compassion, AIDS/Chron’s compassion, food closet for the hungry, and I just saw today free cannabis oil for children who suffer from seizures. Lots of good stuff. But I wanted to ask what we were doing as a facility for people with mental health disorders, so I raised my hand, waited my turn, and did, and it offended me so badly that we were willing to discuss the pros and cons of truly trivial protocol procedures, but the topic of mental health wasn’t worthy of more than a “That would be too complicated to verify”. So there you have it. You can’t see it, you can’t touch it or sense it with your worldly perceptions, the person must be faking it or have such a terrible problem, you’re not even sure you’re equipped to deal with it yourself. And that’s where we are in America. We know we have this problem, we know veterans killing themselves back here at home and on the battlefield is a problem, we know “crazy” young people armed with firearms who are going into public places and killing innocent people is a problem, we know those who are so indoctrinated into religious zealotry that they would wish harm and death upon others simply because of their lifestyle is a problem, but more than anything, we want to associate the cause with the symptoms: yeah, he was acting out in class, he wasn’t showing up, he stayed up all night playing video games and not focusing on school, but yeah, if it weren’t for those goddamned easily accessible guns, maybe we would have avoided this problem. Do I have the answer? Fuck no. I have no idea how to treat or deal with every single psychological or mental disorder in the DSM, but I do know exclusion is not the way to go. “Oh, I don’t know anything about this topic and it makes me uncomfortable, so I will just ignore it and discuss something I do know, like guns.” Well, welcome to my world, where I am uncomfortable every day, and in my own skin. Just because I am uncomfortable, should I not be allowed to live? Is my existence of discomfort not worthy? And when I am dealing with this discomfort, is it wrong that I should choose to go about in my own way, given that no one has ever experienced it like I have or ever will? Would it not make sense that I would be ultimate gate keeper to who or what happens in my body since ultimately I am the only one that feels it? People with other mental disorders act out; they hear voices, they see things, they process the world in a different way than you or I, and some instances, they can be dangerous, to themselves or others. I have an incredibly brave friend who was courageous enough to come forward to me and my friends during a nightly role-playing session and tell us he had been diagnosed with schizophrenia, had been committed to a psych ward, and at one point, had tried to kill himself.
It still shocks me to this day because of the type of person I have always perceived him to be. But him telling me that changed everything, because before that, his outlandish behavior and his quirks were just some funny thing for me and the boys to laugh about because of how uncomfortable they made us feel. Needless to say we don’t laugh or mock him anymore, and never would have since he was just our goofy DnD friend who happened to like to hum to himself on occasion, or when he had one soda, he had to have six. What fascinates me even more is last week he ran his first story where he was the story teller and we were the characters in his story/world, and I thought he did a fantastic job, let alone for a first time. Before this revelation, these were just little games we played, a way to pass some time with some friends and have some mutual, non-destructive fun doing it. But now, it is so much more. It’s a chance for this friend to come out of his shell, for me to come out of my shell, and to experience things together that we would never have a chance to experience otherwise. It’s beautiful and I wouldn’t trade our role-playing sessions for anything, as I know how powerful they are in self-discovery for me and my friend. Love you, Drew.
I used to have these visions of being free, doing what I wanted to do. In these visions, I would be in interesting places, talking to interesting people about relevant and fascinating subjects. I wasn’t the center of attention, but I wasn’t so marginalized that my thoughts and feelings were negligent. These dreams would keep me going, keep me writing, keep me on “my grind” but lately, there’s nothing to grind. Any edge I had has been worn down to a dull point, so that instead of piercing through things like I used to, I’m finding myself having to bludgeon my way through obstacles. And I’m tired. I’m worn down. I’m close to giving up and throwing my hands skyward.
I know I don’t do anything all day, at least by your standards. I’m not sitting on a fat account. There are no houses or properties that I will be closing ESCROW on any time soon. Just student-loan debt, cell phone bills, and the daily need to feed myself. I’d rather go without food, to be honest, with my stomach as messed up as it is, and all the stress tearing at my insides making me feel like food falls right through me. But I go through the motions anyways. I think the realization has hit me that I won’t ever be anything. You’ll never read my words and gain inspiration, I’ll never feel that life fulfillment that comes with being good at something. Doubt and anxiety are my companions through it all, and as needy as I may be, I can’t think of two sensations I’ve felt a need for less than those two. I know the seriousness of my situation. I know that if I don’t land a serious job/career here in a little bit, my life will be perma-fucked, and I’ll be lucky to one day have a house to call my own. It’s frustrating to know how wonderful this world could be, how many opportunities could be waiting for me, but with how far away everything seems, I can’t help but admit I’m drowning and there’s no way out but to drown.
Maybe I can swim to safety. Maybe someone will throw me a life preserver. I hate this feeling. I hate this hopeless sensation that is overwhelming me and taking me over. I hate how weak you make me feel and how eagerly you remind me how fucked I am. Everyday I awake to this burning deep in the core of me. This thing that tells me hurry, move, get your ass up and move or these flames will take you over and reduce you to a pile of ash. I’ve been burning for I don’t know how long so maybe a dive into the deep end will do me good. That’s what I keep telling myself through all of this. This is good for you, you need to be reminded how things can be, how things are. And for awhile, it was enough to keep me motivated and positive, keep me pushing and wading through the daily mountain of bullshit you have to wade through just to keep your sanity. But lately, day by day, incidence by incidence, it’s like there is nothing sacred anymore. There is no sure thing, there is no clear path as to what you’re supposed to do or who you’re supposed to become. I used to so clearly know exactly who I wanted to be and how I wanted to be that person, but now, I just feel like I don’t have the tools to do anything that I really want to do.
Let’s say I really did want to write as a profession; where would I even start? Just write, they say. Don’t stop writing. Live, eat, and breathe writing. Don’t put the pen down. But I don’t even know what to write. Does this count? Is this inane rambling good enough to qualify as writing? I honestly don’t think it is. I don’t think anyone cares, honestly, what I have to say or how I say it. I don’t think anyone but me wants to me to succeed at this. Call me selfish. Call me a loser who can’t acknowledge the people supporting him and holding him up. But you know what you won’t do? You won’t tell me how much you enjoyed my writing and how disappointed you are that I don’t write anymore. You won’t tell me that you can’t WAIT for me to end this story I’m writing, or how you need to know how it ends. People tell me I write brilliantly, but, what exactly am I writing? To me, this feels like some pre-pubescent’s high school diary, complaining about how this isn’t working or that person isn’t feeling them. I want to tell myself to get the fuck over it. Who the fuck cares what people do to support or not support your writing. You didn’t start writing because people like it. You didn’t start writing because you wanted people to read what you wrote. You started writing because YOU enjoyed it, and it was a release for you to explain what was going on in that chaotic little head of yours. So why does the need for a plot or story change that? Why can’t I just do this and enjoy it? Why do I have to become successful or known from this? Is it because I fear working a dead end job for the rest of my life? Am i afraid that I’m destined to be a blue collar worker for the rest of my life, surviving in between odd jobs and favors? I know next saturday I’ll be bouncing just because I need income. I know that the degree I earned, that I EARNED, won’t be used during that 8+ hour shift of yelling at co-eds to keep their drinks off arcade games or cleaning puke out of a bathroom stall. All that degree does is remind me of what I should be doing with my life, how much money I should be earning, and how much I gambled with on those to assumptions.
So fuck. My girlfriend wants to tell me about her boss and how they know each other so well that he can finish a story of hers two words in, how they can hang out at a lake where she can grab a dip in the water while he presumably watches and perhaps even joins her. I don’t think she’s cheating on me, I hope she isn’t, but for fuck’s sake, how often do I have to be reminded of how much I don’t know you or how I’m not someone else in her life. I swear to god I feel like I know her ex better than I know myself sometimes. But she’s a sweet girl, and she’s young. She treats me right and she doesn’t have that superficial vibe that I can’t cater to at the moment. Yeah babe I’d love to buy you a house and car to go with that diamond ring but my loan payment is too high and I need enough money to feed myself so, how about some subway instead?
Feelin’ some hopeless
Tryin’ to smoke the dope less
But without the smoke, I feel a mess
An angry monster in distress
It don’t matter, no one cares
From the bottom, its a long flight of stares
Full of self doubting and despair
Like you want to sit down but life’s already pulled that chair
So whatever, who’s got time to sit?
Never enough time to deal with all this shit
And this drama, like a tight shirt that don’t fit
Chokin’ on the stale air feelin like a misfit
Cause freedom tastes so fresh and sweet
Serfdom done ruined my feet,
Blistered broken and ready to bleed
Sometimes I wish you’d just end me
Stop making me suffer through this endless charade
No relief in sight, all night and day
Just pain, which you pay to play
Can’t stand it? That’s okay.
This too shall pass, they say
But then comes the next day, with the same fate
The same problems just a different date
Yet all you want is a little escape
A little relief from the disappointment, the shame
Knowing you’re fucked but what’s to blame?
You, and your lack of fame?
Your inability to conquer and lay claim?
What you want isn’t coming to you
Instead of rolling in green, you drown in the blue
Depression, anxiety, misunderstandings to name a few
Searching for answers, all you need is a clue
A reason, a path, an adventure to start
These cloudy skies will one day part
And the light will you hit you so bright it’s blinding
Embrace the warmth til it’s binding
These days won’t last
Your pain will be your past
So, before you denounce man and become an outcast
Look up to the sky kid, life can be a blast
Anonymous said: It says ask anything. Can I ask for your number? I've read everything on your page and love it, I've also seen some of your other sites and find you for lack of better words you are hot. Maybe we could exchange photos get to know each other?
You sound quite possibly fake :I
I Need This
I need you. An audience. Otherwise I’m just telling stories to myself. Which, don’t get me wrong; I don’t mind them. I think they’re good stories. Entertaining stories. But they’re just glimpses and flashes. A scene here. A character development there. Some kind of possible ending or scene that ties up all the horrible and nasty and awful things to turn them into something beautiful and majestic and wholesome.
But I’ve been broken for the past couple months. It’s a long story and perhaps I’ll tell it another time, but the energy and time involved with that side of life drew me away from this, which is what I need. I can no longer afford to sit around idly and neither invest time or efforts into something I so clearly need to be working on. Some people go their whole lives without receiving a compliment about an action or skill or talent they may possess. I’ve had the direct pleasure of multiple people telling me they ENJOY my writing. They come back for it. They subscribe to my channel, but, this makes me shy somehow, like someday I’ll say something that will make them decide in their head I was nothing to enjoy to begin with. This fear, this anxiety, has driven me my whole life. Everything I do or don’t do is a result of standing up to some fear or acquiescing to it. And it’s exhausting. It really is. To doubt everything you do..
Something, someone is telling me to doubt this no longer. It doesn’t matter if I write about video games or sex or movies/tv shows or quirky interactions I have with people in life or some made up fantasy about people that don’t exist in worlds that aren’t ours, and yet, for a moment, all of these can be interesting and draw you in because, me? Yes. Me. I have to write. No one else is going to do it for me. No one is going to come up to me and tap me on the shoulder and say, “Kid, you should write one of them space drama novels! The youth really loves them these days!” And don’t worry, kids, one of those is already in the works, but really, I have to just remain disciplined and keep at it or else this skill, like so many others, will slip by the way side and I’ll be reduced to someone who never was.
I’ve been very fortunate and blessed to do the things I do, be able to enjoy the things I enjoy, and still be around to share my experiences and hopefully provoke a little bit of thought. So, I need you. It’s gone beyond wanting to write for the fun of it. I am not the same person when I don’t write. I don’t feel any hope or joy getting up; just worry, self-doubting, and self-shaming, which I am great at. None of these things do it for my anymore, though, and I’m ready to start trying at something again.
So many topics to choose from. For awhile I wanted to try my hand at some steamy erotica, but I don’t really have an outlet for it as I wouldn’t feel entirely comfortable sharing it here. I want to go back to The Henchman of The Princess and Her Knight, but I’d have to re-read them to get back in the mood, and quite frankly it’s awkward to re-read my own stuff. I don’t enjoy doing it. I’m so damned critical. But I have to get back in the habit of doing that too.
Since I can’t decide on which old story to work on or were to progress to, I’m going to cop out and basically chronicle my friend James’ role-playing game. The premise is we’re all people chosen to board a giant spaceship with a brand-spanking new technology that’s going to slingshot us across the galaxy/universe to an inhabitable planet like 33 years worth of travel away. So naturally we’re going to be frozen for the trip, the ship is like a giant freezer with thousands of humans, and then start a new life on this planet. For my character, I was thinking he’d be a botanist, cause, well, knowing plant life would be kind of useful on a foreign planet, right? Also, I was thinking he’d bring some plants from earth that would help us self-sustain until we figured out if there was anything we could eat while they’re there. But, even though my character was a botanist, he was mostly going to be masquerading as one. His real character profile is he’s a spy from the USA made to ensure that the planet has a USA influence. No one’s calling my new city/town/planet New Moscow or China II. Unfortunately for me, I didn’t know that weeks prior a fellow player had talked to the game master and arranged to also be a botanist, so, inadvertently I stole his character makeup and forced him into a tech-y role. Sorry Adam. My other comrades were of various backgrounds, mostly from USA, except one, Scott, who always plays “unique” character types.
That’s the setup. Humans signed up to travel into space to setup a new planet, a new way of life, far, far away from the Planet Earth…
Anonymous said: I've seen you around and think you're so cute! Are you single?
I’ve been thinking about this question for a lot. At least a few times a day. I don’t know if it’s the Catfish episodes I’ve been watching lately, the depression, or some kind of spiritual awakening but for me the more I think about this the more confused I am.
So let me simplify. Yes, I am seeing someone. I like this someone very much and would have a hard time walking away from them. I don’t know what our future holds other than a fair amount of uncertainty. She’s emotionally unavailable and I find myself reaching out to other people who actually enjoy communicating with me throughout the day/week and not just an hour before they want to come over and get some. I feel a sense of loyalty and duty to close myself off to others, but it just makes me a shell of a person. She doesn’t ask me how my day is; only wishes me a good one. We chat some in person when we hang out but I can’t help but notice how alone I feel when she’s not around. I find myself checking my phone for messages and am usually disappointed.
So, yes, I am otherwise involved with someone. But the extent of our involvement and extent for which she cares about me is making me doubt myself. Also.. Who notices me around town and then finds this blog? I haven’t posted here much lately.. I don’t even think she reads this. If I wake up tomorrow without a text, should be obvious. Either way, I’m one lost puppy.
My Neat Mess
I don’t remember creating you, and yet there you are. Starring me back in the eye. Try harder, you say. Try at all, you say. But here I am, doubting myself, pacing frantically back and forth inside the cell that is my head. I’m alive, but I’m not living. I’m moving, but I’m not progressing. Stagnation. Stale thoughts. Decay. All the things I fear forming before me.
But I just keep pacing along, waiting for some sign, some miracle, some Manna from Heaven to trickle down and set my world on fire. This slow burn of frustration and futility is starting to burn me out; can you be the spark to jump start my heart? Can you be that bolt of inspiration that sets me free?
I’m begging you. Unleash me upon the world for I grow wary of cages. Look to me and I won’t lead you on. This is the world we live in, and with chivalry dead or dying, you wouldn’t spare a knight his one last smoke, would you? Very well. Let’s do this.
kaliiwashere said: hang in there buddy <3 I'm proud of you for standing up for your hard work! XD
Thanks :D Same to you! Hope you feel better!
Anonymous said: Who has been your most enjoyable sex partner and why? (no names needed)
She’s unselfish. She’s passionate and she’s got stamina from what I imagine involves morning runs with her dog. It’s interesting that you would ask a question that begins with who but doesn’t end or include a name, so, I’m not sure what you want. Maybe a description of her physical features? She’s been my most enjoyable sex partner because she wants me to get off as much as I want her to, and she lets me know when she wants something or when to move a hand from here to there; pretty much all those things I’ve wished past partners have told me because I’ve never owned a female body, let alone yours, and I don’t know how to push your buttons unless you give me several test runs OR some feedback. Hope that answers your question.
Anonymous said: 916.346.6735... Lee ann, from chipotle. :)
Anonymous said: How is life?
You know, it has it’s ups and it’s downs. More often than not I’m confused, but I get along. Not really where I stand, which is a horrible feeling, but I know when one door closes, another opens, and so forth so, I’m just trying to keep busy, keep my head down and just power through this next few weeks til things become a little clearer. How’s yours?