I’m not sure h…

June 8, 2012 at 8:11 pm (Uncategorized)

I’m not sure how much more I can take. I need a week to myself, alone in an unfamiliar city or on a beach or in the woods. I just… I need to fucking think, man.

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November 14, 2008 at 2:57 am (Uncategorized)

LIVE – Hold Me Up

Hold me up in the palm of your hand
Lying to you is a river of sin
Your metaphors, your silent calls
Your feelings are too real
Let them spew, a fall from grace
Would do us good today

I’ll lift you up, we can love or cry
Hey, I’m in love, I’ll take you up again
Your eyes have too many colours and I can only try
Your energy could be runnin’ low, now
The juice is dry
Oh, oh…

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(106)

May 18, 2008 at 8:40 pm (Uncategorized)

I don’t even know what to say.

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The Devil and Me

April 25, 2008 at 1:13 am (Uncategorized)

There were shadows. What am I saying? Of course there were shadows. There’s always shadows; everything has a shadow. The fact that I’m saying there are shadows is irrelevant, because you probably assume that wherever I am, there are shadows. No, no, the fact that there are shadows is a completely irrelevant point. No. No, the important part is there was no light. There’s always shadows, always, but there isn’t always light. I’m sure you pictured wherever I was had shadows, but I’m sure you also pictured it had light. Well, you’re wrong. There’s no light. It’s gone.

I don’t know where it went. How am I supposed to know? I can barely remember how I started this, there’s no reason I should remember where the lights went.

No, I don’t know where the lights went. All I knew is that there were shadows, lots of shadows. Lots of shadows and lots of noises.

Not the kind of noises that have glowing red eyes attached. Not those kind of noises, those kind of eyes, the eyes that scare you, and watch you, and watch you be scared because they’re scaring you with their watching. No, not those kind of noises. This isn’t a 1950’s horror story.

Or is it? I don’t know, it might be. I don’t know what kind of story this is. All I know is there are shadows, and there are noises. And so far that’s all you know.

I’m an awful narrator. I don’t know a fucking thing. I don’t even know what kind of story this is. The narrator knowing just as much as the person he’s telling? This isn’t fair.

The noises were loud. How loud? I don’t know. I never understood decibels. But they were loud enough to be distracting. How I wish they’d quiet down.

What did they want? Oh yeah, there’s a they. The they that’s making the noises. I forgot to tell you that. Those are the kind of noises they are. Like there’s people here. Watching me. Scaring me. They’re scaring me, and watching me be scared, because they’re scaring me with their watching. Maybe this is a horror story.

I stood up, dazed, lost, confused, and I think maybe drunk, or at least a little high on some kind of physically-dependent drug. My legs were rubber. Not literally, but I mean like they were weak. They couldn’t hold me. Where was I? What’s going on?

And then, light. Disorienting, bright, blinding light. A spotlight. Maybe a floodlight. Or a candle. I don’t know, but there was light and the shadows ran away and hid from the sudden light.

So now there’s light. There’s light, and I can see my room. Yes, it’s my room. My bedroom. With a bed. There it is, in the corner. Well, a mattress. With a blanket. It’s not a bed, it’s a mattress. It’s in the corner. That was it. That’s what my room is. That’s all there is in it.

Except this time. This time there’s blood. A lot of blood. My blood? I don’t know. Maybe. It’s not your blood. You weren’t there. I couldn’t see anything else with blood. Must be my blood. Where’d it come from? I don’t feel like I lost blood.

My first step was insecure, scared. It was a pussy first step, and I didn’t even put weight on it, but who cares because I slipped in something anyway. The room was flipping, spinning, and then stopping suddenly. I couldn’t feel the landing, where I hit. But I did feel what I landed in. Slick. Smooth. More blood. Fuck. There’s a lot of blood.

Oh, that’s where it’s coming from. My neck. I could feel it, sliding past my skin, over my body, down my chest, across my face, onto the floor, pumping in rhythm with my heartbeat. There was a lot of it. Do people have this much blood?

Standing back up is hard. There’s a lot of blood. And light. And my neck hurts. I can hear flies. They’re on the blood. Do flies eat blood? That’s weird.

The lights go out. Where’d the lights go? I don’t understand. There’s shadows now, nothing but shadow. Who is controlling the lights? My blood is starting to smell. Where’d the light go?

There were shadows. What am I saying? Of course there were shadows. There’s always shadows; everything has a shadow. The fact that I’m saying there are shadows…

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It actually gets pretty watchable.

April 15, 2008 at 1:40 am (Uncategorized)

“Stop contacting me. You are hereby blocked.” The text was succinct, albeit mildly retarded. I smiled in satisfaction and slipped my phone into my pocket.

I know why he did it. His reasons are shallow, as much as he’d try to deny it. I’d dealt a blow to his ego; the threat of a restraining order and parental contact on grounds of criminal harassment? How dare I? So of course he did what people like him always did; he accused me of the same thing he was guilty of.

I’d asked him three or four times prior to cease and desist. It was clear, obviously, that what I wanted was for him to… well, cease and desist.

If he wants to come out feeling like he won and I lost, fine. Let him feel that. I showed the text to Stephanie, and she laughed alongside me, shaking her head. Listening to her laugh warmed my heart. A customer at the counter.

“Hey there, did you find everything alright?” He can think whatever he wants about the situation, as long as he stopped talking to me. In the end, I won.

“Would you like to get playguard today?” I shook my head. What a turn.

Later that night, we sat on the hood of my car, looking at the motionless waters of the lake. Her legs were curled up to her chest, my coat draped around her shoulders.

“We were so close, once. Him, and the others, and me. We were all best friends, and we knew it. We did everything together.” My shoulders drooped, and I released a sigh. She turned to look at me.

“Whatever happened… I don’t know. I don’t know what happened.” I traced circles on the metal of my car with a finger.

“Did you try?” She said, her voice like the silken fingers of a God.

“Of course I did. This isn’t the first time we’ve fought like this. He’s acted like a dick a lot in the past, and I always gave him the benefit of the doubt, I always tried again. But it never failed; he always did the same thing.” I sighed again, leaning back against my windshield. “I figured why bother?”

She leaned against the windshield, then against me. My hand found hers, the first time I’d touched her so intimately in months. A shock went down my spine.

We were silent, and then I rolled over and pressed my lips to her cheek, then her lips, and I kissed her there on the shoreline, the stars shining down.

The past is the past. I thought. And that’s where these guys belong. I’m here now. I’m here now, and I’m happy, and that’s all that matters.

He is unimportant now.

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A society driven by sprockets.

March 20, 2008 at 3:20 am (Uncategorized)

You havn’t changed a bit, you cunt.

Have fun failing.

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Leave the bourbon on the shelf, I’ll drink it by myself.

March 20, 2008 at 3:02 am (Uncategorized)

What happened to all the nice guys?

The answer is simple: you did.

See, if you think back, really hard, you might vaguely remember a Platonic guy pal who always seemed to want to spend time with you. He’d tag along with you when you went shopping, stop by your place for a movie when you were lonely but didn’t feel like going out, or even sit there and hold you while you sobbed and told him about how horribly the (other) guy that you were fucking treated you.

At the time, you probably joked with your girlfriends about how he was a little puppy dog, always following you around, trying to do things to get you to pay attention to him. They probably teased you because they thought he had a crush on you. Given that his behavior was, admittedly, a little pathetic, you vehemently denied having any romantic feelings for him, and buttressed your position by claiming that you were “just friends.” Besides, he totally wasn’t your type. I mean, he was a little too short, or too bald, or too fat, or too poor, or didn’t know how to dress himself, or basically be or do any of the things that your tall, good-looking, fit, rich, stylish boyfriend at the time pulled off with such ease.

Eventually, your Platonic buddy drifted away, as your relationship with the boyfriend got more serious and spending time with this other guy was, admittedly, a little weird, if you werent dating him. More time passed, and the boyfriend eventually cheated on you, or became boring, or you realized that the things that attracted you to him weren’t the kinds of things that make for a good, long-term relationship. So, now, you’re single again, and after having tried the bar scene for several months having only encountered players and douche bags, you wonder, “What happened to all the nice guys?”

Well, once again, you did.

You ignored the nice guy. You used him for emotional intimacy without reciprocating, in kind, with physical intimacy. You laughed at his consideration and resented his devotion. You valued the aloof boyfriend more than the attentive “just-a-” friend. Eventually, he took the hint and moved on with his life. He probably came to realize, one day, that women aren’t really attracted to guys who hold doors open; or make dinners just because; or buy you a Christmas gift that you mentioned, in passing, that you really wanted five months ago; or listen when you’re upset; or hold you when you cry. He came to realize that, if he wanted a woman like you, he’d have to act more like the boyfriend that you had. He probably cleaned up his look, started making some money, and generally acted like more of an asshole than he ever wanted to be.

Fact is, now, he’s probably getting laid, and in a way, your ultimate rejection of him is to thank for that. And I’m sorry that it took the complete absence of “nice guys” in your life for you to realize that you missed them and wanted them. Most women will only have a handful of nice guys stumble into their lives, if that.

So, if you’re looking for a nice guy, here’s what you do:

1.) Build a time machine.
2.) Go back a few years and pull your head out of your ass.
3.) Take a look at what’s right in front of you and grab ahold of it.

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I. AM. BEOWULF.

March 1, 2008 at 4:58 pm (Uncategorized)

FADE IN, long shot. Typical Suburban neighborhood. A patch of sprawling farmland extends outwards opposite the row of houses, and a forest borders on that. PAN downwards, three middle school-aged girls walking home from school. Very subtle piano track. Voice over (V.O.) begins, what at first appears to be narration. His voice is deep, but not rough. Age is indeterminable.

V.O.: “Their names are Carli, Jennifer, and Katy.”

CUT to the girls stepping off the road down a dirt path between the farm and the forest. They walk a ways, and, confident they will not be seen, light up a few cigarettes and set about chatting as all girls do.

V.O.: “They are all fifteen years old.”

The sky darkens as a cloud passes in front of the sun, and the girls faces grow somber as they turn to look at the trees.

V.O.: “They all have loving families.”

One of the girls shakes her head at the other two, as if refusing to investigate into the trees.

V.O.: “A mother.”

Another girl, defiantly showing bravery and blind courage, steps out of the group towards the trees. But her face, once out of view of her peers, shows her true fear.

V.O.: “A father.”

She steps into the darkness of the trees and soon vanishes into the shadows.

V.O.: “Brothers.”

The two remaining girls  peer into the trees, trying to make out her shape in the darkness, cigarettes forgotten between their fingers. Nothing.

V.O.: “Sisters.”

CUT to shot of tops of trees, a flock of birds takes flight from the forest. It is unclear whether it is in panic or migration.  This startles the two girls, who stumble backwards.

V.O.: “They are all…”

The cloud passes from in front of the sun, and the trees lighten up. The shadows retreat into the depths and before them stands the girl who went into the woods.

The skin has been torn from her face, hanging in tatters, and her lips pulled off. Tears stream from her eyes.

V.O.: “Happy.”

The two girls who stay behind scream as though it’s going out of style. A shadow appears behind the first girl, a long, lean shadow, man-shaped. It moves behind the first girl and a hand appears, resting gently on her shoulder.

V.O.: “That was yesterday. There’s still blood underneath my fingernails.”

CUT TO BLACK.

HELL YEAH!

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THAT’S THE NAME OF THE SHOW

March 1, 2008 at 1:42 am (Uncategorized)

I don’t get paid nearly enough to deal with your bullshit.

It’s not my fucking fault your disc was scratched. It’s not my fucking fault you decided to drive back to the store and ask for cashback.

Do you know how much I get paid? I get paid 8.07 an hour. That covers checking in movies, checking out movies, and putting movies back on the shelf.

THAT IS MY JOB DESCRIPTION.

It does not say ‘placate belligerent customers’. It does not say ‘bend over backwards for verbally abusive assholes with a God complex.’

‘The customer is always right. You’re here to serve me.’

No. No I am fucking not. I am here to make enough money to help put me through school and, hopefully, move out.

There’s only so much shit I’m willing to take from balding, bearded fuckmooks like you. I don’t get paid to cover your ass and give you cash refunds because you’re too fucking stupid to figure out how to work a fucking DVD.

Next time you or people like you feel that you are, in fact, above me, I will tear into you.

I don’t need more stress adding to my rapidly deteriorating health; fuck my job.

I will lay you the fuck down.

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Accidental encounter with Sally!

February 28, 2008 at 3:48 pm (Uncategorized)

My mother and I spoke of school again. I’m not ready. I’m not ready to deal with going back to school, not yet.

I will, of course. I’m going to. Just… not yet. I don’t have a real solid reason, just not yet.

And of course, I can’t tell this to her. She won’t understand.

My mother is heavily conservative and prefers the ‘My Will’ over ‘Your Will’ approach to situations like this.

‘As long as you live under this house, you will go to school.’ I can hear it now.

I’m not living under this roof of my own volition, and she doesn’t seem to realise that.

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