I've been on more floors than wax

*Note; This, like just about everything I do, is unfinished. It's a chapter in a book I abandoned writing called "One day this will all seem funny." It was basically about this kid and him moving to college, about 63 pages in a realized it had noooooo point what so ever, so i made the book a journal and started a new book idea, it's called "Chainsaws" and been so much fun so far, but that beside the point

I've been busy with stand up and writing jokes but i still care about my loyal readers (all 3 of you) and you guys will get a kick out of this; pretty shitty in terms of prose but ehhh...idk..enjoy





Let me start this chapter by saying my family, on both sides, has a history of substance abuse, I've got more alcoholic cousins and uncles than the Kennedys. I have an uncle in a blue collar rehab clinic in Milwaukee and a cousin who got arrested for getting busted with a half pound of grass in the mid nineties who still hasn’t got back on his feet (He lives in a one bed room apartment with his sister and her boyfriend. And by “apartment” I mean hotel and by “live” I mean survive.) Almost all of my family smokes pot casually and the few who don't drink pretty heavily. Not to give you the impression that we are a family of addicts and nere-do wells. The majority of us live the Disney channel special American dream, we just enjoy the good life, and our definition of said good life is being sufficently stoned, sauced or medicated. That being said, I was reluctant to try cocaine.
Cory Doyle, a stunning dame and possibly the most beautiful blonde I'd ever seen in real life, invited me to the monthly “White light.” party she threw in her apartment. I had no idea what a white light party even was, but if Corey Doyle would of invited me to a “ass juice and coffee” party I would of jumped at the opportunity.
“Oh, I wouldn’t miss it for the world sugar titties.” I told her.
“Oh, you better not handsome.” She laughed as she walked off with her roommate Emily, a slightly less stunning blonde, and this tall gay guy who seemed to shadow them around everywhere.
Cory, Emily and I shared an odd sense of humor. It was refreshing to finally meet a girl other than Alissa who I could call rather sexist names like “sugar titties” or “Ms. Sweet rump.” without getting them angry or weirded out or worst of all been written off as “that funny oddball kid who I'd never have a meaningful conversation with.” I even referred to Emily as my “next rape victim” in an elevator one day and she just laughed it off. I thought of our exchanges as flirting, but for all I know they could have thought I was a creep. I had kissed Cory once, she came to our room to score one Saturday, upon opening the door she gave me seemly committed hug and before exiting she gave me a fourth grade style kiss, although I could classify it more as a “I'm so happy we have weed now.” celebratory peck. I vaguely recall on a different occasion tiring to have a full on make out session with her at one of the barb boys parties. I was rejected , and like most drunken defeats my subconscious blocked it out. But even in rejecting my liquor induced advances she still choose to sit next to me and finished the conversation my penis had rudely interrupted.
Later that day I got a text from Cory saying she was going to stop by to pick up my donation for the party, I assumed that I was donating alcohol, so the customary five bucks would cover my share. I looked in my wallet and saw that I only had two twenty dollar bills. I'd need change.
“Randy? You have change for a twenty?” I knocked on his already open door.
“Uh..yeah.” Randy told me. He then looked in his desk drawer and pulled out a tin box where he kept his cash. The box had separated compartments
for bills with different face values like a cash register, I guess in a way it was a perverse, cash register. Randy gave me 4 five dollar bills.
“Need change to get another hooker?” Randy jokingly asked.
“You know just as well as I do no prostitute in the south loop trusts me.” I say, we share a laugh and I continue with “But yeah, you know that Corey girl? The blonde?”
“Yeah Hannah Montana. Whats up?” Randy called her Hannah Montana because he thought she looked like the God forsaken teen sensation of the same name.
“Well she invited me to a party in her room this Friday and she's coming over for my donation for alcohol, she's probably getting a lot if she's coming over to get money 4 days in advance.”
Randy looked up at me from his desk chair. He gave me this confused look
That he often gave me when I said something ignorant or naïve.
“Dude I'm pretty sure she isn’t coming over for a liquor run.”
I look at Randy curiously and he continues;
“Yeah I knew a guy last year who used to date her, they used to have coke parties and shit...” Randy would go on but I had already zoned out.
The second Randy mentioned cocaine the term “white light” begin to make sense. She was throwing a blow party, she was going to turn her room into Studio 54 and I was contributing. I had limited knowledge with cocaine but I knew it was expensive and if I gave her 5 bones she'd think I was cheap sake. I was pretty cheap, but with a girl as high profile as Cory Doyle I'd have dig deep, I'd have????______????? Ten dollars should do it.
“Hmmm, she did say that it was a white light party.”
“Well there you go. Yeah dude I went to a few last year and.” Randy paused to snicker. He looked at the floor as if was remising. And what a sweet memory to reflect on, a gathering of privileged youths snorting Daddy's weekly allowance. Randy snapped out of his less than wholesome daydream to tell me that the parties we a lot of fun for the first hour or so.
“Around hour two, once the blow is all gone, you start the comedown. That's when you feel like total shit.”
Feeling like a shit bag wasn’t that new to me. I was pound of myself maybe a total of 4 hours a week, the other???______??? I was shaking my head and cursing my actions. But I still felt I needed more info.
“Total Shit, like how? We talking the normal frustration and mild loathing here? Or...what?” I said walking into the room a little more.
“Its like, “ he sighed and went on. “The only thing as bad as the come down is how good the high itself feels ya know? You go from 100 to negative 100, from on top of a mountain to fucking...I don’t know, New Orleans. Post Katrina.”
“It makes you feel super guilty, like imagine if you inadvertently killed your mom.” Michelle said from underneath Randy's bed cover. I didn’t even know she was in the room. This bitch was sneaky.
“Yeah and a bus of orphans and boat of puppies.” Randy concluded.
“Jesus H. Garcia.” I said looking at my handful of money. I was intrigued. Not by the promise of cationic guilt. But by the idea that there was a feeling out there equal to the opposite of accidently killing my mother. What a high.
“Do you know anywhere to get any Randy?” I asked in the tone a cop would have in an interrogation. If I was to go to this white light party I'd need experience. Practice, powder practice. You don't send a rookie to the super bowl. You don't send a virgin to an orgy.
“Not officially but I know Jerome across the hall as a pretty big private stash, he might throw you some.”
Jerome from 603 had been in our room a few times to talk shop with day.
I knew the guys in 603 were pretty big pot heads. I hung out with this guy Tyler from that room a few times, and I had run into their Asian roommate Matthew by the vending machines one night. I loaned him a dollar, still haven’t got it back to this day.
“Jerome huh? Think he'll let some go to me?” I asked.
“Maybe dude, he owes me favor anyway. Tell him it's for me.”
I thanked Randy and walked out. I thought about Jerome for a minute.. He was an interesting character in many rights. He was the only white man I ever met named Jerome. He was about five feet tall and walked with a limp. His girlfriend came over once to borrow one of Randy's books. Randy asked her where Jerome was and she explains that he was at the hospital for monthly physical therapy. She went on to explain that as a kid Jerome spent way to much time on his big wheel and it slowed his growth and gave him a pretty bad case of scoliosis. His family had been in a class action lawsuit with Fisher-price for the better part of 18 years. There were apparently file cabinets upon file cabin ants of cases from families claiming that riding big wheel had caused permanent damage to children. I owned a big wheel. I was short. I had a light case of scoliosis. I wonder?

Dried up human juice

All I want to hear was the roar of the train. I want to hear the metallic scream of the train, I want to sit down, next to a stinky bum or a hipster or next to no one at all, I want sit on the train and head toward 95th street, get off at Harrison walk the block and a half to my apartment, get on the elevator to the 21st floor, go to my room and lay down. I just want to go home, and lay the fuck down. It's 3 in the morning, or maybe earlier, I don’t know. I'm not going to bother to check my phone for the time, I'm about 40 feet under ground, and virgin mobile's signal couldn’t find me with Sherlock Holmes on the case. My face hurts real bad and the bridge of my nose is gashed and leaking, my inner lip is too. My knuckles are numb from the cold and the wild swinging. I got into a fight a few hours ago. It was at a party at one of my good friends homes in Wicker Park. I was about 14 beers into a nice drunk, a happy drunk, I was dancing, but not really dancing, just kind of moving, but fuck it I was feeling nice. The skanks were in rare form tonight, smiling and laughing and looking great. Girls sat on my lap and tried to get me to dance with them, but I had to decline, I cant dance even if dancing nowadays has been reduced to rubbing my penis on your thighs and back. Some people think of dancing like a test, a test to see how much chemistry two people have. It can even be an examination of someone’s sexual prowess, but I can fuck, what I cant do the jerk or the nerd or the whatever the shit. So I don't dance with anyone. Anyway, I spotted a girl in the crowd and took her upstairs to get her drunk and talk about her insecurities and her hometown and her favorite movie and maybe get a little make out action. We hold hands and I lead her up the stairs, she's grinning when I turn around to look at her and grin makes me grin and then we are just two grinning fools. There is a dude following her, a gay dude and he's grinning to. Two guys and one girl is a gangbang, two girls one guy is a threesome, but what’s one straight dude, one gay dude and a girl, besides something I'm not interested in? This worries me a bit because gay guys are notorious cock blocks. The list goes, in order of cocks blocked throughout history, Ugly Friend, Gay Friend, Ex-boyfriend. But it doesn’t matter because he's skipping up the stairs right behind us so I'll just have to make the best of it. We end up sitting down on the bed in the guest room, the dude knows better so he takes a seat in the chair in corner and pretends to text. We talked about some shit, it was kind of cool. She goes to the Art Institute and she's in the Asian Student organization, it's funny because she isn’t Asian at all. After a while one of my friends barges in the room all wide eyed. His pupils are bouncing around like ping pong balls and he cant seem to stop licking his the corner of his mouth. He's on cocaine, no doubt about it. It ain’t long before he's talking about licking things, inappropriate things civilized people consider sacred . Now I know the dumb ass so I'm just laughing, but they don't think this raving fiend is too funny, the girl gives me a kiss on the cheek and they fly out of that room like freed slaves. Now its just me and this drug abuser, he says he'll sell me a line for five dollars, I don't pay for cocaine thou, never have, never will, unless I win the lotto. After awhile his sporadic conversation topics and semi-demonic eye contact gets the best of me and I bail too. Walking back down the stairs I notice, the dancing stopped and the crowd pushed all on one side. It's easy to tell a crowd that’s looking at a fight, they don't blink, and all the girls look like they smell something bad. There's camera phones out, yeah someone’s getting beat up. I look at the pit and another friend of mine as well as the home owner are fighting four dudes who I've never seen before, the dude who owns the house is big, and worse than that he's strong and worse that its his property and he's been drinking rum. He is wrecking two of the strangers, you can almost her the dull smacking sounds of the punches over the music. My other friend is an old high school wrestler and he is slamming and rolling around with his opponent. That looks fun, I thought, well the beer in my gut thought and before I knew it I was pushing through the crowd trying to lead a hand to a few friends in need. Now, before you go off thinking I'm some bad ass cowboy, I'm defiantly not. I haven’t been in too many fights and I haven’t won a single one. I used to wrestle in high school, and I would of made it to state but this ginger kid beat me in the preliminaries. But these dudes weren’t ginger, and they didn’t look too tough. Usually in this situation I'd grab a weapon, a bottle or pan or some kids crutches I just wanted to go home, and lay the fuck down. But something in my belly was tensing me up into a testorone fueled frenzy. I felt muscles I didn’t know I had, and all the rage for every little insignificant annoyance got channeled in my fists, every dropped call, every lost bus pass, every elevator I didn’t make, every time I lost at Street Fighter, 20 years worth of inconvenience got sent to this one punch that soared like a firework and exploded into the back of the tallest dudes head. Now, the skull is infinitely stronger than the knuckles, so I don’t recommend throwing punches at the back of heads. He took two steps forward and grabbed the back of his head with both hands. Oh, fuck, what have I done, this guys had at least a foot and a half on me and he was bulky, lean, wouldn’t surprise me if he played basketball or some shit. I panicked, then I looked toward the massive crowd and there unblinking eyes, they were surprised this little shit had the nerve to standup to a giant like this dude, David vs. Goliath I thought, then I thought about how if David didn’t have the slingshot, Goliath would of ate David's bony ass up. Before long I found myself jumping up and wrapping my arms around the big faggots neck. My feet hit the ground again and my face turned from enraged to deeply panicked. From “Fuck this dude.” to “Oh shit, I fucking dead.” I get vicious and give him some knees to the spine, he's confused and I know how to capitalize on confusion. My forearms tense and constrict his neck, he's getting scared. I think about everyone watching, including the girl and the gay dude, I can't lose in front or her. I imagine the dude telling her; “She, he got a coke head friend, he can't fight And he got a little bitty dick. He's probably gay too.” Fuck that, I think, as I starting sticking the dude in the face with my right hand while my left arm keeps the death grip. My punches light up the side of his face and ear, I know how it feels to be hit in the ears and that ring that comes after it and I almost feel sorry....

To be continued

The inbetween thoughts

Somewhere, there is an open road. With gold rolling plains that spread for miles on both sides. It’s smells sweet there. It smells like home or it smells like a lover on your pillow or it smells like gyros and fries. This road is smooth, the asphalt is bouncy and there no pot holes. The wind blows and it crawls up your body, through your hair (weave haha) and it makes you smile, not because it tickles but because
it makes sense to smile. You are alone but you know there is a furious love on all sides. In this field no need for a god or punishment. There is only your existence. The way this wind hits the tall grass of the field, it makes it sound like applause. You are the core, the heart of this world. And everything you say causes the wind to blow, and the grain to applaud you. You words are dancing and golden. Then a man with a green flannel shirt emerges from the stalks of corn, or wheat or whatever the fuck is growing in this field
He is wielding an axe, and he is jerking off.
"Who the fuck....calm down homie. What….” you panic and suddenly your dancing golden words fall out of your mouth and turn to marbles The ran begins to run after you, beating his dick without remorse, swinging that axe around.
You take off like…like…idk a monkey escape that crazy lady who lived with those apes in Nigeria. You considering heading into the fields, but then decide against it, there may be more maniacs, dicks in hand.
So you run, your feet hurt and you wheeze and sweat and think about everything

You think about that one time your dad made you pick that dead squirrel up with a shovel when you were eight. you think about that squirrel and its bulging eye and the blood droplets that dried and clumped to its matted fur.
you think about the saddest and happiest moments of your life.
you think about the one person who could of changed your life.
The poorly dressed sex fiend gaining on you, this looks like it
Suddenly, a gnome on a motorcycle hops out of the sweet smelling fields.


He urges you to get on, he isn’t beating off, so you do.
The two of you drive off into the sunset, you can see where the field ends, after the field there are mountains, than an ocean than a tower
The gnome glances back at you
and says;



"Don't be scared. This will only get worse before it gets better."


and then you know your adventure has started, and a marvelous adventure it will be

Hey Doood

Do you remember, a time when the Prinny Squad was all you needed?

Fangs

I woke up one Sunday morning to find my good friend Casey had left 26 beers in my refrigerator, apparently he split in the middle of the night because his girlfriend fell down some stairs, or something...So he couldn't drink the remainder of the pack. Like a good, empathic friend, I start drinking the beers. And the rest is history......

LadyBoy 2 on the way, this time there will be a script and won't be so janky.

LADYBOY from FLY KITE on Vimeo.

And as if you didn't know already

Shout out to Clark over at Fly Kite

http://flyingmykite.com/

Part Bear, Part Boy. All Beast..

The red cup I hold vibrates against the brown of my skin and the yellow of my belly. I look down to my poking, bulbous stomach, I am getting fat. Skinny arms, poofy hair, legs, chest, eyes, lips, knees, I am the boy Frankenstein. All of my parts seem like there were stolen from the corpses of several different men, maybe even a woman or two. There is a girl with sandy brown hair dancing with her friends, she thinks I’m cute. There is another girl with some tall hipster following her around, she is beautiful and she shoots me an inviting smile, but tonight will not be our night. I haven’t the words tonight, I seldom do, but tonight I am dried out. A kid I know pats me on the back and shakes me, “Adam you look fucked up.” He is grinning waiting for me to say something funny.
“Sure am.” I tell him this, and he can smell the lie on me. His grin withdraws and so does he, into the jumping, neon crowd. I just want to sit down, sit with my drink, maybe pull someone into a conversation about bats or movies or hot girls. I wander to the bath room, there is a long line. Girls enter the bathroom in groups of 3, two dudes go in side together and everyone in line points and snickers. They didn’t look gay, and that’s what made it funny. A drunk girl strikes up conversation with me, we talk about how much fun the party is. She is cute and would probably give me her number, but I just want to sit down. The two non-homosexual fags exit the bathroom and I cut 5 people. Before I close the door I look back and them and give an empathetic shrug, I feel like a jerk, kinda. The wooden door of he shitter muffles the music, thank God. I look at myself in the mirror, I look as janky as ever. Bags round my eyes, the hovering light shows me my acne. I’m making a face that implies I’m bored or mad or unapproachable. Sometimes I hate my face, but then again sometimes I hate everything. I sit on the toilet and think about the vodka and red bull in the Solo cup, I drink the rest and throw the cup in the sir, it lands in the bath tub.
“Do I have to pee?” I speak to the shower curtain and ceiling fan and tooth paste. I take my wee-wee out and shake it like I’m trying to get money out of it. No pee pee. I spit in the toilet and watch my saliva circle the bowl like a shark. I wish I could transform into a shark, or anything. I think about how gnarly it would be to go in the bathroom and janky brown boy and emerge form the water closet a gigantic brown bear. I thought about how cool it would be if no one noticed, and I kept dancing and swaying and smiling at pretty girls. Party bear. Party animal. The door is being knocked on a dude tells me to hurry up and calls me a jackass. Party bear will not tolerate this. I flush the toilet and give myself one last glance in the mirror, vanity doesn’t suit someone as weird as me so I smile and rush out stepping on the guys foot purposely. I’m smiling on the dance floor. I’m smiling because the world, my slice of the world at least, isn’t terrible. I smile because they are contagious, I smile because I hope that my smile spreads like a forest fire. Forest fires affect bears, but not party bear. This place, this house is alive with something I don’t want to kill myself trying to explain. I’ve spent many nights jumping up and down to songs I don’t know and many morning hunched over toilets regretting each and every sin. Fuck, youth is weird. Sometimes, I’m ok, Sometime I aint. But tonight vibrates against my skin and inside my chest and around my hat. The girl I came here with smiles and winks at me, but I don’t care. Girls come and go and get lost in the stars. Fuck them, tonight will be about chasing this vibration. Not pussy, not even love.

What will you leave this town with?

My Brother is going to have a kid. By “brother” I mean my oldest friend and closet thing I have to a sibling. And by “going to have a kid” I mean of course he got a lady pregnant who is bearing the child, Brother himself is not having the baby. (If a man got pregnant there would only be three possible exits for the child to escape the man-womb, Orally, bursting out of the stomach like in the movie “Aliens” or through the pee hole. Fuck the whole lot of that right?) I have limited experience with babies but I know that taking care of a baby is like taking care of a friend who is way too wasted. Babies scream nonsense at the top of their lungs and get aggravated when you cant understand the “Agrhhhhrhhrtop.” means “Hey, can you give me some socks, my feet are pretty cold.” Babies can choke on their own vomit, thats how Jimmy Hendrix died. Babies and drunk people seem to share this weird death wish, babies are always putting their fingers in sockets and drunks are always picking fights with bouncers at strip clubs. Both drunks and babies make unreasonable demands, Babies want milk at 4 a.m and drunks want to go fishing at 3 a.m. Both have an obsession with breasts and Mexican food. Babies are a buzz-kill. On top of ozzing shit and snot every three minutes, the responsibility that bringing a new life form into the world is terrifying.
There are viruses and rapists and mountain lions, and all types of treacherous women. When you have a kid you introduce the little, defenseless, useless shit machine to all the dangers of the world we barely understand. (I shouldn't say useless, babies make great paper weights and door stops, hey I got a joke; "How many babies does it take to paint a wall? Depends on how hard you throw them.") And that new life, that pure child devoid of all sin, has to learn of lies, and heart break and cold lonely nights.
Me and Brother talked about this for awhile, and like it has always been, I'm way more worried than he is. Brother didn't grow up with his dad and the only thing i've seen of their father-to-son love is free hair cuts and the occasional 20 dollars that brother would spend on pot and food. Brother told me that he is willing to give his son everything and I absolutely believe that. ITs just hard to see my best friend the same retard I used to watch jump houses (We had a game that supposedly trained our reflexes where we would take turns throwing forks at one another and try to dodge them, although whenever it got to my turn to do the dodging I quit.) He is also getting married and while I usually dont condone marriage in the early 20s marrying the women whom is to have your child is only the right thing to do. (When a girl has a baby she gets bigger boobs but a looser vag, In my eyes, not an even trade. You can have triple Ds, if your pussy is like the bat cave I aint fucking with you.) Brother is unafraid and maybe even excited about the possibility of having a son. There will be love for the child, of this I am sure.
Fuck, lets wrap this up, I'm getting teary eyed.

Dear nephew to be;
My name is Adam and I'm going to be your favorite uncle.
Your dad and I were raised in Chicago but its best you grow up under that southern sun of Atlanta. The sun there is so close to the earth you have no choice but respect that there are larger things. It will humble you. The red dirt of the southern will teach you many things the dirty snow of the mid west won't. Do me a favor and be hard on your dad, in his dealing with you he will mature. Cut him no slack. Eat junk food, learn the joys of grease because fat kids are cute, fat adults have health issues and breath too loud. Like the prettiest girl in class, but play it cool, your father never had half the girl problems I did but we all can't be as lucky (or tall) as he is. Be kind, don't be a jerk. The world is full of assholes (i.e your dad and I) but what we really need are more gentle hands. When you get older (like 12) I'll drink whiskey with you and we can talk about girls and video games and adventures. Your father will do a great job raising you, but I'll teach you what to do when the weight of your thoughts and chest get to heavy. I''ll teach you how to bounce down the stairs and roll to your feet.

Inactivity (inactivity)

I wish there was a product that worked like Viagra,but for the soul. I need to get motivated, but the echoing question remains how?
(I talk about echos a lot in my writing.)
I'm at the library and I'm surrounding by people who are half working, there is a girl with a fish tattoo I really want to fuck, but she is Indian, or maybe Mexican (I sound racist) and those are statistically the hardest race for yellow boys to have vagina relationships with.
When I was in middle school I used to get teased for (everything) wearing glasses, now its trendy, people even buy fake ones (I hope your eyes melt you faggots, jk.)
Thats bullshit.
Have you ever seen a bull shit?
Flamingos poop skittles.
Midgets cry skittles. I wonder at midget funerals are there a lot of midgets? Is the casket little?
If a regular elevator can fit 8 normal people, can it then hold 33 midgets.
This is a joke, a joke I ain't gonna finish.

Oh, Oh I know.
Outside the dump I live in, there are spider webs. I'm on the 21 floor and up until now I never thought insects (arachnids) climbed this high. Today I saw on of the spiders outside my window he was in the middle of his web. The web was shaking the shit out of his web but there he was with this bravery that is unattainable to humans. He was right in the middle, unafraid. The only thing between him and a grisly spider death was the web he spun, thin almost translucent threads that he placed faith in. Faith to catch food, and faith to hold steady against the winds of a town that chew through brick and bone.
Although humans are the smartest, we are the pussies of the animal kingdom. We have to have faith in who we are and what we create. We have to face the winds.

ehhhh, that wasnt bad.

For Safia

Your mother traveled the world chasing a spark. Through ghettoes and castles and pyramids and volcanoes. The wonders you must have seen through those eyes that fake innocence. I’m not much for traveling but if you told me so I’d be on the first plane to some shady third world country just to hold your hand before the natives skinned and ate us. Paintings of lovers and pink boxing gloves. Making trouble for comedians and drinking with poets. I’m a clunky robot with my wire exposed, and you are the wind that pushes the sails and dances between these concrete trees. I want to hear your heart in those goofy rhyming words. I want to hear your words dance and pulse. I want to hear your words so you aren’t just a perfect face and amazing legs. Coral is made from skeletons, and you are my mermaid in pink boxing gloves.

Graocracy is a government ran by old women.

NOTE: This is an excerpt from a short story I'm writing called "Duality in Decatur." When I say I'm writing a short story I really mean I'm not writing at all because I'm a lazy unmotivated idiot.

I never really liked airports. That morning I made myself a delicious mix of Vodka and grape fanta. I poured it into a vitamin water bottle, a truly clever disguise . I had hoped to drink it on the plane, making the trip go a little faster and giving me the bragging rights to say I'd been drunk in the clouds. Unfortunately due to mass paranoia caused by propaganda, you are no longer able to have liquids in carry on luggage.
“Is this your bag, sir?” The bored looking women asked.
“Yeah.” I nodded. I hated being called “sir”. There are two types of people who get called sir; people with money or people who are in trouble. Examples “Why yes sir, right away.” or “Sir, we are going to ask you to come with us.” The last time I was called “sir” was by the manager of Hooters who apparently was fed up with me hitting on a waitress. So you can name the restaurant after tits but you can't talk about them? What utter bull shit.
“I'm sorry but you cant take this on the plane.” The women said holding up my bottle.
“It's only water.” I lied. I must have sounded like a guilty child because the women shot me a face that screamed “Nigga, you a lie.”
“Whatever the case, liquids aren’t allowed on the plane. You can either drink it here or I'll throw it away for you.”
No way was I leaving my drink with this women. “I'll finish it here.” I said as I reached for bottle. The woman hesitated then with a roll of her eyes she handed me the beverage. I open the lid and it let out a strange hiss. I brought the bottle to my lips for the first gulp but the smell hit me and made me rethink downing this diabolical concoction. The scent was so strong it felt like thumb tacks were lodged in my nostrils. I noticed the women still looking at me with a half smirk that seemed to taunt me.
“Dragon Berry, my favorite.” I sarcastically muttered as I swallow a huge gulp that chills my soul. I imagine my teeth screaming and wanting to jump out of my head to escape the next wave. But there is no exit or getaway for my molars as I quickly chase the first gulp with a slightly smaller one. I glance at the women.
“50 Cent really knows how to make great water.” I smile and she snarls and walks away to harass more people. I sit on a bench to get my shoes back on and finish the drink. I really suck at making mixed drinks but it's ok. Drinking is my vice and vices shouldn’t be pleasant. Well, except for masturbation but if I drank as much as I jerked off I'd, Well frankly I'd be dead.
As I tie my shoes I look at the long line behind me, all shoe less and shuffling across the dirty , cold floor through an array of metal detectors while a few feet away complete strangers look through their luggage. I guess they are looking for weapons, but they never really say, and what’s worse is people never ask. They seem to be ok with having there personal property ran sacked by random jerks in blue polos and name tags. Don't get me wrong, safety is rad. But what type of freaky weapon could I have in my shoes. In my shoes there are feet and in my luggage there is underwear and assorted mini soaps. No bombs.
I finish the bat piss and I'm pretty drunk, 8 on a 10 scale. But I'm no stranger to day time inebriation so I tough it out and find my gate. My dislike for airports quickly turns to a spit shined hatred as I look around this backwards place. Airports are dens of papable anxiety. The irritability and confusion bounce off people like a pin ball, you are given an annoyed look by some jet lagged Texan, souring your attitude, leading you to glare at the woman who stop in the mid stride to knell over a tie her shoe . She is pissed off by your impatience and carries her negative attitude over to her traveling companions who are seemly blindsided by her snubbed disposition causing one of her associates to whisper in the ear of another; “Susan is really being a bitch.”
In airports there are food courts, but these food courts differ from food courts in shopping malls or plazas in one major way. In shopping malls there are upwards of 35 seats per restaurant, meaning when you get your $5.37 slice of grease soaked Sbarro pizza or your cat meat sesame chicken from Panda Express you have ample seating present to plop down on and enjoy the suicidal yet intensely gratifying ritual of eating fast food. In airports there are more restaurants yet less seating, resulting in a barbaric feeding frenzy in which normally dignified patrons are turned into ravenous primitives as they hunch over in corners and corridors stuffing their faces. All racing to finish their food before boarding the plane as to avoid being the ass face who brings food on board and stinks the place up like a high school cafeteria. Crumbs and sauces and whole lettuce leafs drenched in ranch and vinegar stain shirts and fall to the floor. In airports, sterility is a myth. The human body is a wondrous collection bags and enzymes and it knows that the over processed shit sold to us in food courts is toxic so within a few hours we begin to flush it out. It is natures joke that while our bodies decompose and dispel the toxins, we sit miles off the ground in the plane. Airplane are outfitted with a single bathroom toward the back of the plane, in order to get to it you have to squeeze past the perfect strangers you share an isle with and walk past the judgmental eyes of everyone seated behind you. Most people are too demure or just uncomfortable with the idea of pooping of an aircraft so they sit their seats as their insides bubble and spurt and fume, sure they keep relatively straight faces but inside their bodies there is catastrophe.
I find my boarding gate with around 35 minutes to spare. I sit down with my luggage in front of me and throw my head back. Now I can tell you where I was going, but the “why” is slightly harder to answer. I was going to Atlanta, Decatur to be exact. Earlier in the year I made good friends with a kid named Louis who was good friends with a girl named Elsa. Louis went to my college, and Elsa was visiting him for a few months. They were both from Atlanta. Elsa became smitten with me, but I was too busy discovering the subtle joys of booze and working with a now disbanded comedy troupe. Or, rather I noticed just never made any moves.


But this isn’t the story of airportssssssssssssszzszzzzzcxzxwere

Them mean bastards anit they…

We got married on the bathroom floor....

NOTE: Me and my good friend Justin are working on this stand up routine and this was the first exercise

Adam on his future
I'd really like to be a super villain when I get older. With a cape, menacing helmet, huge castle, pet crow the whole shebang. Not that I'm a particular evil guy, I just dig capes and wouldn't mind ruling the world.(Well most of it, I want nothing to do with Mexico.) Most super villains are egotistical maniacs who have a strong resentment for society. I like to think of writers that way also. I mean, we (writers) basically talk on a page, and expect people to not only pay money for our ramblings but to adore us as well. And have you ever talked to a writer who is “accomplished”, their heads are so far up theirs asses they are (1) Shitting out their glasses (2) they are re eating the spaghetti they had the night before. It's like, So what you have a haiku published in the fucking red eye, you are still a talentless hack with played out prose and back acne. Ok, I don't know if you have back acne but your shit is still boring.

Adam on food;
Bagels are the gay cousins of doughnuts. I think it's weird that sloppy joes don't have a formal name, could you imagine a demure dignified french waiter telling saying “Here is your piene a la ebbta, your Chardonnay and a sloppy joe. Enjoy madame.” The only thing I wouldn't like about being a super villain is not being able to walk into white castle or Wendie's anymore. My evil lair would be a castle floating above the Mediterranean sea and I'd probably be wanted by law enforcement so dining in at Dennys would be out the question. If I had a choice between a million dollars or 63 million chocolate turtles, I'd take the money but it would take at least a half an hour deliberation. “So wait, let me get this straight. Money, green paper, dead guys faces, the stuff that makes the world go round or Chocolate turtles? The delicious chocolate, peanut butter and nougat delicacies? Ah, shit I'm gonna...I'm gonna need a minute for this one. Can I call someone, phone a friend. I'm gonna have to get some counseling before I make an educated decision...”

Adam on fashion:
In my generation pants mean way to much. Prejudice of pants. Blasphemy in britches. Tyranny for trousers. (in)Justice against jeans. People even go as far as to assume your sexuality based on your the tightness of one pants. Friends of mine have gotten into fights over the bagginess of skinniness of jeans. I never understood physical violence in relation to fashion, that is until I saw red skinny jeans. I don't know, maybe I'm half bull and the color red gets me volatile but the first dude I saw in red jeans I was so outraged there is no combination of words to . I mean, are you in a ballet? Are you going to wear face paint and a green wig to complete your clown outfit? There is only one man allowed to wear red pants and that is the Red Ranger, and even that goofy nigga didn't wear them off duty.

Adam on girls;
IF YOU HAVE A VAGINA YOU RULE THE WORLD. Serious. Don't believe me ladies, try it out. Next time you are getting ready for sex, right before the show starts, so to speak, whisper in his ear “Do the dishes and like a zombie on meth he blinding follow any order. Take it from me, my dick was harder than a rubix cube as I scrubbed away at a gravy stained plate for this girl. I go back in the room and this bitch has her pajamas on sound asleep. So I jerk off on the plates and head home. Women are also stronger than even they may realize, child birth being the common prime example. But there is other evidence of their un-holy strength. Brazilian waxes being one that springs to mind. Girls actually lay down and have a piece of tape with hot wax ripped of their booty holes so that they aren't hairy, (and if you don't you should because hairy booty holes are a deal breaker.) High heels, braziers, thongs all incredibly uncomfortable articles of clothing. I met a girl in Atlanta with double Ds who could sleep on her back because she might have breathing complications and die. Woman cope with all this shit and then dudes get mad when they don't respond to “Hey baby.” And what about knee strength. The average human has too pee pee 2-3 times a day. Girls were blessed/cursed with vagina's meaning they have to bend their knees every time they need to urinate so by the time a girl is 22 she can knee a guy in the nuts and make him choke.

Adam on writing;
My biggest fear in life is that in 20 years I won't matter. I'm terrified of being irrelevant. I have to matter. I think the meaning of life is to affect the lives of as many people as possible,. I need to write because if I don't I'll burst into flames (literally). Writing is like cutting a vein and bleeding, it's so raw. It is who you are at that exact moment. You can't write for fame, or money or women. I write because if I don't I might as well not exist. It's truly all I got. I'm grateful for every laugh, cringe, sigh and tear that my writing causes. It ain't easy, and most of the time it ain't very much fun but at the end, when you look at the collection of verbs and adjectives and nouns and emotions that you wrote, it's nirvana. It's self expression second, self preservation first. If I don't write all these thoughts would eat me alive. There is nothing worse to me than words unspoken.

It wasn’t long ago that my teeth where wrapped in metal

Green eyes and cold hands.
Ancient bourbon and unreasonable demands.
Get out of my bed.

NOTE: I have no idea what this means. But it needed to be said.

Faggel, A bonified Faggel.

It safe to say that life is half chance and half destiny. It's pretty hard to tell right away whether dropping your phone in the toilet is fate or shitty luck (pun intended). But there are other times when you recognize right away that destiny is at work, yep life is half chance and half destiny. That being said, in terms of people, there are chance encounters and there are interactions that have been pre-decided by God or Satan or Buddha or Sponge Bob or whatever ridicules deity you believe in. People the universe has deliberately put in your life. They can be lovers, friends, enemies or even strangers with great advice you meet on trains or buses. You may not realize it at first but with time, and the right light its easy to tell.
That brings me to a young man named Jordan Richardson. When I met Jordan he was outside of his room spraying febreze, trying to mask the smell of pot. I laughed and told him it reeked, we exchanged names and slapped hands, he invited me in to smoke. Now two weeks prior to meeting Jordan I had been arrested in the same building for having weed on me, so walking into that room wasn’t the smartest idea. But I'm from the south side of Chicago and we don’t turn down free stuff, and I saw smoking in the building as a way to stand by my beliefs, if I stop smoking “they” win, and “they” can suck a fat one. One of first observation was how similar Jordan's room was to my old one. There was a variety of faces of all races and creeds, eyes chinky and red. The smoke rose and the coughs echoed, “Back Home” I thought as Jordan broke rotation so I could get a hit.
It didn’t take me long to realize Jordan was a lunatic. Now, I'm no stranger to lunacy myself, but Jordan brought crazy to an almost uncomfortable level. He told stories of being stranded in Honduras and how he made 5000 dollars in 3 months stealing Ipods and Mac Books. More odd than his stories were his quirks and ticks. He often blurts out words or high pitched squeals and he is known to get on the floor and roll around. He prides himself in being able to shit in front of anyone. He gets monthly Brazilian waxes. He eats chicken nuggets with everything. He has business cards but no job. Native Americans believed that each soul had a spirit animal, a beast that best fit your unique skill set and character traits. Jordan is probably an eagle, revered and recognized by all. A truly unique sight that captures the attention of everybody. I, on the other hand, am probably a pig. Content with sloshing around in my on poop. Marinating in myself. Some people think I'm cute, but most people just think I'm gross.
Jordan is a sexual deviant. Not just kinky. Not just freaky, but deviant. Jordan lost his virginity in 8th grade. He also started peeing in girls mouths in 8th grade. He claims he thought the practice of urinating in girl's mouths was normal but I’m pretty sure that shit is illegal in most states. When he was In high school he hooked up with a 300 pound white woman he met on blackplanet.com. Not to mention earlier this year he got dome from what we speculate my have been a transgender. Jordan has also pulled some pretty gorgeous girls in addition to monsters. Recently we were in not so subtle competition for the affection of a lady. I had a short lived fling with her and he had a crush as well. I recently discovered that she made out with him during the before mentioned affair. If it was anyone else, I would have killed the bastard. Poisoned his drink or let carbon dioxide seep from the oven or something. But we weren’t exclusive and Jordan is a pretty skilled ladies man (And the girl is a whore.)( j/k. Not really.) (But seriously big whore)
He is an only child as am I so we automatically related in the way that only children who spent most of their time alone could, for instance we both admitted to talking out loud to ourselves at least 40 minutes a day. Before meeting Jordan my motto was “Always do what makes the best story.” after seeing Jordan's antics I felt it suited him better so I adopted a new one; “Drink for free and try to stay out of jail.”
I admire Jordan the most for how he interacts with people. In the south loop people run in tight circles. Sure, people are nice to each other and you may even get invited to parties with different cliques, but 5 times out of ten the inviter knows you wont come, and 4 times out of ten they don’t even want you to. Jordan flawlessly glides in and out of circles, he is truly accepted everywhere. He knows everyone, and everyone loves him. He has assembled his own circle of randoms that I am semi-proud to be a part of. I've been friends with just about everyone, nerds to jocks and everything in between. But I've never felt like I belong somewhere, even now. But I think dealing with Jordan has thought me that maybe we don’t need to “belong” any where. That maybe saying you belong someplace limits you. Maybe I should belong to myself, my own ideas, my own values.
Well, It's 3 a.m and I've successfully managed to break my writers block. (Hooray for me) I hope this passage doesn’t make me seem to gay for Jordan although I do love the kid as much as a guy could without sleeping with him. I like to incorporate lessons with my writings, something you can take with you long after you finish half reading my work. I'm sleep deprived and scrambling desperately to find a moral to this convoluted essay. I guess....idk. Be yourself? Fuck, wear socks with shoes or you'll get athletes foot?
Shit.
Fuck.
Fuck.
God Damn.
Fuck.

Today I feel rather dry.

Note: I WILL be finishing this later. I mean it too...


It's 12:30 and I wake up still very drunk.
The sun warms my room. It's light crawls up my walls and illuminates all my junk. The socks and bottle caps and loose change and pens that litter my carpet all seem to sing and glow under the new day's sun.
I have no recollection of what happened yesterday, but with sobriety my memories would return. I drift to sleep as I considering watching porno.

It's 1:03 and I wake up nauseous and dizzy.
This feeling had become uncomfortably familiar to me these last few months. The hangover had begun. The Norwegian called this condition Veisalga, which translates to uneasiness after debauchery. I sling my pillow across the room and switch it out with a colder one. I should start putting pillows in the fridge I thought. Up until 2 weeks ago I only had one pillow but this girl I was seeing convinced me to buy 3 new ones. I bought a whole new damn bedroom set for us to share and the whore starts dating her ex again. I laid there heartbroken and draped in Martha Stewart’s sheets. I remember something about a stolen cake, a Brazilian girl and cocaine. What weird and hazardous sins had I committed last night.

It's 1:33 and I need headache medicine.
I stumble out of my room and into the kitchen. I'm bare foot and none of my roommates vacuum, so I am cautious. I notice a bottle of vodka on the kitchen counter. Next to it is water bottle that is about half full of a dark liquid. Rum? Whiskey? Bourbon? I scratch my head as I ponder dark liquor and it's miracles. If God is a dentist, then dark liquor is his Novocain (beer is the fluoride rinse and women are cavities.) The back of my head is struck with a sharp pain and I am reminded of Advil. I take two, pour myself a glass of water and retreat for my bed.

It's 1:45 and I'm awaken by my phone ringing.
My head feels like there are river dancers stomping around in it. I answer the phone and Jordan’s tell me to open the door. I do and he and Mop Top barge in grinning and eager to go to Dairy Queen. I explain to them that my eye sockets burn and every single noise I hear sounds like pots and pans banging, so naturally ice cream cones and over salted fries were out of the question. I ask them about the details of last night. They tell me that a large group of us went to Dairy Queen and stole two cakes. Memories slowly reappear from obscurity. I ask them about the Brazilian girl. They have no idea what I'm talking about. They leave and I return to my coma.

It's 2:28 and I'm discouraged.
I'm still in pain and the sun I had embraced and praised before seemed to annoy me. I close my blinds and cruse the fire ball. I thought about the cake heist. Me, Jordan, and Mop Top were accompanied by a tight knit group of hoodlums we called friends. There was an alcoholic Texan, a kid who had just gotten off of parole who was smoking his brain a loose in celebration, a Vietnamese-Jew who spoke perfect Spanish and sold cocaine. Two pot dealers and a pot head also accompanied us to that urban…..

Virally Yours

I'm not big into paintings but...


That thing is rad. By a good friend of mine, Camille.

You tell me to write my thoughts, I say mind your business.

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Opps, my phones ringing. Let me just…..*Zip*

I think I speak for most males when I say “I have too much shit in my pockets.” Wallet, cell phone, keys, tissue, candy treats, Ipod, chap stick, gum. Etc etc etc. The modern male simply carries to many objects in his pockets, and with fashion progressing and leading us toward tighter, more form fitting jeans, pocket space is fleeting and becoming a hot commodity. I mean sure, some shirts have breast pockets. But reaching into a pocket on a shirt makes you seem nerdy and creepy. The only thing a man should store that close to his heart are cigarettes and wallet sized pictures of naked girls. Some hoodies have those weird kangaroo pouch things. But before you go stuffing your blackberry and ball points in there listen to this; Last semester I was running down Harrison to catch a bus. I was wearing a hoodie that I had my wallet in. During the run the contents of my man pouch got all jumbled up until it eventually fell out. My coins then feel to ground and rolled off in infinite directions like roaches scattering at the flick of a light. Anyone who has lived in Chicago for an hour knows that homeless people here can smell loose unclaimed change, and with in seconds the dollar and 67 cents I dropped had vanished. Stolen by bums, I even saw a pigeon swoop down and fly off with a few dimes in his talons. “So, if hoodies don’t work and if breast pockets look weird, then were am I to keep my valuables?” you may ask. Two Words, Two Hilarious Words. Fanny Pack. I know what you are thinking; “Adam, you’ve really out gayed yourself this time.” My advice to you is to grow up, and get with the times. The world is an ever evolving, constantly ascending place were norms and stereotypes are shattered and carried away with harsh winds everyday. Men, Fanny Packs are the future of modern fashion, modern comfort and the best tool of the modern man. Everything you could desire bundled up and protected by a little bitty zipper. The one stop shop for the man on the go. With a girl you like and things are getting heavy? Girl: Oh man, you’re so hot and powerful and tall. But do you have…protection? Simply unzip your waist companion, grab the contraceptive of your choice, and commence the humping. Talking to a friend but his breath is terrible? Look to comfy, convenient, carry case close to your cock for a stick of tasty double mint, teeth whiting joy, The Fanny Pack, for when pockets are to little but a briefcase is too much. The Fanny Pack, if a belt and a purse had a child, it would be this. The Fanny Pack, Because it draws attention away your crossed eyes and acne.

Darling, keep your mouth closed.

I enjoy the company of women.
Talking, kissing, hugging, boning and every act in between.
I love women like people love sports.
I wish they made fitted hats where the team logo was replaced with a picture of a vagina or a set of boobs or something, I'd rock a number 23 jersey if it had a girl spread eagle on the front.
I love women like bears loves salmon.
I love women like N.A.S.A loves space.
I love women like Amy Whinehouse loves cocaine.
I love women like white people love ranch dressing. (Seriously, I seen them put it on pizza.)
And of all the things you can do with a women my favorite by far is cuddling.
Cuddling after sex thou, I can't sleep comfortably with an erection, especially since I sleep on my stomach. It's like doing a cock push up by accident. Like a mustang driving straight into a brick wall.
Few feelings come close to laying in bed with a girl and knowing that for at least one night, you don't have to be lonely, that at least tonight someone is thinking about you.
Our beds are the most personal, intimate, safe place most of us have.
And to share that almost holy comfort zone is one of the greatest displays of affection and devotion you can show. (The second greatest is swallowing, the third is taking it in the booty hole.)Drunk or sober.
Love or Lust.
Best friend or some broad you met in the lobby of your building one night when you were piss drunk and half stoned. (Too personal?)Nothing matters in those fleeting moments of consciousness before you drift into the numbing yet divine blanket of sleep.
Everything becomes still and equal as you and your partner ( or partners) lay close and together.
In the quiet of the night, darkness crawls up the walls and the two of you are content until the morning.
Which brings me to the point of this entry, morning breath.I've been lucky enough to share the same bed with quite a few lovely ladies in my day.
From beautiful actresses to limber dancers.
And a few ladies I had to throw away my sheets afterwards.Women from all different spectrum's.
But no matter how unique the girl is one factor remains true in every case.
Women have terrible morning breath.
Putrid, vile, and rank
And it seems to be the prettier the face the more haggard the scent of her breath.
One time I awoke to several hot exhalations on the back off my neck, it felt like someone was pointing a blow dryer at me.
This other instance I rolled over to face her and was hit in the face with a moist gust that smelled like fungus.
One of the most attractive girls I've had the pleasure of bedding had the breath of a buffalo, an 83 year old half dead buffalo with halitosis.Breath as bitter has pickles and scents as rancid as dirty socks dipped in chitterlings water.
Shit smoothies.
Toe nails and Tootsie rolls.
Hot sauce on a hippo.
I'm sorry to tell you girls this but I think the feminine body releases some kind of chemical during sleep that makes your shit stink like you've been chewing on burnt hair.
Basically what I'm saying is set an early alarm for about 6:30 am whenever you share your bed.Use that time to get a hold of some Listerine, gargle, then hop back in.

Drilling for Plastic

Drilling for plastic…

I looked at the sky today.
I mean, extensively looked at the sky; not the inadvertent look we all do.
I mean, eyes fixed, head cocked back, in total silence and gazed at the unsettling vastness of the sky.
I thought about how everyone who has ever existed has looked at this exact same sky.
I thought about how, by some divine law I could never comprehend, this massive, blue, mystery blanket keeps us all alive.
I thought about thanking the sky on behalf of all earth; for all it’s done for us.
I thought about it saying, “You are welcome, Adam.”
I thought about what else the sky would say; deep, profound, philosophic shit I bet. Like, “this is all bigger than you,” or “you aren’t alone.”
I thought about how glad I was that the sky didn’t talk.
I mean, the sky has to see a lot of stuff, and for a scoundrel like me, an all-seeing, omnipotent blabber-mouth is the last thing I need. Besides, if the sky could talk, that means it would have a mouth. With a mouth comes all types of issues: bad breath, sneezing, snoring. Besides, what if the sky accidentally eats a plane?
American Airlines would sue.
After my neck developed a sharp pain and soreness I directed my attention to the busy bustling city street.
Men with briefcases, students, the poor and down touted. Each has 1000 stories and exist under the same sky.
I stared at a well endowed woman. She was wearing a low cut shirt that I’m pretty sure was to small.
She had amazing tits.
The sky is a lot like a nice set of breasts, and if the sky is a giant boob, then the sun is a nipple.
They both invoke this bizarre since of hope, and they both having this healing power that is indescribable; the sun feeding the earth with invisible rays, and nipples feeding babies and sexual deviants with organic calcium.
You can go blind gazing into the sun to long.
You can go to jail if you stare at boobs to long (and without permission).
I thought about how when I was a kid, I’d lay on my mom’s chest.
I thought about how it was the closest to nirvana I had ever been without smoking weed.
I thought about my head being like the earth and my mother’s chest being the sky.
I thought about the sun/nipple metaphor I made earlier which led me to think about my mother’s nipple, which grossed me right the fuck out.
I noticed the woman with the big tits noticed me mindlessly staring at her chest.
She probably thought I was a pervert or some type of peeping tom.
She wasn’t far off-base. I am somewhat of a pervert. What she didn’t know is that her magnificent tits helped me see things a little bit clearer. I had a boob-inspired epiphany.
I wanted to thank her, but it would only have freaked her out.
Especially since I had a boner…