Part Bear, Part Boy. All Beast..

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

What will you leave this town with?

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

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

Inactivity (inactivity)

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

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

ehhhh, that wasnt bad.

For Safia

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

Graocracy is a government ran by old women.

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

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


But this isn’t the story of airportssssssssssssszzszzzzzcxzxwere

Them mean bastards anit they…

We got married on the bathroom floor....

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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