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.