White (And the Plot to Vanquish the Worm)

My room is hideous. I wouldn't invite a pig over. I quit smoking. I have no craving for it what-so-ever. I have a strong urge to fly. But I've got nowhere to fly to. I'm hungry. It's raining. It's nice when it rains in the summer. It reminds me of when I was younger and I'd play in the woods behind my house. The air would begin to hiss because the little rain drops are all falling into the woods with me and hitting all the leaves. My mother or father would usually call me in if it started raining so I only had a little bit of time. But I remember slinking back up to the house because I liked the rain and I liked getting soaked. I started taking Prozac yesterday. The effects have been...
Well, I can't really say.
I think I've had ups and downs. But i can't exactly attribute that to the medicine. I've read that it may take up to a month or longer for the desired effects to begin. I can't wait that long. I need something to change. I want to be happier, more productive with my time, friendlier, healthier. I want all these things but I can't wait that long. Maybe I'll get a muffin. Maybe I'll finish writing this post and reward myself with a muffin.

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5 4st f64nd the n40ber 36c2 6n the c60*4ter.
(I just found the number lock on the computer.)

What typically happens next is I scramble to the next idea that I can secrete onto the page. A lot of people take this drug. It's a brain drug so it's not uncommon I would have my reservations about it. I mean, it exists merely to change my brain. I don't want to be medicated. A lot of people are prescribed medication just like this one. I hear that it's over-prescribed, like not everybody who takes it needs it. I'm not completely sure I need it. Maybe I do, but I think I have this savior idea of what it will do for me (see above). Like the über-drug. Two days ago I didn't want to take it because I honestly thought the change would be so drastic I would be something or someone I don't want to be. But who knows what I want anymore.

When I was little, I told myself, "When I grow up, I'm gonna be somebody."
So what did you become?
I dunno, I guess I should have been more specific.

It's over-prescribed. People want attention. I want attention. But not attention to my problems. I want attention to what I can do. I want attention to my writing, my ideas, my art. What use is it to bring attention to my medication? How does that help somebody? Perhaps if somebody needed help as well. I would help them. That would be relevant to my medication. Otherwise, fuck off. Where was I..........................................................................
Oh, my art. No. That wasn't where I was....................................

So a lot of people take this medication right? I don't want to be that guy. The one that talks my ear off about how I take this and I take that. For those of you just tuning in, yeah, those people exist. And they aren't favored in this or any other social tier. On the same token, I feel like absolutely nobody wants to hear it anymore. It, being anything slightly pessimistic or depressing that may come from my mouth or my pituitary glands. Why do I care? Why do I feel this way? Is it because I do want to draw attention to my medication? Oh dear, have I imploded upon myself? Have I exploded upon my own grenade? Well hopefully the über-drug treats 3rd degree burns.

A Love Supreme, A Love Supreme

When I first became interested in writing, I read interviews with writers who said they often pulled ideas from experiences in life. I remember thinking nothing in my life was ever noteworthy. I must've been crazy to think that none of this is noteworthy, that none of you ever deserved mention in any of my stories. My new story Russo is riddled with these people and events. The other night I was feeling quite prolific and decided to write down a few.

In my Junior year, Me and my friends Kyle and Kevin drove around our high school racetrack in a van listening to Number of the Beast by Iron Maiden. They put us in in-school detention. This, among other reasons, leads me to wonder why it is I was ever intimidated by the high school administration.

When I was around 11, a boy named Brandon Campbell lived up the street from me. His family was poor. Brandon, along with this siblings were delinquent to put it short. I've grown up since then, and I've seen delinquent behavior. This family was ahead of the curb. I had an odd relationship with Brandon. He would tease me one day, calling me names, he would try to get in fights with me, but the next day would try being my friend. Fuckin' Crazy, I'm thinkin'. At the bottom of where his road and my road connected in the neighborhood there was a field where we'd play football. I remember my friend Adam, who lived next door to me, invited me down the street to play. I asked if Brandon was there and he said yes. We got on our bikes and rode down the street to play. Brandon was in the middle of the street, sitting, talking to some of the other kids and laughing with this grisly, cigarette-smoking, 12-year old laugh. It's funny what sticks with you in life. I can hear that laugh perfectly in my ears now as I'd heard it ten years before. Anyway, back to the story. I'm riding with Adam and telling him about Brandon. I'm fed up with the guy, I tell him. I look up and see Brandon sitting about ten yards away from me. I get the idea to race at him with my bike as fast as I can and hit him. I didn't know what would happen. I knew that I would probably hurt him and that's all I wanted. So, I'm barreling at the guy, hard pressed to start this here and now, and he notices me coming at him. Right as I'm about to hit him I chicken out. He jumps out of the way and I fly clean past him. I ride back around and he's cursing and huffing and puffing and I think he's ready to fight. I laugh and tell him I was just joking. His friends calm him down and I never tell him or Adam or anyone what I was thinking. I'm not even sure exactly what I was thinking. They left our neighborhood when I entered highschool. That summer a boy fell asleep and choked on his own vomit in Brandon's bedroom upstairs. I heard they moved to a townhouse close to the mall and I never saw him again.

I left work today and went over to the McDonald's across the street to grab a buck double. Before I ordered I headed to the restroom because I hadn't gone when I left work and knew I had an hour drive ahead of me.

"And while I waited he seemed to stare at me out of the gleaming panel - stare with that wide and immense stare embracing, condemning, loathing all the universe. I seemed to hear the whispered cry, 'The horror! The horror!'".

Ok, so it wasn't Vietnam. Just a little piss on the seat and somebody's forgetful nature to flush. But with that I thought of whoever's job it was to clean it. The mental hurdles this person had to make. To clean up another person's filth, day after day. To face that task without fear. Without hesitation. It's amazing. I wouldn't ever be caught dead doing it, mind you. Though, if you caught me dead scrubbing a toilet seat I think you should call the Enquirer.

Unresolved Matters, But Nobody is Ever Really Caught Up

Ten minutes ago I tied one end of a piece of rainbow colored yarn to a key and the other end to a wire in my truck. If I'd done this sooner, My step-father wouldn't owe the towing company $150.00. Honestly, if I'd known he was paying for the guy to get my keys out I'd have found another way. I assumed he just had the right friends. What is about to follow has nothing to do with that...

I'm always trying to find something to hate you for.
Doubting.
Fatherless.
We are guilty of bigotry,
We rape your name with our tongues because it brings us solace, father.
But as all naїveté lets us do,
We are forgiven when we cry out,
Please help us.
As if your ear would bring us any comfort.
As if this world could ever yield such fruits.
Only it's cancerous routines.
Day in and day out.
Forever contemplating where I would stand if you hadn't left me with such a heavy heart.
For my Mother
For my Brother
And today wouldn't be the last.
Nor tomorrow nor any day after
that I should breath or speak or touch or see.
Or laugh or cry or think or love.
That you shouldn't impede such restful nights, father.
That without you I should live any life beyond those thirteen years.
That without you I should live any life beyond these thirty-eight years.

I wrote that about thirty minutes ago. I always think of Sylvia Plath when I write something this close. It's obvious that her less delicate style has some influence on me. I hate that I love her so much. Some writers don't believe this sort of writing should be publicized. Instead, they make it cryptic. They play it close to home but write in a way that the casual reader would never suspect a tragedy. I would like to cite the work of Elizabeth Bishop, particularly her work In the Waiting Room. I say,

Why not both?

In a poem, I feel the words are what move a reader. Whether it moves them to anger or tears and whether blunt or tactful, I think the reader will get what the need from the work.

We Are Humble Factory

I need medication. Definitely. I can't help but let these people get to me. They influence me to much. I'm talking about the customers. These dumb shits that think they're entitled to something. They think it's OK to yell out hey! when I'm with someone already. Or they think I'm going to be copacetic with them coming in right before the store closes to fix their stolen computer. It's not alright. I'm not alright with it. This shouldn't be my job. This shouldn't be any body's job. Nobody should be paid to work with these dumb assholes. These incompetent jerk-offs who want me to wipe their asses with my nose.

Angry has three syllables when I'm angry.

I'm posting from someone elses computer tonight. At my girlfriend's place specifically. It's kind of cool. Like when a celebrity comes to your hometown to speak or make some other such appearance. Except I'm not a celebrity. And nobody really cares where I am...

I quit smoking cigarettes two months ago. But today I broke down and bought a pack at the gas station on the way to work. I only smoked two. One after I left the gas station and another just before I got to work. The first one felt good. It felt great. It felt like all my problems were melting off. The second one wasn't the same. My throat hurt and I got a crazy headrush. I felt sick and didn't finish it. At a stoplight, I waved over a bum on the side of the road holding up a cardboard pizza box lid. I asked if he smoked and he gave me a look like I was speaking some insane language he didn't understand. But when I showed him the pack of cigarettes he said,

Hell yeah, man!

I passed him the pack and told him I was quitting, and he was actually doing me a favor.

Real Groovy...

Yeah, real groovy thing addiction is and not being in control of your own body. Fuck...

Brought to You by the Good Folks At...

Ugh. I feel disgusting. I fell asleep for about an hour while watching TV earlier and now I feel like dirt. Add to that a feeling that certain people are disappointed/upset with me and an element of being broke as hell. I don't mean to do these things. I mean, I'm trying.

Today, I woke up late for work. I actually slept in about thirty minutes late and thought:

"What's it gonna hurt? They aren't gonna fire me for being late 15 minutes before the store even opens for an eight hour shift."

Well, I actually arrived to work on time. I don't know how I feel about that one. When I got to work I immediately felt sick. I've just been so tired lately. I need to be re-energized. I need a vacation. My boss told me I needed one. He recommended somewhere South of the Border. Maybe Mexico. He spent a few days in Guatemala last year, volunteered building stoves for the poor. I think I could do that. Making stoves in Mexico sounds good. I'd build them during the day, sweating and burning in the sun, then at night I'd drink beer and watch the coyotes. I'd like that.

My girlfriend doesn't like Superman. I don't understand it. Superman is something that transcends so much. It plays on such a universal desire. Anyone who has ever wanted someone to stand up for what's right. Someone to stand up for them. Even now, I'm 21 years old and when I see someone in the bottom right-hand corner of the page saying...

Look, up in the sky!

I get goosebumps, because I know when I turn the page he'll be there, saving the day. Doing what's right. It's such a simple thing, but it hits me so hard I can't help but get excited when I turn the page. I think people have this idea of Superman as goofy, with the red and blue tights. But I think it's amazing that the red and blues have survived for so long. I mean, that's an original superhero concept. Tights and underwear on the outside. And such bold colors.
My girlfriend likes Batman. But to me, they're almost the same character. Only, one's an alien. Maybe one could give it to Bruce that he went through some tough times to get where he's at, but so did Superman.

I guess I'm just saying I appreciate Superman. And Batman.

About Batman, the other night before dinner, we stopped at a print/book shop on Broad St. It's a great little shop with comics, books, prints, posters and just various other collectables. I found two Batman trades, The Black Glove and Batman:R.I.P for $4.00! AMAZING. These books go for about $15 or $18 each, retail and I can get them both for $8! ugh, I wish I had money. So, I hid the books behind some other books on the shelf for me to come back to. Made a quick little note in my phone so I could find them again and left. Now we play the waiting game. I hope they're still there. Gonna be so disappointed in my hiding skills if they're gone in a few days.

Valentine's Day, 2011

"Today I hit the thrift shop looking for bait. I'd recently decided to take up fly fishing and thought the thrift shop was as good as any place to start looking for a catch. So I walk in, past those hip shoulder-padded lady-suits and Acapulco shirts to the old lady at the desk. I ask her what she recommends for fly fishing and she points me to a back door with a bright glowing red exit sign. Just beyond is the a great big blue dumpster. I tell her I'll sleep on it, I've always been more of a rodeo man."

That was today, Valentine's day. I didn't think it would happen this year to be honest. Last Monday, I made reservations at a place called Avenue 805. Typically, this restaurant boast a deal they call "Cheap Date Night" on Mondays and Tuesdays. Apparently, this deal isn't available on Valentines Day. Instead, they have a different deal for $10 more.

Lately, I've made a habit of leaving restaurants before I order. I've done it a handful of times and everytime I tell the waitress I'm not interested and am leaving.

So tonight, when me and my date found out about this "Valentine's Dinner Special" I was more or less dissappointed. The last thing I was drop the big Not Interested Sign on another waitress (which I recently found out they aren't called anymore, they're referred to as "servers" like that's any different AND if your income relies on how much I tip you, I'm gonna call you what I want,) but I decided I'm not confined to socially accepted behaviors. I shouldn't have to sit here and pay $10 more for entrees, appetizers and desserts that I don't like.

Oh, and I've never wanted to burn every vineyard in the world like I did when I heard what the waitress was offering. I don't care about the crazy Italian words coming out of your mouth.

Recipe for a Dream

1 Cup of Random Thoughts
1 Cup of Reminiscences of the Day
1/4 Cup of Memories from the Past
1 Cup of Love
1/2 Cup of Friendships, Relationships and all those ships...

Let these boil in a large pot. Add songs you heard during the day, things you saw, to taste. Serving is for two.