Doctors Orders

“I’m going to run you over!“ Paulette screams, tears launching out of her eyes. Her car is jerking forward, inching toward me down the drive way. ‘The truth will set you free‘, last nights words echo, the truth will also get you ran over by a car I think as I hold my arms out trying to reason with the girl;
‘Vehicular manslaughter baby, you want that on your record? Huh? You think Brown takes students with vehicular manslaughter on their record? I don’t.’
“I’m going to kill you!” Her voice is piercing and shrill. A howl of a woman wronged. “Move!”
I’m scared, not of her possibly killing me, at least if I’m dead I’ll be able to sleep peacefully with her boar like snoring, maybe catch up on ‘Weeds‘, that is if hell gets digital cable. But I am scared that all this yelling will attract the attention of her mother, or even worse her brother Steven. Steven is a gigantic man and looks like he’s carved of stone. He played football at ASU and if he was born a few thousand years ago I’m sure he’d be the chief in a cannibal tribe.
“Babe, please relax. We need to talk about this.” I stammer. I’m looking through the car window, making sure never too break eye contact, I figure it would be harder for her run me over while looking directly in my eyes. I don’t blink, its like a high stakes staring contest. One twitch of the eye lid, she’ll put the pedal to metal and then I’ll be a fucking grease spot on her mother’s drive way. I’d never seen her eyes like this, all puffy and flaming pink. They seemed to be the only part of her that doesn’t want to flatten me.
“I love you babe, but I aint perfect alright? I‘m sorry.” I’m pleading, inching my way to the driver side door so that maybe I can open it and pull her out. The engine revs hard. Like the roar of a jungle beast and I stop in my tracks.
“I’m pretty sure I just pissed myself.” I say in a weighted voice. And as a little pee-pee trickles down my leg I realize this is exactly what I deserve. I’m a dog, a drooling hound. And she’s an inch away from perfect ( it’s the snoring see, that keeps her from being perfect, like a feral, asthmatic badger) . She invited me to her family’s Thanksgiving celebration at their home in southern Illinois, 5 hours from my apartment in Chicago. We spent the night in the guest room, and we were suppose to be half way back by now. But I got drunk and all that pressure of being engaged that I had been ignoring hit me like a brick in the spine. I told her things she could of gone her entire life without knowing, I meant well and I was only being honest, I’m not a bad person, I swear It’s just sometimes I get scared and would much rather run away. It’s defense mechanism, I’m perennially a nervous little boy who stutters and fantasizes about the love affairs of anime characters. I think she knew that, And that was probably the reason she hadn’t turn me in to a pancake. “Why couldn’t you have told me Jason? You could of told me you didn’t want things to go this far. You could have been mature and considerate and a fucking adult and told me you wanted time to think!” She’s screaming again, it’s about 12 in the afternoon and I’m certain her family can hear us from inside. I imagine that behemoth Steve chomping at the bit to come outside. I imagine him ripping my fingers off and putting them up my butt (or his own butt, if he‘s into that type of thing.). Paulette’s mother is probably holding him back, she likes me. I cringe as I think about her mom and the how this one time she tied my shoes for me, it was a heavy gesture. She trusted me, their whole family did.
“Because I don’t want time apart, I love being with you its just this shit is scary babe. Its heavy, really heavy. And I..I don’t know. I screwed up, but I think we can fix this.” My voice cracks a little as I think about losing Paulette. Her face softens. Steven rushes out with a hammer and says he’ll crush my skull. I take off.



(photo by John Kemp)

Perfect kisses lead too one night stands./Desset. Desert

I'm sorry. Sometimes.

.... Sometimes I think, I get so close to blowing up. Close to exploding. In flames preferably. In a messy way. A way people would talk about for months. ‘Man, do you remember when Adam exploded? That was epic.’

This isnt anything.
I'll post something real tomorrow and by tomorrow I mean, this week.
I wrote this pretty drunk in a bar on my Bday last week.

In a bar for the first. Drinking dark liquor at 4 pm. Irresponsible but legal. Legality makes everything sit better.
I'm a law breaker
a risk taker
a booty shaker, salt shaker
I know a kid who eats salt and drinks soy sauce. I bet that tastes bad. And if it doesnt get you you drunk whats the point of drinking nasty thing.
Like prune juice, or milk of magnesia.
It's my birthday.
The bartenders name is George. And he doesn't care about my birthday.
Facebook taunt me with your pictures.
The juke box has Modest Mouse. I'll play 'Ocean Breathes Salty'
I hope I'm funny tonight.

Dreams About Crashing Cars

The train maps are laid out like the veins in the arm of golem
Dope sick, webbed feet
Shaking like a fish on a wood floor
Sizzling like bacon
Dancing like a seizure with girls who hide their fangs so well you'd call them pure as the snow that tries to ride the wind back up to heaven.
My God has no beard.
Lets get high and hide under the covers and drink tequila from coffee mugs
and kiss without a thought of all the lies that have poured out of the lips that we smash together.
Lately I've been dreaming about crashing cars.
I need to settle my system.

being in a car with fat people.
Ryan's breast in perched on my shoulder like a parrot, but I aint no pirate and I want this behemoth off me. It's warm, but not the comforting warmth a straight jacket gives a maniac. Fleshy, Flabby and moist like a swamp. My arm in penned behind Dave, its going numb. Someone jokes about how uncomfortable I look, they all laugh, but I don't find this shit funny. At least if our car crashes, their bodies will serve as cushion. I hope this car crashes.

I'm on your side, but only for awhile

NOTE: Found this written down on a page in my old math book. Must have wrote this freshman year. I dig it.

Crawling away
Bawling away
Smalling away?

Biggie Smalling away?
Excuse me, what I meant to say was;
Above ground pools suck, that weird farting hum they make all day annoys me
Alot of things annoy me, I'm a tiny angry ant in a giant cosmos of hate
I wish I could melt people with eye beams
I wish there was a button on my watch that made cum. I'd press it whenever I got mad.
It would save alot of lives. It save alot of money.
I remember when I could of kissed you, but I was nervous.
Then I got drunk and fell asleep.
I wake up at noon everyday, in this small room.
Tall groom.
Big Shroom
Whats up with all this rhyming?

Your name is an onomatopoeia.
I want to smoke cigarettes on the balcony.

The sounds you hear at night when you lay in bed.

There are memories we have from when we were kids that are so hazy or bizarre or horrifying that it’s hard to say if they ever happened at all. The brain has a funny way of dealing with trauma, it will essentially lie to itself, the same way it does with paranoia and love, the brain will swear to itself, like a man on trial, that things we remember we in fact don’t remember. It buries memories so deep that they surface in flashes, like clips from an old movie you weren’t supposed to watch. A face, a room, a spilled cup of red drink all over a white carpet, or in this case, a southern lake right before the sun goes down. The older I get the more indistinguishable hours stretch between me and that lake, and that man, and that smell. The older I get the futhurer away the things that happened on that day crawl from me. I’ve always known what I saw was real, despite the frantic efforts of mind trying it erase it. But the older I get, the more life that sprawls out around me, the more I begin to doubt my eyes, the more I doubt that jolt I get when I hear the sounds that only ring out at night when the lights are off. So I’ll say it now, with conviction and assurance while I’m still able too, I saw the devil when I was 7 years old by a river in Louisiana.
Like I said, the details of my meeting with Satan are hazy. The location was most defiantly a river, I remember the sun setting, turning the water into that gold color you see in paintings in the lobbies of hotels. I asked my Grandma a few years back was there any lakes by her old house in Bogalusa, Louisiana and she told me that me and my grandfather would go fishing at Jennings lake about a mile away from their home. I’m sure that there must have been a river somewhere thou, because I remember a current traveling to the east carrying an old tire. I wasn’t with my grandfather either, I was alone. I don’t remember much of my grandfather except that he had a perfectly grey mustache on a perfectly brown face and that he was very nice man, better than I guess he could have been seeing as thou he wasn’t my biological grandfather.
Yeah, I was alone and the sun was going down. I sat on the ridge of the lake or river. I could see the other side of the water, tall grass and dirt roads. Dragonflies hovered around, sporadically going from cat tail to cat tail, settling then disappearing.
I was enjoying the smells. Fresh water has that dirty scent, The kind of dirty one can over look because the same grime that makes it stink is the same scent that sticks on your clothes and makes people think you had worked hard. The breeze rolled over me every so often, like it was reminding me that it hadn’t forgot me. My fingernails were dirty and I might have been wearing sandals because I remember an ant crawling on my toes, although that could be from another memory. When you’re a kid you don’t seem to mind the weather much, but I do know that the temperature couldn’t have been over 80. My fishing pole rested against a tree a few yards away. I didn’t like fishing, I didn’t like touching worms, and I hated when ants crawled on my open toes.
How long I was there before I saw him is lost in my subconscious but I don’t know that I wasn’t five minutes away from packing up and continuing the walk back. I twitched at first, my neck jerked to the left and for a microsecond I felt sadder than I’d ever felt. A minute passed and an aggressive wind blew. A gust that seemed angry, not at me, but at itself. A guilty wind, guilty for what it was carrying. There are those times in our life where we are sucked out of our heads and we a given permission to view ourselves as instances happen. Usually in these out of bodies experiences we seem to be on autopilot, everything happening at a reflex, but for about 30 seconds I could see myself. Long enough to ration that is was an out of body experience and that something was wrong. I felt my mouth drop open and I saw it first hand as if I was sitting next to my body doing it, those seconds seemed an hour and a became doubtful of my own existence. My view of myself began to fade and I was being dragged of the ground and into sky, across the water, my body looked up from the ridge and as I extended my hand towards it extended it’s hand toward me. There was a little less than a half mile of air between me and my body. I was sweating and panicking and about to scream when I heard.
‘Hello there little boy.’ I was back in my body, back on the ridge. But after hearing that voice, that even toned almost singing voice, I wished to every God I could have just kept floating into clouds. I looked to my left and there was figure walking toward me, dressed in church clothes. He face seemed to change forms completely about three time before he got close enough for me to make it out, as if the devil was searching for the perfect face to scare me with. And as he closer he seemed to grow unnaturally tall, as if he was adjusting his height. Soon he was right next to me looking down and smiling the way a stranger does when they hold the door open for you.
‘I said hello, have you no manners?’ He said still smiling. He wore black slacks and a white shirt with the first two buttons undone. His hair was wiry and silver and he had grey stubble. He had deep blue eyes, almost like at one point they had been very bright.
‘Oh now don’t be rude boy.’ He sang. ‘You’ll hurt my feelings’ He rose his hand and I flinched. He grabs his heart and frown, the corner of lips went so far down it scared me.
‘Hi, who are you?’ The words rushed out of my mouth.
‘Who am I?’ He laughed “Who am I? What a question to ask. There is no possible way I can answer that.’
He takes his hand and run it through his hair as he looks up into the sky with a smirk still lingering on his long pale face. ‘ You can ask what I am, even when I am. And if you’re particularly brave you can ask me who I’ve been. But who I AM? Oh no no no, I can’t tell you that my boy. In fact, who are you? Hmmm, can you answer that? HmmmmMMMmmm?’
‘I’m Adam’ I stuttered a lot when I was younger so I wasn’t very talkative for fear of stumbling on my words and looking foolish. But around this man my voice seemed clear and full of a certain spirit that, if used on anyone else, would have been quite impressive.
‘Oh well I knowWWww all that. I mean who are you, inside.
‘I don’t get it.’
‘I mean who are you when are angry? Who are you when you are alone in your head where no one can hear or see the things you want to do? Who are you when you can get away with it? You see people are just persons in public, they fearRRrrRR the judgment and persecution from the very people that in their dreams they murder and steal and covet. Things aren’t like they were Adam, things aren’t like they will be.’ He laughs and asks me again ‘Who are you, on the inside?’
‘I..don’t know.’
‘Well,’ he knells in front of me and I smell burning paper on his skin and clothes. ‘Maybe I should cut you open and rip your guts out the see who you are inside.’ He has razor teeth and a snake’s tongue, and I picture myself in a puddle of dirt dried blood on the river bank with my stomach and spleen and lungs and intestines and kidneys on the ground. I’m coughing blood the man is rolling on the ground in tear he is laughing so hard.
‘Please don’t.’ I start to cry.
‘I suppose that would be rude.’ He looks disappointed then looks at the lake and smiles. ‘Say boy is that your fishing rod?’
I turn around to the tree its resting on and it isn’t there, my head whips around and he has it in his hands, standing over the lake.
‘I’m going to go.’ I say, but I know he won’t let me.
‘Not yet AdammMMMmm. I want to send you home with a delicious diner.’ He looks intent at the water. ‘ Oh he’s deep down there, this my take some time.’ He laughs as he reels something up. I finally get to my feet and begin to back away. He yanks at the pole and a bloated blue corpse emerges out of the water and flops on the bank. The body has large patches of hair missing. It eyes are shut likes it in a deep sleep, but its mouth is open, the lips seems to be dissolving slowly. It smells like ground beef when its left in the sun.
‘How appetizing’ He laughs loudly and the grass around us starts to die, I start running. Fast. So fast it hurt, my feet crash against the ground. I look back and he is laughing, doubled over clinching his gut. I’m crying and the wind is blowing at my back, trying to help me. I turn around again and he is dancing with the body. I get further, but the laughing is still in my ears. I look back a final time and his figure has changed, he is no longer the slender man in the sacks, he is now a 12 foot tall beast with the legs of a pig and antlers, not horns but deer antlers that sprout out in every direction.
It’s hard to say what happens next. I know I didn’t tell my grandfather of grandmother because for some reason once I saw the blue wood panel of their house I felt a divine safety. I knew they wouldn’t believe me, I really didn’t believe me, My brain has veiled the run lead me or the events of the next few days. But I do know that I was scolded for loosing the fishing pole and when my grandfather and I went to go try to find it the next day there were large burn marks in the grass and on the walk back home my grandfather made me walk in front of him and he looked back every few yards with his fist clinched.

She's up in that tree, where she'll always be,

“Oh, Christ.” Josh groans as he looks across the table to his sobbing cousin.
“What the…come on dude. People are staring over here.” Adrian whispers to Duy before skillfully grabbing his coffee cup with his fingertips to avoid the hot surface of the mug on his palms. He raises the cup to his puckered lips and slurps the drink cautiously while he surveys the diner and patrons. Duy’s eyes are watering , he is Vietnamese so the crease of his eyelids push the tears out quicker. They fall at rhythmic pace, like a metronome slowed to half speed. Tears hit his plate, his hash browns and omelet now salty from the falling tears. As if they were cooked by a recently divorced chef listening to The Cure.
“This is terrible. I’ll never be happy again. How could I be?” Duy’s head hangs as low as his neck will allow it, he holds his fork in one hand and his knife in the other, a napkin is bunched in his shirt collar haphazardly. He sniffles and pants. He is a wreck and the saddest part is that he is trying his very hardest to hold back the real onslaught.
“You’re being a real Debbie downer right about now, let me just say.” Adrians says while he dabs the corners of his mouth in a demure fashion with a napkin and leaning back to rest his head on the booth. ‘A real freaking Buzz kill.’
“Adrian, lay off.” Josh looks at Adrian with shaking his head feigning disdain.
“What? I mean, am I wrong? Look at him he’s crying like a fat girl with no prom date. ‘I’m too fat to fit in my dress mom, I might as well wear a boat tarp’. Adrian sours his face and mocks Duy.
‘You’re a jerk dude.’ Josh spoons soup in his mouth.
“Besides, when Asian people cry it freaks me out, you guys get all red and puffy. Like tomatoes. Giant suicidal tomatoes.” Adrian continues.
“Enough, Adrian. Knock it off or I swear to God I’ll get in the car and leave your ass here.” Josh peers at Adrian from the corner of his eyes, but that all that is needed to surcease Adrian’s maundering. For a few moments the boys are quite, the scrapings and dingings of the kitchen are the only sounds floating around Gina’s 24 hour diner and grill. The boys are in a part of town where everything is open 24 hours, hotels and department stores litter the area, the lights are always on, and prices are never fair. 2 hours earlier Duy dropped his now ex-girlfriend, Paulette, off at the airport. She is going to Arizona for school, Duy and Paulette had been together for only 6 months but Duy never had anything like her in his life. It was the love he’d seen on TV.
Duy finally had someone who’d hold his hand, someone who he could stare at and not creep out. In his car on the way to the airport with Paulette his thoughts ate him up, how lonely he’d be, how he wouldn’t have anyone to watch movies with, or anyone to sit with him when video games got to scary. The crushing realization of his impending loneliness in combination with the fact that Duy had never been a discerning attentive man led to him parking his blue 99’ Acura TL in a area of the lot clearly marked ‘employees only.’ After a somewhat brief but very much complete goodbye to Paulette, and a conniption fit in the bathroom that was cut short by two members of the late night airport staff entering the lavatory to perform perverse sexual acts on each other on the surprisingly well cleaned floor, he returns to the parking lot just in time to see his reliable old car being hoisted up and dragged out by a tow truck. The white of the truck drivers eyes match the white of his teeth and off sets the pulsating orange of his cigarette as he laughs while he drives with Duy’s car in tow, his back bumper scrapping and his ‘opps’ bumper sticker seemly mocking him. He then called his cousin, Joshua to pick him up from the airport. Joshua brought Adrian, long time friend, current roommate, and full time heel. Now they sit in a 2 star diner in the hotel district of Chicago at 2 a.m.
Duy’s barely touched his food, he claims its hard to eat on a brokenheart, Adrian says its even harder to masturbate while heartbroken. No one laughs. Snot drips from Duys nose and before it hits his lip Duy licks it up. Josh says the reason why he isn’t hungry is because he is full off booger. Everyone smiles.
“You know what’s the worst’ Duy slings his head back and looks directly at the ceiling fan above them that spins like a wounded animal runs, ‘ the worst part is that the last time we made love was in the car. I mean, how striped of intimacy is that? I could of done better. There’s tons of hotels around, I could of gotten us a room. ” Residual tears roll down Duy face and neck in no hurry as if they were taking the scenic route.
“Plus the room wouldn’t of been that expensive, I mean how much money can 5 minutes cost?” Adrian says while he stabs at the thin sliver of steak on his place and snickering self-servingly.
“We could have showered together, enjoyed a room that was souly ours for our last night together. And I settled for cowgirl in a cramped back seat. I’m such a screw up.” Duy sighs in a tone so bleak the deaf could hear.
“Duy, man you’re breaking my heart. Relax man, she’ll be back by this time next year. And it’ll be like you guys never missed a beat man. You just gotta be strong dude, be strong and..’ Josh is interrupted by the waitress.

“More Coffee boys? Oh my, whats the matter baby?” The heavy set women places a tender hand on Duy’s shoulder. He looks up at her, all red faced and puffy.
“The only girl. The girl I’ve ever met, in my whole life who didn’t mind holding my hand in public is on a plane to the dessert and for my last night with her, I humped her like a high school kid after homecoming in my car in the Midway airport parking lot. How insensitive? I am scum.” Duy eyes are glazed.
“Wait you fucked her in your car? The one that just got towed? Dude, that truck driver was probably watching. Maybe even jacked off. That’s fucked.” Adrian looks at Duy with disgusting oozing off his squared, brown face. The waitress’s concern turns to discomfort and she refills everyone’s coffee cup before disappearing.
“You can’t let this drag you down Duy. Cousin, remember when you lost your Pokemon cards at summer camp and you cried for like, a week straight?” Joshua asks Duy, who nods. “Yeah it sucked, you worked real hard to build an awesome deck. Put in the time to master it, learn every card. Most importantly you respected the cards while you had them.”
“Then I lost them, I got careless. It was my fault I forgot to get them before I got on the bus, they probably got stolen, then played with by some kid who didn’t nearly appreciate them as much as me. If only I would held on to them If only..” Duy says before heavly sobbing into the palm of his hands.
“This is the gayest….” Adrian shakes his head and eats his steak.
“If only what Duy? If you hadn’t of lost them then what? You’d still play with them now? You’d be a 21 year old pokemon card player?” Josh says before continuing with “I believe there is a force, a force of nature that moves things in our life for our well being. You lost those cards so you didn’t go around getting the ass kicked by Zach Zagorsk everyday of freshman year. Besides do you remember what happened the next month? Digimon came out, and you fell in love with them. A different type of love, but it still made you happy right? ”
“Yeah, but I still thought about all the cards I lost. My Charizard and Sychter and my Mew.”
“And that’s perfect. You were supposed to, you still remember those cards names which is..”
“Fucking gay” Adrian says almost desperately.
“WHICH, is amazing. It shows you care, that no matter how long its been. They still hold a place in your heart. But Digimon helped you get over Pokemon and when Digimon was gone it was Monster Rancher that satisfied your need for cute little Japanese monsters that killed each other.”
“But I never, liked them as much as I like Pokemon.”
“Because Pokemon were your first love, it will never be as fanatical as the first love. Or as sexy as the second, but don’t you still watch Monster Rancher.”
“I’ve got the whole series on DVD.”
“Exactly.”
The waitress shuffles nervously over to the table and places the check down before abruptly turning around and heading toward back toward the kitchen.
“She liked to walk barefoot, In the grass. She didn’t care about bugs or nothing. She climbed trees too. Better than I ever could. She never wore bright clothes, colorful but never bright. I loved her scent.”
“She’ll be back.” Adrian says, not making eye contact.
“What if it isn’t the same?”
“Then you’ll find Digimon.” Josh says grabbing the check.

B

"I don't think I want to see you again."
"I figured.'
"How"
"Its in your eyes."
Her room is small and the windows are all closed. The morning air was warm.
"What are you talking about?" She plucked the cigarette out of my mouth.
"You lost that look."
"What look?"
"The special one."
"I wasn't aware I ever gave you a special look."
"You did."
What did it look like?" Grey smoke seeps out her mouth.
"It looked like,you were watching a race, but you already knew who would win."
She smiled but it didn't matter.
"Have you used that line before?"
"I don't recycle words, I don't even say 'hello' anymore because its too cliche."
We don't talk for a minute then she tells me she has work in a few hours.
I slide over her and sit at the edge of the bed. My socks are in my shoes and my shoes are neatly arranged by the door. I'm always ready to retreat. She offers me a shower and breakfast and implies that she'd be ok with goodbye sex. I decline all but the breakfast, she makes good hash browns, and I'm hung over and heart broken.

Is there a place we can go, to distance ourselves from what we've become?

Hey all, So June completely passed without one single update. And for this, fellow scoundrels, I apologize. I've been busy with work and family and getting sober and realizing that being sober kinda sucks. Making money, losing money, saving lives. I've also started and finished a short story (30 pages) called 'I lost the keys to my time machine.' Its about a really bad break up. I'm in the process of making a tumblr account where I will release a chapter a week until the epic story concludes or I realize no body is reading. But for now, I figure I'll let you guys have a few ramblings from my journal along with the first short story i ever wrote back in the dark ages of 2008. Stank you smelly much for reading you guys really make me happy, and don't forget to tell your moms and girlfriends and pets about who awesome this blog is.

8=========D,
A.H.L


Sometimes you get lucky and girls get naked in your room.
Sometimes you get lucky and find 3 dollars on the ground.
Sometimes you get lucky and your friends pay for your train ride.
Sometimes you get lucky and find your keys after 2 weeks of looking
Sometimes you get lucky and cashiers give you extra change
But most time you aren’t lucky at all.
Most of the time you are thrown to the wolves.
We just have to face the facts that we will all lose way more than we win.
Wallets will get lost.
Buses will be late.
Printers will run out of ink.
And ice cream will melt before you even take a bite.
It’s the small tribulations of everyday life that can drive a man mad.
The tiny inconviences that can send people spiraling into depression.
But I guess we are all living for those lucky moments, the moments where everything just falls into place.
Thing fall apart, but it is how we put them back together that defines us.
We just have to live, because the only alternative to life is death.
And I don’t want to be no ghost, Since most of the time I already feel invisible.




Time is running, and I have dress shoes
I’ll watch it disappear on the horizon
And hope it jogs a memory

It bullshit that theres a warning before those girls gone wild commercials. They sound be used as info nuggets like “you sister will get naked on camera for cocaine and rum shots.”
A few whores ago.


I sat in bed and watched Kelly hunched over my computer. My monitors glow lit her face up, she was so fucking cute (although she had a slight man chin.) She was reading short stories I had written. She was fresh out of high school, so I showed her a piece I had written about an unrequited love I had in high school. It had the perfect amount of cursing and vulnerability. Vulnerability in the sense that It was honest and pretty sad but not to sappy, she had already told me to “man up” in a serious tone when I made a joke about crying. It took her about 20 minutes to read it all, we sat in silence, not awkward in the least. Just her squinting at the text, and me eating the plate of Jose Ole mini tacos I had warmed up for us. She was wrapped in my comforter, underneath she was vagina naked. On the floor her clothes lay in a pile. She was pretty, so pretty.
I didn’t expect Kelly. We had been to a few parties together, but I was far to drunk at each of them to make a positive impression. The first time I talked to her sober was exactly one week before, and if someone had told me then that she would be in my room naked, reading my “work” at 2:17 am, I would have never believe them. She seemed innocent, even thou I didn’t know her well. I guess it was her eyes, she had big, glossy eyes. And when she smiled, which she did often, she looked like a cartoon character.
I looked at her almost the entire time she was reading. I’ll admit it was a little creepy, staring at her like that.
But in a way she was staring at me, she was reading one of the most genuine pieces I had ever wrote. Technically she was the creep, looking into my soul through my writing. I was just looking at her butt and side boob. When she had finished reading she looked at the keyboard for a minute. She put her finger on it as if to begin typing.
“You’re a really good writer.” She said still looking down at her fingers on the keyboard.
“Thank you.” I said, pretty generically. Thats what I said every time someone told me I was good. It was hard to tell if they were being honest, or just polite.
“I wish I could write.” She said as she took her fingers off the keyboard and looked at me with those eyes. I was briefly reminded of Alix and her piercing eyes. Both Rachel and Alix had incredible eyes, but totally different. Alix eye’s were sharp and almost cutting. While Kelley’s eyes were inviting and warm. I still loved Alix’s eye, but I could get used to Kellys.
“You probably can, just try. I takes a lot of work, and if you aren’t in the right mindset it can be boring but if you keep at it, it’s one of the most rewarding things ever.” I told her. I really did believe she could write. She was an intelligent girl, all she needed was the patience.

“How often do you write?”
“500 hundred words a day, Just like Jack London.” I lied. I was lucky to write 500 hundred words a week. I did admire Jack London for his 500 word a day ritual but I was way too lazy to mimic it.
“Really?” Kelley said sounding impressed.
“Yeah, it’s hard but worth it.” I felt like a bastard lying to her. But it wasn’t really lying, it was just realistic exaggeration.
“Wow, I should write 500 words a day.” She said as she got out of the seat and shuffled to bed with me. We laid there together, I had gotten drunk and thrown up all over one of my pillows so now I only had one that we shared, our faces were incredibly close, but I don’t think she cared and I certainly didn’t mind being close to those gorgeous brown eyes.
“I wish I could break dance.” I said, half joking.
Kelly was a dance major. Before I gave her my stories she showed me a video on her myspace of her dancing. I’m a terrible dancer, thus a terrible judge of dancing, so I couldn’t tell if she was good or not. But I did know she loved it, and her ass looked great in tights and that was good enough for me.
“I could teach you.”
“Ha, for sure.” I said before I kissed her on the forehead and put my arms around her. “Sorry I don’t have another pillow, the other one was a fucking mess, I had to dump it.”
“What happen to it?” She asked. I paused for a minute, I could tell her the truth, the rather vile story of the night John and I went half on a gallon of some shit off brand rum, but I concluded that the idea of me helplessly puking into the very bed we were laying in might put a damper on the mood of the night.
“ Spilled Pepsi all over it, I’m a clutz.” Crisis averted.
“Damn, that sucks.”
“Indeed.”
Neither of us said anything for about two minutes. Barely even moved. I kissed her after awhile.
“Did you play any sports in high school?”
“Yeah actually. I wrestled sophomore thru senior year.” I told her.
“Really?’ she said sitting up a little and looking at me before continuing “You a wrestler? In a weird way I can see that.”
“Yeah, I’m pretty terrible at most sports. My mom, she used to send me and my cousins to this sports camp. I went there for like, 4 summers. Didn’t get any better at anything, besides shit talking and faking injuries.”
“Hahaha. What made you want to wrestle?”
“ I’m an only child and haha, I’ve always a lot of stored energy and aggression and shit. You know, from not having a little brother’s ass to beat or something. Not that I’m violent or anything, I just enjoy putting people in headlocks every now again, is that so wrong?”
Now that I think about it maybe I was a little violent. To this day I still attack cousins and close friends. Every family gathering I look forward to throwing my little cousins over couches and into laundry baskets. And my assaults on friends my age are rather hostile and elaborate. This past summer I was approached by three mall cops and almost banned from the premises after play fight I had initiated in a clothing store and just last month I choked Justin with my dogs rope toy thing.
“Yeah, ok psycho.”
“Ahhh bite me, Did you play any sports?”
“No not really..” She continued on about how she was in a collection of plays and performances in high school. She had showed me pictures of her in high school through her face book. She wasn’t always cute, in fact in most of her older pictures she looked like a Puerto Rican boy, curly hair pretty bushy eyebrows. All she needed to do was let her leg hair grow and stand outside a 7/11 trying to sell food stamps. Hahaha, I’m sorry that’s racist.
“Yeah, ok psycho.”
“Ahhh bite me, Did you play any sports?”
“No not really..” She continued on about how she was in a collection of plays and performances in high school. She had showed me pictures of her in high school through her face book. In my old school the dancers were the popular girls, cheerleaders, prom queens and other assorted pretty faces. This was not the case at her school, the dance team she showed me in the pictures looked more like the chess team. Maybe the chess team paints to nerdy of a picture, more like the environmental club. They posed. They laughed. They got caught off guard. All with an air of adolescent awkwardness
There was another silence. I could here the T.V through the walls, it was “The Cable Guy.”
“Are you hungry?” I asked her as I looked at the ceiling.
“Yeah, a little but I never turn down food. What do you have.”
“Oh, you’ll see. I’m going to make us the most romantic meal ever.”
“Oh, wow. I can’t wait.” She said smiling at me.
I put my pants on and walked into the living room. Not three steps out of my room I see Kelley’s friend Jasmine’s head jerk up. She was sitting on the couch with Freddy who was now scrabbling to fasten his pants. I had just walked in on oral sex. I made eye contact with both of them, there was no need to pretend like I didn’t see it. The room reeked of lust and penis. Freddy wore a tank top and sweated a lot. The living room couch was drenched in his sweat, back sweat and ball sweat. I was smirking, they were giggling.
“Well alright.” I coughed out and headed to the refrigerator. I had no idea what was in it, I barely shopped and I was sure that the items I bought were either eaten or rotten. I opened the freezer; Ice cream, steak, French fries, more ice cream, mini tacos, mini corn dogs and three frozen pizzas. The only thing that belong to me were the box mini corn dogs, and it was half empty. Before moving in my mom prepped me on how to deal with the house food thief. The thief was me now. I had been eating Randy’s mini tacos and Kyle’s hot pockets for the better part of a week. Not to mention I drunk the shit out of every soda Valens had ever purchased. I decided to cook us my corn dogs, didn’t want to spoil the night with thievery.
As I watched the corn dogs heat in the microwave and tired to avoid looking at Freddy and Jasmine on the couch I thought about how it was only 12:48. The night had pretty much been a whirl wind for me. It started in Cohen’s room, like most of the early nights did. I didn’t have much to drink that night, so I was slightly more composed than usual. I can’t remember a damn thing I said to her in Cohen’s room. Her friends pulled me aside a few times to ask me did I like her. I charmed them into convincing her to come to my room. In a comedy book I read there was a passage that said “When things go right, it’s a blur. It’s when you crash that you remember every detail.” Things went right that night, with Kelly. The night was a river, and I was just a floating log. Lucky drift wood.
2 minutes and the corn dogs would be ready. Jasmine charged into my room, I’d never seen my door close so fast. I looked at Freddy. He was still in high school and here he was getting mouth love from a college girl. He smiled at me, cocky little shit. Earlier that night Kelley told me she had a thing with one of the guys who lived in my building, she didn’t tell me who but she did she I knew him. Apparently he liked her way more than she liked him, but she was trying to spare his feelings and not be seen entering and exiting my room. This was the third time I had been in this situation this year, girl stealing. I never did it to disrespect anyone, in fact this time wasn’t even on purpose. Kelley had been in my room a few hours earlier then left to settle things with the mystery boy. I offered to talk to him to, but she said it would make things weird, I didn’t give a fuck about weirdness, it was benefit of being socially challenged. I simply didn’t have time to give any fucks.
Corn dogs were done. The microwave open button got stuck pretty often, I pressed it a few times until the door finally swung open, I Jackie Chan dodged it and grabbed the plate. I knocked on my door, I knew better than to interrupt girl talk. I waited a few. The door open and Jasmine was standing there.
“Hello.” I said holding the plate in one hand and trying to keep my pants up with the other.
“I need to talk to you.” She said taking the plate from me and giving it to Kelley.
“Corn dogs is your idea of romantic?” Kelley said with her mouth already eating one.
“Try it with barbecue sauce. They are divine.” I said pointing to a bottle that was already on my desk, I wondered how the hell did that even get there? I was lead by the hand by Jasmine to the bathroom.
She closed the door and I sat on the toilet.
“Having a good night, Jasmine?”
“It’s alright, what about yours?”
“Not so good, I missed Super jail, it was a new episode.” I laughed.
“Do you like Kelley?”
“Didn’t you already ask me this?”
“Yes or no?”
“Yes. A lot.”
“What do you like about her.” She sat down the sink and looked at me like I was a criminal.
“Her eyes..” I whispered.
“Huh?” Jasmine said leaning her head in. She was smiling slightly so I was to intimidated but I knew this was a relatively serious talk.
“I like her because she I can actually talk to her. I feel oddly comfortable around her.” I said looking down at my pants, they were dirty. I looked up at Jasmine she seemed pleased with my answer.
“I like her because it is easy to like her.” The words snuck out of my mouth. They echoed and then disappeared. Moments of inadvertent honesty were becoming more routine ever since I moved in. They oozed out, the truths. Unapologetic truths. I didn’t know what to make of it, I had no choice but to accept them, and pray I learned to internalize them.
“Good.” she said.
“Think I have a chance with her?”
“Maybe” she laughed before saying “You are cuter then most of guys she talks to.”
I laughed. I saw a picture of Kelley with a guy she identified as her ex boyfriend, I thought I was cuter. But I knew it was about looks with Kelley, she was into artists. And more turned on by passion and creativity then faces and muscles.
After I finished with Jasmine I went back to my room. She was sitting on the bed talking on her phone.
“Here he is now” Kelley said.
“Who is that?”
“It’s Ashley, I think she want to go back to the U.C now.”
Ashley was Kelley room mate, her crush on Cohen was the reason I met Kelley in the first place.
“Oh really?”
“Yeah she is tired and doesn’t feel like staying withCohen tonight.”
Even though we had already had sex, I still didn’t want Kelley to go yet. Cuddling after sex was the cherry on the sundae, if she left now I couldn’t cuddle. I’d be robbed of my sex sundae, I had to do something.
“Let me see the phone.”
Kelley passed me her phone. I didn’t know what I was going to say to Ashley to convince her to stay, but I am a writer and words my tool.
“Hey Ashley. What’s this I here about you trying to leave and take Kelley and Jasmine with you.” I cut to the chase, there was no need to play it subtle.
“Yeah Adam. I’m getting sleepy and want to lay in my OWN bed.” She said, clearly emphasizing to Cohen.
“Well it’s 1 in the morning and this is Chicago, there are dangerous men out there Ashley. Men that wouldn’t think twice about harassing three pretty young girls walking home this late.”
“I always carry pepper spray and the U.C is like ten minutes away.”
“Yeah, that’s what all rape victims say. Next thing they know they are tied up in an attic getting fingers put in there butt. You don’t want to be the victim of a booty pinky do you Ashley?” the words fumbled and flipped out. Booty pinky sounded like a Trina song.
“Hahaha, whatever Adam I’m tired tell Kelley to met me in Cohen’s room.”
“Hmmmm, That means she has to put back on all of her clothes, that might take awhile…” I looked at Kelley. She had sex hair. “And plus, you have your whole life to sleep in your own bed. You are young and who knows how long it will last, take chances, sleep in mysterious beds, even if it is a rough night, one night is in the flash in the pan in the long run.”
There was silence on the other end and then “Put Kelley back on the phone.”
I handed Kelley the phone, they talked for few seconds then hung up.
“Well I’m staying, but I have to leave tomorrow early.” Kelley looked up at me.
“Glad to hear it.” I kissed her and grabbed a handful of corn dogs.
We talked for a few hours. About the movie Pulp Fiction and consumerism and how it had made hip hop dance a fad. Then we went to sleep. Well she did, I had an erection, and about 20 minutes into her slumber I woke her up for sex. Then we went to sleep for real.

Spin

Its Tim’s twenty third birthday. We’re at a bon fire at his girlfriends house somewhere next to a tall bridge in Indiana. Tim’s girlfriend family is there, they wear mustaches and shirts with tour dates on the back. They look at Tim strange, they don’t look at me at all. They’re nice enough, except for the fact they drink Samuel Adams. Tim’s friends are there, I know a few. We sit in the kitchen and talk. About Tim mostly, about the time he walked through a glass door. We talk about he got to drunk and threw up in Kyle’s car and used his dirty sock to clean the chunks off of his mouth. When Normet brings up the night Tim stole a cake from Diary Queen and in the semi epic chase with an employee, he trips over a curb and falls. Ruining the cake and skinning his chin. Tim’s a klutz, gauche in every aspect, he has become one of my dearest friends. The lovable loser, he lives in his mom’s basement. His walls plastered with video game magazine covers, he has maps to places that don’t exist. He jokes about ending his life, but I don’t think he’s joking all the time.



Tim’s girlfriend’s gay Uncle’s boyfriend made Tim a cake. Its shaped like sonic the hedgehog, Tim’s favorite video game character. We sing happy birthday, Tim blows out the candles and cracks a sheepish half smile. Sincerity incarnate. We dig in, the frosting is delicious. I sit back down at the kitchen table with my slice of cake and my fourth beer of the night. It’s weird, beer and birthday cake, not the taste, just the sentiment. Birthday cake are innocent, a remnant of a simpler time. And beer gives me headaches and makes me buy lottery tickets. There are a few little kids their, Tim’s Girlfriends cousins, they look at me while I eat. Their eyes are innocent but level, waiting to follow or judge. I laugh and open my mouth as wide as I can, showing them the half chewed birthday cake mush, all blue and green and gross. They giggle, kids love stupid shit like that.

We get kicked out the kitchen so we sit around the fire. Tim’s Girlfriend said I could have some of their vodka, but I took more than I should. I’m pretty drunk and Brian is talking about ACEN. The annual Anime and Comic Convention. He tells me about how they have a rave going on out in some Hilton hotel in Palatine, Illinois. The only time I’ve been to a comic book convention was when I was seven, I have no solid, reliable memory of that day but I do remember a man dressed as wolverine and giant Ren from “Ren and Stimpy.”
“It was trippy.” I mutter. Looking as the fire eats the woods. Fire pits are a lot like being drunk, you never want to burn out.
“Haha, its interesting you say that.” Brian says while he digs in his coat pockets. He tells me to open my hand, I peer at him, and then lean over and outstretch my hand., open my sweaty palms and Brian plants a bag in my hand. The bag is full of fungus. Mushrooms.
“You don’t put these on pizza. Do you?” I joke. Its hard to say if the smile I wear is because of the mushrooms or because after 7 beers and three shots I right on top of the happy drunk that has sailed and sank many a ship.
Brian says he’ll sell me half and he’ll pay for parking if I convince Tim to drive of to ACEN. This proposal sends my baked brain into thought. The concept of being drunk and tripping amongst a bouquet of people dressed like Super Mario and Darth Maul and Goku and all types of other freaky character excited me.

Back in the Kitchen Tim sits with his girlfriend, holding hands across the table. She is good for him. Tim is introverted, gullible, near sighted and unemployed. He has deep anxiety and is in all God fearing, Flag flying honesty, a terrible candidate for mushrooms. The fungus can spin your head, hard. And to a guy with a thought pattern like Tim’s a 48 hour head spin surrounded by people in costumes carrying fake swords isn’t the ideal atmosphere. Soon it becomes a question of ethics, with enough pressure Tim will do just about anything, hell a few hours before I convinced him to jump over the fire pit. The trip would be new to Tim, he’d never ate mushrooms but had been wanting to for awhile, I knew how intense it could be. Sinking feelings, shrinking feelings, paranoid feelings, feelings of scales and rats and people with no faces. It can get scary, it can really spin your head. But sometime a good head spin is what we need, because when (if) our heads settle, the world will seem a bit smaller, and we will seem a bit bigger.


Tim’s Girlfriend’s Gay Uncle’s Boyfriend has had too much to drink and he’s now sitting Indian style in the grass sniffling, crying a little. The two had got into a spat, a shouting match. I’ve often when arguments between to men should turn physical, there is only so much verbal abuse pride will allow. But I suppose between lovers the line is a bit further. Once I was seeing this girl and during one of our weekly arguments she threw shoes and a can of axe body spray at my head. After that she charged my, bawling her eyes out screaming an incoherent frenzy of swears and threats. She wailed on my face for awhile and yanked my hair. I was scared. Eventually I had enough and threw her on the ground, she said I had hurt her back, I said she busted my lip. We made sweaty love. I am glad I don’t talk to her any longer.



At around 12 am we are on the highway too the anime convention. We all ate the shrooms and the trip was starting to manifest in are actions. I feel bad for dragging Tim away from his own party but I figure his girlfriends always around and ACEN only comes once every year. Tim drove and Brian was in the passenger seat, I was laid out in back. Out of my peripheral I see the clouds darking to an almost green tint, but when ever I would look directly at them, they’d clumsily morph back into the deep grey the night sky permitted, like a child pretending to sleep. Yeah, it wouldn’t be long to the drugs kicked in, and we freaked out. I ask Brian how he got the money for the fungus and the parking voucher. He tells me he works. I ask where.
“At a rehabilitation clinic by cook county jail.”
“That sounds hella interesting.” I say, still trying to catch the green clouds.
“Yeah, he has all types of crazy stories, the craziest stuff happens there right, Brian.” Tims voice is in a higher pitch, jovial. He’s trippin, but his driving isn’t affected which was one of my main concerns. Granted on these long stretches of Midwest road there aren’t many cars driving this late. Brian tells me a story about how he works sanitation at the clinic. Mopping, cleaning windows, changing bed pans. He tells me about funny patients with eye patches and lisps. He tells me about how he walked in on a man in a wheel chair getting oral sex from a nurse. He has good delivery I think, He’s make a fine comedian.
“You know what the most fucked up thing about my job is?” Brian asks sincerely. “Taking the bus back home, I work by cook county jail and a lot of former inmates and shit take the bus with me. They be trying to look all hard and shit, but I sit back and think, damn, I wonder how many of these niggas got fucked in the butt.” I laugh hard, but the though of buttsex on mushroom makes me queasy so I cut the laugh short and close my eyes.



Driving up I can tell we are close by the amount of weird people I see, cosplayers they are called. For those of you who don’t know, cosplayers are people who dress in costumes resembling a fictional cartoon character. I see light sabers and platform boots and helmets. There are demons and giant scorpions and men with wings and women’s with whiskers in high cut skirts. Tim is looking out the window and smiling, seeing Tim happy makes me innately happy. Soon our happiness shifts gear into panic because Tim drives straight into one of those flashing lights on those wooden structures. Cracks the window, a nasty spider web crack. Brian is laughing, I pat Tim on the back and say at least we made it. He sighs. We park.



Inside the lobby of one of the many hotels sponsoring the event I’m tripping and making a scene.
“Ok, I get it. It’s pretend I know. But listen, please could you find it. Find it in your heart to just TELL me that, that head isn’t real.”
‘Dude, you know it isn’t real.”
“Yes, yes I realize but I need you too say it. I know dude, its weird but, trust me, I need you to say that the head isn’t real.”
“Why would they even let me in if it was a real head?” He’s chuckling, but this isn’t funny. On mushrooms reality is warped. You’re unstable, and nothing helps more than validation. At that moment. I need this man to tell me that the bloody, severed rubber head wasn’t real. But he would not, and I began to spiral into insanity .
“Kratos, listen man, I’m not joking ok? You need to tell me that head is fake.”
“Whatever man, you’re creepy me out.” He walks off. Clutching his fake swords tight, just in case I lunge after him, which I’m not sure I won’t.
“Fuck you, you dirty dick eating fish fucking son of a bitch.” I point to him violently. Then I notice my yelling attracted the attention of about 100 costumes adolescents, their eyes were burning me. I ran off, I pass a man dressed like Chewbacca holding a girls hand. The girl has a impressive chest.




Tim and Brian come tumbling toward me as I sit outside smoking a cigarette Tim asks can he get one but I tell him I gave my last smoke to the man with the top hat wearing the trench coat with glowing lights. No body knows if I’m lying or not. We barter our way into acquiring three VIP passes. These passes get you into the rave. And that exactly wear we go. We dance for a little bit. Brian runs into some friends and they offer use glow in the dark body art, me and Tim declined but Brian rips his shirt off and begins having everybody write on him. The rave becomes hot and menacing so I exit.

I meet a girl from Kentucky. She is dressed as Mugen from Samurai Shamploo, says her names Christine.
“This your first ACEN?” She looks over to me, and right into my dilated eyes.
“Yeah, this is pretty amazing. I’ve always wanted to go to one. Happy I finally made it out. This is refreshing.”
“Refreshing?” She takes I sip from a water bottle that I’m almost positive isn’t full of water. There were a lot of drunk nerds out that night. I had a conversation with a valet and he told me the police had been called 3 times in the last day.
“Yeah its like. People are here. For this. No, no ulterior motives. Just here, for this.” I shake my head and beat myself up for claiming myself a writer and fumbling with words.
“Everyone is hear to bond man, its all good fun.” She smiles like a millionaire. Her hair moves, it’s the mushrooms making me see that thou, there is no wind this late at night.



i'll finish it, i promise

Our Igor

NOTE: I'm doing something really cool right now for the blog, this ain't it thou.

I once got asked the question If I’d rather have my feet cut off or my hands. I can’t remember the context of the conversation, but I can say that amputation is a frequented topic among my friends. Not a whole lot of thought went into my answer “Feet, man fucking, cut em’ off.” My reasoning being that hands are more noticeable part of the body, hand shakes and hugs, high fives and masturbation. “A world with out hands seems like a dark place man, a place I aint trying to go to.” We laughed and talked more about hands and how we’d much rather lose our feet than go through life never holding a hand or running fingers through the hair of a lover or a whore, which ever comes first. The conversation meandered from amputation to insemination, or something else gross. But I dwelled on my feet for a little while, looking down at the beat Nikes that had become my signature shoes. This size 12 had helded me up all my life, and I never thanked them. And here I am, so eager to remove them just so I could get some up, the shirt, under the bra action. If my hands were hedonism my feet were devotion. They are martyrs, willing to be dragged and drowned all the while holding us up like the venerated roots to an ungrateful tree. They are martyrs like Jesus, willing to take to the cross to absolve us. At risk of sounding blasphemous, I’ll even go as far as to say our feet love us more than Jesus. Think about it, Jesus want all that thanks and penance and money feet don’t ask for any of that. It’s like, I get it Jesus, thanks for doing me that favor but you don’t have to bring it up every time we meet thou. (I have a friend, Jonathon, who picked me up from an airport once and every time we see each other he brings it up, that shit was like 2 years ago man.)Our feet are suffocated by boots, constricted to be put in hells, bound and mutilated. Arguably our most valuable exterior body part, we treat them like lepers, leaving in sweaty dens, lumbering around in their own stench as we pummel them. They are our loyal servants, our Igor. Imagine if you will, and uprising of the feet, a subversion, a rebellion. Imagine if our feet suddenly took matters into their own hands. Imagine you are running from a lion in the Serengeti, and your feet, fed up with the abuse choose to stop, you go limp, you fall, and the ravenous beast rips you shreds. Or you are crossing the street, maybe you just got out of class and suddenly get a taste for some delicious Blizzard treats at the local Diary Queen, half way across the street you notice you movements become sluggish, you panic as you watch the incoming traffic barrel your way, you push and push, straining your tendons, but its not use. Your feet feel like lead, immovable and spiteful. A Ford focus, pounds the brakes but its too late, the impact catapults you 20 feet in the air you fly and crash onto the asphalt, dead as hell. Thank your feet people, they are the real heroes.

Healing

NOTE: It's been about a year since I started Scoundrels and Vagrants. I was in bad shape, to say the least. I was going through this self inflicted depression that I can only refer to now as an identity crisis. S&V started off as my way to whisper to a world that other wise never seem to listen. I wanted the world to know how much I hated it for what it had done to me and people like me. It was my way to deal with my social anxieties and awkwardness, without drinking or drugs.Eventually, with a little help from my friends, I pulled myself out of that existential gang bang and emerged as a better, healthier, smarter, prettier Adam. That's when I sold out, I started writing with other people's satisfaction in mind, dumbing things down, taking out lines I thought would reflect myself badly. I forgot about empowering the wicked, wierd, disenchanted rebels and started thinking about all the skirt these words could get me. Then that sent me into another emotional shit factory, that I worked myself out of (well kinda, I'm still a little bit of a sellout, but fuck it, sell outs at least sell, right?) Anyway, lets cut this self-indulgence short and let me tell you that what you are about to read is a piece a wrote when I was 17 and completely honest. I was immature but at least I was sincere and my heart was good. My hearts still good, I think...


The truth regarding me and Karla Solis


Karla Solis is a girl. I am a boy. I met Karla Solis my junior year in high school. She was beautiful then, dark curly hair, beautiful eyes, and 36 C breasts. She was perfect for me. It wasn’t long after I noticed Karla Solis enter the lunch room that I would talk to her. Karla Solis sat at a table with the new crop of freshman girls, all of them as pretty as they were naïve, they laughed and whispered, they ate and talked with their mouths full, disgusting freshman, but not as disgusting as I was watching Karla Solis stuff her face with chips and homemade sandwiches and carrots and apple juice. I walked over to their table, they all seem to stare up at me, all of them were beautiful in there own right, but my eyes stayed on Karla Solis as she wiped her mouth and said. “Hello.”
For weeks after that day I sat at the freshman girl table, I had made casual friends with all of them, they liked me because I was funny, not because I was cute, not because I helped them with homework but because I made them laugh, which wasn’t very hard to do. I listen to their stories, they asked me my opinion on boys, I hated giving advice on relationships, but they all seemed to ask, I’d usually give them a half-thought out answer and being impressionable they hung on my every word. I watched as the freshman boys glared at me, they too wanted Karla Solis, but they were to shy to approach her, I had grown out of that phase, shyness, nothing good came from it, the quote “good things come to those who wait” is bullshit. I guess hey lacked confidence I had grown over my high school career,
After school me and Karla Solis would talk before her mom came to pick her up in her yellow van that often had a dog in the back, we would talk about how are days had been after lunch, we talked about other girls at the table, we talked about teachers, none of these topics I particularly gave a shit about, but it was what Karla Solis wanted to talk about, so I didn’t mind. One of these times after school Karla Solis had taken out her phone, to text someone, one of the goofy lunch table girls no doubt, I asked her, “Hey how come you never text me?” knowing that she didn’t have, nor did she express any interest in having my number.
“I don’t have your number silly.” Karla Solis said in her voice that if attached to anyone else I would hate.
I gave her my number, just as her mothers yellow van pulled up,
“Bye Adam.” she said looking into my eyes
“Peace” I said in an attempt to be cool, I waited to the yellow van and Karla Solis were far enough away , put my hood up, and made my way into the short white school bus that honked for me. I hated the school bus, and I hated people knowing I rode it.
Days past and no text or call from Karla Solis, it didn’t worry me to much. In school one day I decided not to sit with the freshman table but with my friends who claimed I was “Pussy wiped” and hassled me into sitting with them. I got my food from the lunch line and sat down and ate. I looked over at Karla Solis and her friends look at me and grin, I saw Karla Solis take her phone out, to text me no doubt. Seconds latter my phone vibrates with the immanent text message. I read “Why aren’t you sitting with us, get your but over here mister.” with one of those stupid fucking faces made with symbols…the one with the tongue hanging out. I escaped my friends and squeezed into the chair with her.
“I’m surprised you can fit with my fat-ass.”
Karla Solis thought she was fat, infect she wasn’t at all, its just the rest of her friends where twigs, Karla Solis brought her own lunch from home, because school lunches were fatting, although she would often pick at other peoples food. She was very self-conscious. She jogged and toke karate and dieted in attempts to loose weight.
“I lost 10 pounds Adam, aren’t you proud of me?” Karla Solis would ask me one day
I walked up to her and poke her stomach, “yes” I’d reply.
We talked and text on the phone everyday, stayed up way past her bedtime and laughed thru the night, I’d go to bed thinking about her, I’d read her texts over and over and over again. I’d look at her myspace, that I had convinced her to get, when ever she had a new picture posted I’d look at it, and smile. I was becoming very smitten with Karla Solis, no longer did I just want her 36 c breasts on my face, I wanted her. I was falling for Karla Solis. With every word we said to each other my heart grew fonder of her, I’d hug her and kiss her forehead everyday, I’d watch her blush when I did. I put my arm around her in hallways. She wouldn’t jerk away like some, she wouldn’t even ease out like most, she just stayed there, in my arms, like she didn’t mind that Adam Lawson was touching her.
As the year progressed the freshman boys gained enough confidence to ask Karla Solis out, I was jealous but never came right out and said it. She ask me if I should go out with them, I would take my anger out on her.
“Sure fatty, you need all the love you can get.” I berated her even more, calling her all types of names, like a lover scorn, She cried that day, her deep brown eyes peered at me a welled up with tears and she cried and cursed me. I was glad I made her cry, I was glad she cared enough about my words that she cried.
“Fat whore.” I spat.
“Why are you acting this way?” Karla Solis would say.
“Why are you acting so fat.” I couldn’t tell her, I could only insult, and insult I did.
She eventually ended up going out with him. I apologized and we were back to the way it was before. Us on the phone every night, she told me how much she wished her boyfriend could be like me, funny, charming, honest. When she said charming I laughed, I was in no shape nor from charming, at school I was known for my vulgar jokes and how I wrote “balls” on every black board in the school. And as for honest, if I was so honest why couldn’t I tell Karla Solis I felt, how I was falling in love with her, how I’d give most anything to be her boyfriend. How I’d Love her, How’d buy her presents, How I’d probably cheat on her, How I’d hide it, How I’d marry her.
Going into my senior me and Karla Solis didn’t speak much, I ignored her, I wanted her to come and speak to me first, She did, once a week almost she’d make an attempt to talk to me, I’d pretend I forgot the memories she brought up, I’d pretend I didn’t want to text her, I’d pretend to hate her, I’d tease her. Karla Solis went thru boyfriends fast, bout one every month, one of them was my friend. I’d casually ask him how things were going between them, how far they had gotten, how her room looked, how she was doing. He said he hadn’t gotten far, didn’t even let him grab her boobs he said.
“Oh man, what a bitch” I’d say, inside grinning, and thinking that a girl.
One day her boyfriend got hurt in a wrestling match, being a witness to the injury I thought it the perfect excuse to call Karla Solis, I didn’t care that he was hurt, I just wanted to talk to her.
The phone rang, she answer almost immediately.
“Hello?” she said in a shaky voice, obviously surprised by me calling.
“Hey, just thought I’d tell you Mario is getting hauled off in a ambulance.”
“What!?”
I explained the situation, she said she’d call him. The next day at school Karla Solis hadn’t said a word to me. Her boyfriend came back to school in a cast few days later.
“Hey man, I just want to thank you for telling my girl I was hurt, that’s respect man.”
“Yeah, no problem.” I said almost sincerely. “She told you about it.”
“Yeah she said that you called her and gave her the news, she said she was surprised, she thought you hated her…” he talked for awhile after that, about how much his arm hurt, and how good he had it and how much he was entitled to a sympathy lay.
Me and Karla Solis had a few conversations after that, I would text her occasionally, she’d text back. One of my favorite memories of her is after school it was raining softly and we talked in the rain while everyone else was under the small shelter under the schools awning. I toke my phone out I played with it.
“Eww still have that old crappy phone I see.” Karla Solis joked.
“Shut up.” I said, and opened the phone and grabed her lip with it. She looked at me, I looked at her with my phone attached to her lip, she didn’t mind it, I loved that about her, she didn’t me. I’ve sense graduated, moved on. I still think about Karla Solis. Still look at her text messages sometimes, still wonder what could have been. I hope I see Karla Solis again.

Post script:
I thought this one was important because I still find myself pushing people away, for no good reason but my own self consciousness. Man, I was 17 I'm 20 now, nigga's gotta grow up.

Closeface

Girl, you got something terrible between those legs. Enchanting and infuriating, like playing Jenga drunk. I’m talking of course about your vagina. The bizarre folds of skin that gives way to a cavern of inarticulate wonder. A weapon of mass distraction, your sharpest sword, your Atomic Bomb. Utter destruction disguised as a roast beef sandwich, or the sagging, wrinkled skin in between the fingers of an elderly man whose swung to many hammers. And what’s worse than the way it looks are the thing’s I’ve done to for it. Traveled state lines as well as phantom lines that separate tolerance and criminal devotion. I’ve emptied my pockets buying clothes to make myself hip only to end up looking like an inept, chicken legged jackass. I should of just bought a bear trap, or a giant pussy magnet, or maybe a net gun. My dealings with your vagina have reduced me to mist. You’ve turned this yellow boy into a paper thin boner, who’s prime directive has de-evolved to bartering Claire’s gift cards in exchange for sex. But I do look fondly on those nights rich with alcohol, where we would talk about shooting stars and sand castles. And my darting, hazy eyes would journey up your legs, past your knee to that pink void, where I left my heart.

I am going to make it though this year if it kills me

For Alissa/Valentines Day

It’s February in a part of Chicago where hearts break all the time. The coldest month of the year is reserved for Black History and Valentines day. (I wonder how alienated do you feel if you are white and white and lonely?) Last year, I spent Valentines day drinking Tequila out of a coffee mug. My friends had off and left me to go to a lingerie party in uptown. I didn’t mind to much thou, any girl brazen enough to venture into the arctic February dressed in lace and fishnets is way to sketchy for my liking anyway. Pneumonia isn’t sexy, not these days. So I stayed in and sipped the night into a deep stillness. Hoping more every second that my phone would erupt into that frenzied sporadic tune that indicated I had a new text message. More specifically , a text message from you. I’d hear the ring and gallop to the phone, It would be an ode to me in 160 characters or less about much you missed me, about how your life was, and how you hoped I was doing well. I’d respond with something allusive and cool and eventually we’d be faking misery together again, hand in hand. But the only text message I got that night was from a friend at the party, informing me that there were too many dicks on the dance floor, and that he was coming back to the apartment with beer.
I guess you’re a boat that drifted away from my shore, and I guess I deserve that. I forgot your birthday, and even thou you said I didn’t have too, I didn’t make it to your brother’s funeral. I’m sorry for being a ghost back then, I’m sorry for not being the guy you wanted me to be. I’ve sorry I’ve buried myself so deep but the best thing about you leaving, is the space left behind.

Ethiopians don't get the Food Network

At my great Aunts wake my uncle Andy and aunt Elsa asked me to baby sit their three youngest children, my cousins Christopher, Brandon and Kyle. They were going to Detroit for the funeral services of my distant aunt Rita who had passed 3 days prior. The majority of my family was making the trek to Michigan, but I was given the option of staying home by my father so naturally I opp ted out of the 4 hour car ride there and 3 hour car ride back. The members of my family who were staying behind were all busy or notoriously irresponsible where as my responsibilities were masked and hidden from the family by my father. My dad acted like he was my agent or attorney or some other professional con who was paid to make me and my pseudo accomplishments look like a sterling silver dinette set when in reality I was a K-mart brand spork.
In light of my public image I was the number two choice to baby sit the children, the number one pick was my Great Aunt Helen who was deceased. I won by default. Although I suppose “won” is the wrong adjective because being assigned to babysit Chris, Brandon and Kyle was no victory. They are terrorist. Tiny mutant terrorist with no regard or fear. If there was baby jail, these three would be baby felons and would be in baby San-quieten where they would wait years while a arduous trial raged on to determine if they were to be put to death by the baby gallows. Or electric chair, of course they'd need booster seats.
Before long news of me babysitting the children was spreading to all those in attendance at the wake. Apparently my dad had volunteered me to watch that boys for the weekend at he and my mother's house. My father had played Judas and sold me to the Romans. As I drifted from room to room of my Aunt Helen home people would nudge and tap me telling me how nice or dumb I was for taking own such a task. The warnings were said jokingly but had a tinge of seriousness that was both urgent and cryptic. I found my way to the deck where my cousin Gordon and Alexander were. These two were the older siblings of the three I was tasked to watch. Gordon was 17 and Alexander 16 and I had spent ample time with both of them in our younger years but the chemicals and melodrama of adolescence had removed us from such close company. But our family crest and blood gave us a hereditary reverence and understanding of one another.
We talked of the family, the “adults”, then we talked about Detroit and Aunt Rita's death and then about Aunt Helen and the house. This house meant more to all of us then our slack faces and general apathy led the elders to believe. The soggy yellow wood of the deck creeked as it had always. Under the deck was old bikes and century old cob webs, it smelled of rain drenched paper. Aunt Helen's house hosted countless family gatherings for around a century. These walls held up the ceiling in the Lawson name for years but we cared little about generations past. Gordon stared at the huge tree in the yard that casts a shadow over the shed. He had climbed and fallen from that oak once. The impact of the fall knocked him unconscious and me and Alexander dragged his body down the street to avoid a scolding. I held him by the arm and Alex had him by the legs, half way down the block an old woman watering her grass saw us and shrieked at the trail of small blood droplets behind us. He isn't dead I exclaimed she replied with a half nervous “I didn't ask.” and retreated calmly but quickly back in her house. Alexander had lived at aunt Helen's for the past few months to escape his family. He was now a star football player at his high school and was arrogant. Aunt Helen's death forced him to move back to his parents and brothers home. The furniture in the home was wrapped in plastic and had been for as long as I could remember. I thought about two small dogs that I could not place names nor remember relevancy of. The three of us shared a laugh about the old blue haired woman people called Aunt Franky, who had passed at least a decade ago. Aunt Helen's house smelled stale but safe. The refrigerator was always full and to this day my Aunt Helen's house is the only home I know with a pantry. Joint Juice plus, a formula developed to strengthen tendons and energize the drinker, was always in stock. But flexible joints are no competition to time and a willingness to let it take you. Aunt Helen's home was in a nice, hilly, green suburb. I remember hearing talk of selling the house. Meaning my services would be needed to help move dusty, heavy and ancient pieces of furniture out of the house. The basement was head quarters to huge spiders and probably rodents. Over the next few months the adults would need my help cleaning the place thus my next few memories of the home wouldn't be so fond.

The next day at around 11 a.m My Uncle Andy dropped the kids off, he gave me a few instructions and 50 dollars for food and pocket money. My parents had left earlier that morning. The kids came with two duffel bags one filled with clothes and the other with complicated age inappropriate toys. I was in the kitchen making ravioli when they all came in. Christopher was the oldest at 10, he was chubby and had a peanut shaped head, he wore taped glasses and shrunken stained shirt. Brandon was the second oldest, he was around 6 I think. People said he looked and acted just like my father did when he was a child which I found neither humorous nor promising. Kyle was the youngest and worst. In his 5 years of living he had deliberately wronged me more than any one else I had ever met. He spat in my food, thrown toy trucks at my head and crouch called me every foul name in the book and grinned at me during all of it. I'd made a plan, since he was too small to exact physical revenge on now, I'd wait until he was about 17 and I'd sleep with his girlfriend or give him a black eye before prom.
“We're hungry.” Christopher said in a shaky cartoon-eque voice.
“Yeah, and thirsty.” The raspy voiced Brandon said. Kyle just grinned, the little prick.
“I ordered pizza, it should be here soon.” I lied. The only call I had made all morning was to my friend Mike who I hadn't seen in months. He lived a few blocks away from my parents house and since I was spending the weekend here I thought this a good opportunity to catch. He'd be here within the hour.
“What kind of pizza?” Christopher asked squinting through his glasses he looked like a midget librarian.
“What kind do you want?”
“Peperoni.”
“That's the kind I ordered then.” I said turning off the stove as my ravioli finished.
“Did you get bacon on it too?” Christopher asked.
“What the fuck? No kid your age should even know bacon on pizza is possible.”
“I love bacon on pizza.” Christopher said smiling awkwardly.
“And ham.” Kyle yelled. I saw obesity in these children s future,not like it was hard in America to be fat anyway. While other countries live of 7 cents a day, we stuff our pizza crusts with cheeses and sauces, which if I'm not mistaken, is essentially pizza stuffed pizza.There is no Food Network in Ethiopia.
“No bacon, no ham, just pepperoni. Thats all the swine you rejects need.”
“Man.” Christopher said sounded utterly heartbroken. He ran off with Brandon and Kyle strutted past me to the basement. Either to play with my dog or to raid the storage room for my old toys. At my fathers behest, I hid everything that was valuable or easily breakable in a box in my room. These three had at least broken 15 hundred dollars worth of property collectively and I'd be damned if my collectors edition War Planets figurines were....

Girls just wanna have fun...

NOTE: I might get in trouble for this one

I know this kid, good kid. A bit fat, and his finger nails are usually dirty, but besides those fixable handicaps, he’s a real stand up guy. Let’s call him ‘Farguat’. Now Farguat is a homo, and a closeted homo at that. His family and religion discriminated and alienate, so for fear of being ostracized he keeps his fat, dirty, gay ass in the closet (It’s a tight fit). I thinks its utterly fucked that Farguat can’t love who he wants to love, it’s a tremendous atrocity when a man is can’t hold his lovers hand in public for fear of judgment from a brutish and perennially corrupt religion, Being a gay Christian is like being a Jewish Nazi. But that’s a whole other California roll…
A few years back, before the sterility of face book, Farguat made a fake myspace page, posing himself as a girl. Stealing some pictures from a girl in Akron, Ohio and decorating his page with sparkly shit and pulsating banners that read ‘Juicy‘ and ‘Heartbreaker‘, ‘Raquel’ the 5’5 , light brown haired, 34 D cup sized bombshell was born. And let me tell you folks, she was a certifiable tramp, in the best possible way.
Pickings are slim in the Midwest when you’re a boy who cant catch a football and would rather play Guilty Gear than dribble a Spalding, and eventually you get lonely enough to date online. Not me now, oh hell no, that e-dating shit is for the birds, I’d rather take a swim down lonely river than so much as dip my pinky toe into murky and polluted pool of internet relationships, fuck all of that. (Craigslist Erotic Services >E-Harmony)
But A few friends of mine, well they weren’t so lucky, lonely, and near sighted, and virgin dicked, they came across Farguat’s Frankenstein woman via myspace. And sooner rather than later 3 of my friend fell for Raquel. They were enamored with her, she was a nerd, she got their jokes, listen to their problems and she talked in ways that weren’t mean or dismissive. She gave them, hell even myself, hope. Hope that even boys like us could find pretty faces to kiss.
All the while, completely oblivious to us, our friend Farguat pecked away at his key board capturing hearts and stiffing penises. Now what made Farguat decided that he couldn’t go on any longer with the charade is unknown to me. Guilt, I reckon, but soon he came to the grim decision that Raquel had to be done in, she had to disappear, she had to be killed. My friend, lets call him ‘Numchuck Ralph’, receives an email from a woman claiming to be Raquel’s mother saying that Raquel had died in a tragic drunk driving accident. Everyone was devastated , even me and I had never even chatted with the bitch. After mourning for a day of so, Numchuck Ralph acted on his lingering suspicion, and decided to investigate the death. Numchuck Ralph is as comfortable on a computer as a pig is in shit, he knows just about everything there is to know about just about everything. He follows the IP address on the email to an account on a gay dating website, and who do we see on said butt pirate hook up site, our friend Farguat.
Now legend has it my friends confronted Farguat about it, and through negotiations, independent theory and probably an ass whooping, all is settled.

But my thing is, If Farguat could shape shift, He would of Fucked his friends.
And changing morphing into a girl to fuck your friends isn’t cool

If you have sex with your clone, Is that Masterbation or Incest?

Get it?

No matter where you go, There you are

NOTE: Inspired by consumerism, apathy and a good friend Mike Dos Santos



“It’s like a fucking bee hive in that bitch.” Mike said searching his pockets for his gloves. “All that frantic motion, niggas crawling over other niggas. Half them niggas I didn’t even know.”
“That’s a pretty amazing analogy, Mike.” I told Santos before taking a drag from my cigarette. I guess crowed house parties are a lot like bee hives. Mike was prone to saying insightful shit, in between all the ignorant shit that is.
“Thank you, nigga.” Mike said. He adds ‘nigga’ on to the end of ever sentence, almost like a un official period. It’s like some weird tourretes tick, no matter how elegant the statement is, no matter how poetic or discursive, it didn’t feel right to him with a ‘nigga’ thrown into it. He made white people uncomfortable. I never understood why white people get so tense when they hear the ‘N’ word. Their eyes dart around like a nervous child, it’s like they feel guilty for even thinking about it. Wasn’t it white people who first coined the phrase? If I made up a word, no matter how taboo of offensive, I’d say it every day. I’d get it printed of shirts and buttons, I’d even get it on my license plate; ‘Nigga 41.’
We stood outside the house were the party was taking place, it was early December, glove and knit cap weather. In 20 years of life, It saddens me to say I’ve never been able to keep a pair of gloves for more than 3 weeks. I always loose them, when I was a kid I used to have those clips that attached my gloves to the cuffs of my coats, I wondered where I could purchase those. Mike wore finger less gloves. Stylish? Sure, but far from functional. But beauty is pain, and I guess having frost bite means you must be pretty damn beautiful. I thought about trash cans fires and hobos wearing the same type of gloves as Mike huddled around them. Then it hit me like a brick to the spine.
“We should bring a hobo to that party.” I crack a wide, teeth bearing smile. Mike smirked, dismissing it as a joke. But I held eye contact, and that smile slide further up my face. Mike’s face and age make him easy to read. I stare right into those doo-doo brown eyes and I can tell he’s working things out, his smirk parts and confusion paints his face.
“Wait, you serious?”
“Serious as Syphilis dude.”
He strokes his beard a moment. He’s 18 but wears facial that hides his baby face and makes him look mid twenties. If he didn’t shave he’d have a full fledged wizard beard, I’m talking Gandalf from Lord of The Rings.
“Think about how incredible that would be Mike. A certified bum walking around that party. Just all toothless and stinky and crazy. It would be the funniest shit ever.” I’m getting more excited by the second, and Mikes hesitation is melting.
“Nigga they wouldn’t let no bum in.” Mike shakes his head but I nod like bobble head in fast forward.
“Why wouldn’t they, I’ll give the dude the five dollars and if he gives me shit, I’ll give him an extra five.”
“Damn nigga, You’re willing to pay ten dollars to get a bum into a party?”
“I’m willing to pay whatever, nigga.” My dealings with Mike have taught me that the N word is contagious. “Think about it dude, It’s December, 5 months into the school year, nothing new anymore. Same girls, same dudes, its pretty much the same party every weekend. Promoters don’t even have fun anymore, they throw parties to make money now, I mean, when’s the last time you’ve had a distinctive memory from a party? Now imagine how sick of a memory it would be if we brought a bum inside.”
Mike rubs his face and starts to laugh. “Nigga, Alright. Let’s get a bum.”
And with that we were off, in search of a vagrant. Being homeless is a really bizarre condition. It’s like being invisible. Bum spend all their days looking at people walk by, with clothes they can’t wear, cars they can’t drive. They see us holding hands, and answering phones and they know they’ll never hold that hand or answer that phone. It must be pretty fucking miserable. The least me and Mike could do is get this bum a lap dance and a beer or two.
But first we had to find one. We walked the dimly lit streets......

NOTE: HAHA, you thought I was going to finish it didnt you? Who do you think I am, a good writer?