Five Hundred Twenty Five Thousand Six Hundred Minutes

This will be the 23rd time I witness a new year’s birth.

This year has seen a friend and a brother die, a battle with drugs and drinking, a broken heart and some of the worst pain I have ever felt. I cried myself to sleep more times than one, almost drank myself to death more than once, lost a job and a few close friends. 2008 has proved to be the toughest year of my life.

One night in late April of this year I sat in my house, alone and drinking straight from the bottle. I remember putting a six inch line of cocaine up my nose and falling back on my couch. I couldn’t see any reason to keep breathing. I put the .45 to my temple and sat there thinking. I pulled the trigger back until I could feel the resistance, the line before the point of no return. I felt the tears running down my cheeks as I set the gun down on the table. What was I thinking?

I started writing this blog three days later. Three quarters of this year have been made public on this website. Over the past month I have read it from front to back and I have watched the author, who I no longer recognize, turn into a different person. Putting these moments into writing made them real, tangible, something I could touch.

So upon further consideration maybe 2008 wasn’t so bad after all. Sure I have seen pain, but so has everyone else. I have cried and clawed at my skin, but so has everyone else. I am no different, I’m just a whiner.

So tonight when I hear the multitude of celebratory gunshots as the clock passes midnight I am going to look at the past year differently than every other. Looking on the dark side has been my specialty, finding the negative is my game. But not this year.

I don’t really make resolutions, what’s the point? I think I have resolved to quit smoking for the past 9 years and every year it just gets worse. I’m therefore led to the conclusion that a few simple guidelines will do just fine.

Stop fucking whining. Stop fucking complaining. Stop fucking crying. Stop making excuses.

Just stop, slow down and let go of the constant worry that grips you.

Everything can change on a New Year’s Day.

Six Days

In about an hour and thirty minutes I will be picking up my favorite blogger from the airport.

Six days...six whole days. It is strange to think that this trip will effectively double the amount of time we have spent together in person....to twelve days.

Jesus.

What have we gotten into here?

The Pink Triangle

I honestly can’t even remember what time it was when we finally got back to Cortez’s condo in the 5th Ward. It had been foggy for the past two days and I was way too drunk to drive to another bar. He lived in what used to be the gay district, but gentrification was having its way with the neighborhood, leaving it covered with cranes and For Sale signs. Apparently the decision to walk down to National Ave to hit up another bar was made without too much debate. We headed out into the fog to get another drink before going to sleep.

The bars on National are mostly old factory worker haunts from the days when the area was an industrial center of the city. Over the years the jobs were shipped overseas and the factories closed, leaving the area downtrodden. We turned off 1st St onto National, finding that it was more difficult than anticipated to find a bar that we wouldn’t be shot in. After another block or so we debated turning around and giving up when Cortez heard some strange music coming from what looked like a front door.

“It says ‘Must be 21 to Enter’ therefore it’s a bar dude, regardless of what it looks like.”

At this point I was ready to go back and pass out, but he was insistent, saying now he was curious what the deal with the bar was. The door opened and out came the trendy sounding techno music and thick smoke.

“This is a fucking strange bar,” I said.

“Oh it gets better,” Cortez said, staring up at the ceiling.

I looked up to find a gigantic fluorescent pink triangle lit by a black light and by the time my eyes reached bar level again it was apparent. The fact that there was no sign on the door and no women in the bar led me to the only logical conclusion. I was in the middle of a gay bar.

Now we didn’t turn and run out the door screaming only to return some minutes later with a crowd brandishing pitchforks and torches, we were just a bit surprised. So we walked up to the bar and sat down, figuring we came for a beer and we were getting one regardless of the sexual persuasion of the patrons. The bartender who walked up to us looked confused,

“You boys do know where you’re at…right?”

“We do now, that’s cool though we still want a High Life.”

We sat and talked to the bartender while we drank our beers, noticing that we were being stared at by every single person in the bar. He was quite nice to us, partly due to the fact we didn’t start running when we walked in. We finished our beers and were about to leave when he told us to wait.

“I’ll make you guys a drink on me for being cool, not many people stay when they come in by accident.”

He disappeared behind the bar for a second before spinning back around with two fruity looking drinks.

“A little gay humor for ya boys…Sex on the Beach, on me.”

No You Won't

Is it fucking January yet?

I'm dreamin' tonight of a place I love
Even more then I usually do
And although I know it's a long road back
I promise you

I'll be home for Christmas
You can count on me
Please have snow and mistletoe
And presents under the tree
Christmas Eve will find me
Where the love light beams
I'll be home for Christmas
If only in my dreams

Christmas Eve will find me
Where the love light beams
I'll be home for Christmas
If only in my dreams

If only in my dreams

I love my job!

Merry Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa or whatever the fuck you celebrate, to you and all yours.

Cheese

I Am The Sea

Everyday thousands of ships set sail on the seas that cover this world. Their destinations and their paths will forever be different, but their journeys are the same. These vessels have one common tie that binds them, whether or not they know it, for every ship is at the mercy of its mother…the sea.

With the greatest of ease the sea can swallow whole the ships we call “unsinkable.” It can toss tons of metal with a gust of wind and rip in half the strongest steel. Men have been lost at sea and never seen again and countless ships lie in ruin on its mysterious floor. Many have died exploring its vast expanse, but the ones who survive leave with something they did not possess when they left land.

Those who return unscathed are strong from the fight. They are iron willed and determined, but perhaps more important is the fact that they come back for more. There is a fraternity among those who battle the sea, a mutual recognition of the sheer will it takes to win the fight and to come back for more. You can see the fight in their eyes, the tenacity and the urgency, for they are never satisfied with a simple life.

There is one ship that has been at sea for years now. Its journey is long and it has seen the roughest seas imaginable. It has taken on water and its sails have ripped, but it does not return to port. The ship continues on despite its injuries, without a destination and without a star to guide it. Many times in the dead of night other vessels have passed in silence unbeknownst to it. Perhaps these ships carried salvation for our wayward traveler, perhaps not, one way or another…the wanderlust pushes it on.

In the distance black clouds cover the sky and churn the sea into a frothy fury. Behind is a similar storm, the lightning still touching the water as if crying out for the ship it let live. The captain steers his vessel through the calm seas in between, all the while knowing that the worst is still coming. He wonders how he will keep his beloved men alive and his ship afloat. For the first time on this journey fear grips him and chokes the breath from his lungs. He stands at the helm and clutches the wheel with whitening knuckles, determined to master his fear and to defeat the sea.

The captain stands tall, for he is strong and his gaze is icy. His eyes dart back and forth, scanning the sky, staring at the impending doom he will find in the next thunderhead. He knows his fate, but he sails on, unshaken. He runs his hand through his hair and sighs, lighting his tobacco as he leans over the ledge, gazing into the deep. How will he win this fight against this ancient enemy when his ship is battered and broken and his men are weary and frightened?

As night falls the captain remains standing on the deck, lost in contemplation as his men sleep in the quarters below. He looks to the sky and asks the gods of the sea forgiveness for his transgressions, the salty spray coating his face as he prays. He thinks of his men, of his ship and of their unknown destination and he cries out for something to save him. He looks off into the distance as the first rays of sun shoot off in arcs across the sky, when he sees something.

Over the next few days, the small twinkle on the horizon grows from a small light to a piercing beam in the night. Every hour it is closer and the men are ripe with anticipation and excitement. As the light draws closer it becomes apparent that it is another ship, locked in the same perilous battle with the sea. The captain paces, pondering the danger of a meeting on the high seas and its implications. Soon enough he can make out the faces of the opposite crew through the lenses of his monocular, they look different than his men…smiling, healthy and enthused. He decides it is time and boards his rowboat with his finest men and defenses at his side.

After a while the defenses are lowered and the captain allows the men to board his ship. As the two tether to one another, it becomes clear that the captain’s prayers to the emptiness of the sea had been answered. Perhaps she is not an unforgiving mother after all. With repairs underway the two captains forge a friendship which will not be divided when their binds are cut. The storm they saw in the distance gets closer everyday and they know the toughest test is still to come.

But the fear that once haunted our fair captain’s dreams is slowly subsiding, for he knows he is not alone. The storm continues to approach and the two commanders know it is time to raise sails and head into the fury together. They will support one another and if one takes on water the other will ensure it is not consumed. From now on they will sail and fight together; the bond forged will not be broken.

Our captains stand at the helms of their respective ships as the rain begins to intensify, stinging their faces. The waves churn below and the boom of thunder pierces the afternoon air. The sky grows darker by the minute, but there is no look of fear on the faces of their men. They stand fast, confident in their leaders and the desire to fight on which now burns fire in their eyes.

A wall of water builds strength in front of the two ships and the raindrops turn to missiles. The captains look across the abyss into each other’s eyes, knowing that it is time. Their arms rise, a silent gesture and acknowledgment of their bond, for they know they may be separated in the melee ahead, but will be reunited on the other side. The rescue ship climbs the wall and disappears over its crest. Our captain’s men glance back at him as they begin their ascent up the wall of furious sea in front of them.

Their gazes are met with a deafening cry from the captain’s lungs as the ship disappears into the maelstrom, pushing onward into the unknown sea. The men reply and their voices drown out the sea; unable to be defeated they push onward knowing that this time they are not alone.

Stay or Leave

Maybe different but remember
Winters warm where you and I
Kissing whiskey by the fire
With the snow outside
And when the summer comes
In the river
Swims at midnight
Shiver cold
Touch the bottom
You and I
With muddy toes

Stay or leave
I want you not to go
But you should
It was good as good goes
Stay or leave
I want you not to go
But you did

Wake up naked drinking coffee
Making plans to change the world
While the world is changing us
It was good good love
You used to laugh under the covers
Maybe not so often now
But the way I used to laugh with you
Was loud and hard

Stay or leave
I want you not to go
But you should
It was good as good goes
Stay or leave
I want you not to go
But you did

So what to do
With the rest of the day's afternoon hey
Isn't it strange how we change
Everything we did
Did I do all that i should

That I coulda done

Remember we used to dance
And everyone wanted to be
You and me
I want to be too
What day is this
Besides the day you left me
What day is this
Besides the day you went

So what to do
With the rest of the day's afternoon hey
Well isn't it strange how we change
Everything we did
Did I do all that I could

Remember we used to dance
And everyone wanted to be you and me
I want to be too
What day is this
Besides the day you went babe
What day is this

"Stay or Leave" Dave Matthews

Red

I’ve known her since grade school; I think I actually used to make fun of her when we were young. I guess they say that’s how kids show they like one another. I should stop you here and say it was never like that, though. No, Red was more like the sister that I never had.

Well maybe that really isn’t the way to describe it. It’s complicated to explain a friendship that predates about 95% of my existing memories. It’s almost scary, really, to think that I have so few memories and that the ones I still do fade so quickly. In any case if I tried to tell you how we first became friends, I would be lying.

Someone once asked us if we had ever slept together, the answer was a mutual, “yuck.” We once sat in my car, tripping senselessly on mushrooms and admitting to each other that we thought the other was unattractive and could never fuck one another, but that we had a love that was too strong to deny. That moment put a final definition on our relationship that said we would always and only be friends. From that moment on a lifelong bond of support was forged that I thought could never be broken.

We had the best of times, the stories so faded I can’t tell them anymore. We introduced each other to some of the best friends we still have today; she actually got me laid the first time. We drove to school in the morning, smoking pot and listening to my music while freezing our asses off as we waited for the heat to start in my 95 Saturn. We got into petty crime together and then got out together. We grew up and experienced this world together for the first time. It is worthless to try and explain this friendship with words, these last few paragraphs are just thoughts about her I have in my head as I write this and they change every time I think about her.

She was the first one to tell me I was a liar. We were older then, the Saturn was long gone. We headed west on I-94 and she told me that I hurt her. She said that it was because I lied, not what I lied about.

“In fact,” she said, “It isn’t even the fact that you lied that hurts, it’s the fact that you thought you had to prove something to me that hurts the most.”

I always thought I was alone; it took her saying that to realize that I finally had someone that I could always count on. I wonder if she has a similar moment in her memory, when I said something to her that changed her entire perception of the world. I like to think that she does but who knows.

In any case, friendships like these tend to fall apart when one is an asshole like me. I moved out of Wisconsin, too much to get away from, but she stayed. I remember my first night alone in the dorms, I sat out on the front step smoking and talking to her on the phone when I met Nate Brown, my first friend. It is strange, when I think about it now, that moment was really the beginning of the end of our friendship.

As soon as boots hit soil in Ohio, I was changing into a different person, not better or worse…just not the same. We spoke less and less as the years went on, but we always managed to be there when the other was in need. I, however, had a girlfriend. She was a particularly jealous one and didn’t care for Red. I was a fool; I pushed her away because Meg wanted her out of my life. I didn’t visit every time I was home anymore, and I barely called. I remember sitting at the Scrub-a-Dub on 84th St when she finally went off on me.

She told me it wasn’t fair and a slew of other shit that I hadn’t seen up until she pointed it out in black and white. I hung up, stubborn cunt I am, and never called back. That was almost a year and a half ago. I got a Facebook message one day from her saying that I should try calling sometime. I deleted my account.

I have had a long time to contemplate that click of the mouse, but I still can’t come to a conclusion why. Maybe it was just my pride or maybe it was that I thought I didn’t need her anymore, either way I was wrong. Time passed, like it always does, and we grew further and further apart as the silence between us became deafening.

I lost a lot of sleep over Red those next couple months until I found myself back at the bottom again. I had that realization once again and understood that I did still need her. I picked up the phone and called, but it wasn’t Red who answered. The man told me that I had the wrong number

I texted one of those old friends she introduced me to so many years ago to ask what happened.

“She got a new phone number a month or so ago, she didn’t tell you?”

“No…I guess she didn’t.”

Um...Really?

Now I don't normally post things like this, as this blog is solely a home for intelligent discussion on the finer things in life. Ok or maybe not, but still, normally I don't do this sort of thing.

But THIS is fucking absurd.

What the fuck is wrong with you people?

If you idiots ran the world not only would we be jacking off at an astronomical rate,

WE WOULD FUCKING DIE OFF

Now...go have sex...do it for me

Your friend,

Cheese

An Old Flame

Have you ever stood on a stage and stared out into a crowd of people?

There was a party this summer at Ike’s parent’s house, kind of an annual thing, we call it Redneck Fest. I have been the only non-redneck in attendance for the past four years and this year was no change. What was different this time was the presence of a live band. They were easily twice my age, a cover band with little original material on the resume. I left my house for the thirty mile drive north, only this time I packed something.

It is coated in brass, over the years it has worn off to leave a rusty coat. It is bent in places and there are more than a few dents and scratches. The felt on the inside of the case is well worn from almost 16 years of use and it smells like a sock drawer. It wasn’t expensive and it wouldn’t sell these days, but I can still play it like you wouldn’t believe.

My trombone.

I remember walking into that classroom when I was just a kid. Oh did I ever want to play an instrument, I just didn’t know which one. The sax was too expensive, the drums too loud and the flute too gay…I was at a crossroads of indecision.

“Which one is the easiest to learn,” I asked in my high-pitched pre-adolescent voice.

“The trombone.”

A few years later I was in high school and I hadn’t given it up, besides the case made a good weapon against the kids calling me “band geek.” I spent more time in the band room than I did in the classroom and it was paying off. I was winning awards at competitions for the improvisational skills I showcased during our jazz concerts. I would play so long my mouth bled from my braces and my arm hurt from holding the fucker up.

By the time college came along I was playing in the jazz band and occupying the top seat in my section. My friends came to see us play in the campus bar and dropped their jaws when they saw me brandishing my rusted instrument. It was a thrill I could not get enough of.

I would pound glass after glass of bourbon before our shows and normally had a Solo cup full of it the whole time I was on stage. I can’t tell you how many times I stood in front of the mic counting the bars before my solo thinking that I was about to vomit. I wobbled back and forth drunkenly before brushing the twenty or so inches of hair that constantly covered my face out of the way. But, as soon as that metal touched my lips, something changed.

There was no alcohol in my system and no problems in my mind; it was just me and the mic. There was no drunken director and there was no crowd of people, it was just me and my horn. Everything faded away and it was just me.

When the solo ends my curly blond hair covers my face once again and my lungs gasp for air. I don’t look back as I head for the bandstand but I know what just happened. I have never slept as well as I have after a three set, four hour jazz concert. It might be the amount I drank before, during and after them, but it might be because I have never put my all into anything like I have that twisted piece of metal.

Well I walked across another stage and they gave me my diploma and it was the end of my music. There was no band to practice with, no director to push me and no crowd to stun. It took a long time for me to forget the thrill that I had lost on those stages. I lost a lot of sleep over it, even tried to change it…there was just no one to play with. From then on, the horn lay locked up in my closet.

I took exit 33 and headed through the country to Ike’s house. I was nervous, not a single one of them had seen the horn in my hands and I hadn’t asked the band if I could intrude. I sat and drank until the sun went down and the band came on, pondering if I should ask them or not. Finally I had enough (to drink) and approached them.

“Well, are you any good?”

"We'll have to see, won't we?"

I took my shirt off and raised the horn to my lips, a familiar sound coming from its bell. I heard the snare count off four and I came in, from there I ceased to be me. The music flowed out of me like a piss after a long night at the bar, but I didn’t know how it sounded. My hair was short now and I could feel the sweat running down my back and forehead as my body contorted to fit the solos I was playing. The instrument reached into my chest and extracted sounds I had not heard in more than a year.

It felt incredible.

After about three hours my lungs had given up on me…fucking RJ Reynolds…and I needed a drink. I wiped the sweat off my face as Ike slapped me on the back, a look of shock in his face. I cracked a High Life and sat down in the grass, completely spent, when I heard two of my friends talking.

“Holy shit, he can do more than drink.”

“I had no fucking idea.”

I grinned, and when I thought about this story tonight I thought about something else…my newest Craigslist post.

“Trombone player. Slightly out of practice. Jazz, funk, blues, rock and ska…maybe even hip hop. Remembering the passion I had for it and looking for a band to help me find it again.”

The Creature Within

See my shadow changing, stretching up and over me.

Soften this old armor, hoping I can clear the way by,

Stepping through my shadow, coming out the other side.

Stepping through the shadow of Forty Six and Two just ahead of me.

There is a creature that was locked inside, far from inquisitive eyes, of whose existence we were not aware. Dormant yet so alive, he waited for the call of his name.

A mutation has been taking place under the skin that covers my flesh, I can feel it move. The sickness is spreading out of control and the creature is taking hold. You took your chance opening his cage, waking him and now he cannot be stopped.

There were things I was hiding that I did not know existed. I remember hearing it calling the first time I saw you bound to my bed frame. But this was not an accident, for you are simply pursuing a means to an end, drawing something from me in the process.

So I stare in the mirror and I see the animal hiding behind the blue in my eyes. A perfect monster awakened by your summons, I see my shadow changing. You will submit to my will, just as you desire, but I will show you no mercy. When you return, you will remember the animal you have created.

I will pull at your leash and yank on your hair, showing you that you are mine. I will fight you till the end and feel your flesh between my teeth. I will take what is mine. I will leave you bruised, battered and beaten, yet you will cry for more. I know what you are; there is no hiding from me. You and I, we are the same…monsters hiding beneath the surface. I will leave you broken but you will egg me on for more, knowing all the while I will never be defeated. You will push and pull until you are defeated, but it is as you planned. You want this because you know I will leave you broken.

Or is it because you know I will put you back together afterwards?

Is It Just Me Or Is Everything Shit?

“Can’t we just take it home ourselves?”

Unfortunately, that wasn’t the way it worked. The brewery’s official corporate doctrine had to rule on its fate in their high courts of beer justice. I can see the horrible images formed in their brains when they learned the fate of the doomed truckload of beer.

The load was not totally destroyed, the truck rolled onto a grade so it was still relatively upright…we had high hopes it would be saved. We sent another truck over 300 miles and a rescue operation of epic proportions began. Our boys painstakingly loaded what could be saved of the 26 pallets of beer from the tipped truck onto the rescuer. Within a day, there was a half truckload of beer in our yard essentially in limbo.

The corporate folks couldn’t make a decision on what to do with it. The distributor wouldn’t take it and they couldn’t find anything else to do with it, so it sat. It sat and sat until it hit that certain date when a good beer is lost forever to skunk. We all knew it was a lost cause but we kept up hope until the day the call came and broke our hearts.

“What did they say?”

“They say we have to…to…..”

“Spit it out godamnit.”

“…..destroy it.”

“Jesus.”

The mood dropped like an anchor into a lake. The others looked like someone had just died as I sat in shock, muttering and dazed. A few hours later I watched out the window as they tossed the cases into the lot. Their expiration dates had passed and they were doomed, the brewery made us videotape them opening the trailer and destroying the beer so it was not resold or given away…to us…as hoped.

They ran the owner’s tractor over the cases for the better part of an hour; it was a horrible sight as well as sound. They were cleaning up the cases as I headed out to the parking lot, the air smelling like beer. I walked over to talk to one of the guys, lighting a cigarette before I headed home.

“Long day, huh?” I asked.

“Worst day of my life.”

Rush Hour Part 2

“Here we go again.”

First off, let’s just get one thing straight, I was not late…she was early.

I got on the freeway, hit the gas and lit another cigarette. I had easily gone through half pack in the four hours I had been awake and cleaning. I felt the butterflies starting as I crossed the river, knowing that next time I crossed it she would be in the passenger seat.

I hung up the phone and changed the music as I took exit 4B for the airport. I felt something stirring in my pants as I threw the last cigarette out, passing under the sign reading “Arrivals / Baggage Claim.”

“Holy shit,” I thought, “here we go again.”

There she was, she stood out in her big furry coat and yellow scarf. She looked like a New Yorker in a crowd of hillbillies, but just like I remembered…she looked good. I got out and she was instantly in my arms again, God how long I waited for that. Her lips were exactly like I remembered; she looked up slightly as I kissed her.

“Ok enough, we have to get going,” I said as I pushed her back, heading for the car door.

It was eternally hard to keep from speeding on the highway headed back into town. Although, I figured that if I scared the shit out of her there would be no chance of fucking the shit out of her…I figured I could wait a few. I glanced over to see the look of lust heavy in her eyes as her hand began creeping across the armrest and into my lap. I rose up to meet her touch and I pushed my cock over to her side, holding up my fingers for her to lick the precum off of.

Within seconds her head was in my lap bobbing up and down on me. It was right around noon, traffic was heavy and I’m sure the people behind me were wondering why her head kept disappearing and then reappearing. My hand was in her pants, spreading around the wetness along her lips. She lifted up and slid her jeans and panties down to her knees.

I had this moment in my head for two months, ever since this day and it was finally happening. The faint idea of revenge crossed my mind as I remembered her tormenting me as I jerked off in heavy traffic on a sunny day. We were in rush hour together, but this time I wasn’t bobbing and weaving through traffic. She put her seat back and started rubbing her clit as I kept pace in the left lane. Surprisingly it became increasingly difficult to keep my eyes on the road and not on my passenger seat.

North of downtown, five exits to go.

I had one hand on the wheel and one on my cock as we passed the Reading Rd exit. I saw a truck coming up in the center lane, no way to get around him now…but no way I was going to stop her. He was going to see. I pulled past the back half of the truck, thinking about passing him quickly, but I changed my mind at the last second. I paused by the tractor for a good five seconds, this time I was delivering the show he wanted to see.

“You fucker, you’re slowing down so they can see.”

“Revenge.”

She closed her eyes and went back to what she was doing, less than concerned about the show I was putting on. With one mile to the exit she put her seat back up and leaned over the arm rest again, sucking on me as we got off the freeway.

“You had better sit up now; we’re driving through the hood.”

I turned into the shortcut for my street as she took my cock back into her hand and squeezed. I had my right hand in her lap; she was getting wetter by the second. I showed her my alma mater as we passed by but she seemed fixated on something else. She leaned into my lap, licking the tip of my cock for a second when we stopped in my parking lot. I pushed her off and grabbed her bag out of the back seat.

“We need to get in my bed, now.”

Fumbling with the locks on both doors, I dropped her bag as soon as we walked in. She was in my arms the moment it closed; I started taking her shirt off as we walked down the hall. The fabric continued to fall and I told her I needed to go to the bathroom and to be waiting for me. I let the sink run for a second as I stood there catching my breath. I ran my hand through my hair, grinned and walked back into my bedroom. She was naked, spread and lying on my bed as I had imagined constantly since the moment I started talking to her.

I took off my boxers as she stared with lust in her eyes, I couldn’t have gotten into bed faster.

Learning to Fly

Breathe.

Exhale.

Alright.

Nothing really changed, for better or worse, in the past few days. Following the massive…er…minor meltdown of Wednesday, I woke up yesterday with a realization that things were never going to be the same, in any aspect. Including how I deal with the things flying around in my head and burning in my chest.

Wednesday night I stopped at the Party Source after work. It was an in and out mission, not more than ten minutes later I was back in my car headed across the same bridge I crossed with her a few days ago. This time there was a bottle of bourbon sitting in the passenger’s seat.

“What am I doing?”

I heard the battle raging back and forth in my head. A howling addiction had been stirred up like a cloud of sand on the ocean floor. I pulled into the spot where the two of us had sat smoking cigarettes in the rain and thought over what I was about to go do. The ache in my chest was too great; I needed something to kill that pain for a while.

“Fuck it, I don’t have to tell her that I did this.”

I got out of the car, bottle in hand, and started walking to the front door but I stopped. A wave of guilt hit me. I turned around and hurled the bottle towards the dumpster, watching it shatter as it hit the concrete. I went inside and sat down, pissed off and shaken, still not believing what I had just done. I rolled a joint and sat there smoking in silence, watching the plumes billow and fade into the still air of my apartment. Ash fell onto my shirt as I felt my muscles relax and the haze cloud into my head.

After a few hours of shooting various races of gun-toting terrorists on my Xbox I got up to go smoke. I sat there on the stoop, looking to my right, remembering her standing out there wearing nothing but stockings, a bra, high heels and a coat. Head in my hands, I just need to get up and keep going. I felt it; there will be no quarter for me. No rest for the weary just like yesterday, just like today and just like tomorrow. No rest for the weary.

I flicked the cigarette and got up to walk in, seeing the shattered glass in the back of the lot.

“Well, at least I’m not drinking.”

I’m learning to fly …a little wobbly, but I’m catching on.

I'm Scared

I always knew I would hear this song the way it was meant to be heard. Now I finally get it.

I'll be fine, this isn't the first time I've been broken and it won't be the last. Laugh if you want, I don't care. I knew what I was getting myself into the whole time and I did it anyway. I'll be fine. I can deal with the worst, I have before. Dying friends, cheating women and calling addictions haven't killed me yet. I'll be fine. I really will.

I don't know anymore.

I just don't know.

I'll be fine.

I want to hit the road and just drive, I just want to be gone. Not here, no contact. Just me. All by myself, just like I've always been.

Alone. Again. Like before. Like always. By myself. The only one who understands. Alone.

I'll be fine, like usual...like always I'll find a way. I'll forget and laugh about this in the future. I'll be fine, I really will.

I'll be fine.

I just need a little time.

The blank pages of my diary
That I haven't touched since you left me
The closed blinds in my home
See no light of day.

Dust gathers on my stereo
Cos I can't bare to hear the radio
The piano sits in a shaded space
With a picture of your face.

I'm scared to face another day
Cos the fear in me just won't go away.
In an instant, you were gone and I'm scared.

Coffee stains on your favorite book
Remind me of you so I can't take a look.
The magazines you left on the floor
You won't need them anymore.

A towel left hangin on the wall
No sign of wet foosteps in the hall
There's no smell of your sweet cologne.
I'm lying here alone.

I'm scared to face another day
Cos the fear in me just won't go away.
In an instant, you were gone and now I'm scared.

I'm scared to face another day
Cos the fear in me just won't go away.
In an instant, you were gone, now I'm scared.

In an instant you were gone and I'm scared.

"I'm Scared" Duffy

Give Me

Give me a face to punch, a throat to choke or a skull to crush. Give me pushing, shoving, screaming, punching, kicking, clawing and biting. Give me a knife, gun, bat, bomb or club. Give me my two fists, give me violence. Give me clenched teeth, blood red eyes and strained foreheads. Give me a scapegoat, a pawn and a fall guy. Give me someone to stab or shoot, someone to crush or destroy. Give me something to kill.

Give me anger.

Give me seething, cursing, spewing, swearing and screaming. Give me a hoarse voice, sore throat and a bad attitude. Give me blinded eyes and closed ears. Give me bitterness, sarcasm and pain. Give me an outlet. Give me eyes to see and ears to hear it screaming. Give me someone to listen. Give me no one. Give me nothing. Give me a sentence and give me a cell to rot in. Give me four walls to shout at.

Give me rage.

Give me clawed out eyes, pulled out hair, burned arms and bruised fists. Give me empty bottles, sleepless nights and cigarette butts. Give me broken dishes, shattered glass and destroyed possessions. Give me an axe to chop, a match to burn and a hammer to smash. Give me tears, cries and questions of “why?” Give me no answer, no reprieve and no quarter. Give me nothing I ask and everything I despise. Give me something to make me peel off my skin and tear out my hair. Give me no rest, no sleep and no relief.

Give me frustration.

Give me something. Give me anything. Give me nothing.

Give me your anger, rage and frustration because mine aren’t nearly enough.

11/07/08

The Tie That Binds

Wal-Mart Clerk: Can I help you find something sir?

Me: Just looking for some rope actually.

Wal-Mart Clerk: Any kind in particular

Me: Something relatively strong but soft at the same time.

Wal-Mart Clerk: Hmmm, I’m not sure, maybe if you tell me what you’re using if for I could help more?

Me: It’s…uh…complicated.

Enter apartment #17. Two naked bodies lie on the bed of blankets on the living room floor, she is in his arms. He traces fingertips lazily across her body, changing her position every few minutes, exposing new skin to his touch. Her back arches, she purrs as his fingers graze her inner thighs, avoiding the growing warmth in the center. His dry humping against her leg has left it slick and glistening as she rubs back against him…his touch becoming more and more insistent. It soon became too much. They stand up, walking into the bedroom as he grabs the rope he had purchased earlier that week. Sprawled out on the bed she looks at him, eyes full of lust.

Each limb corresponds to a steel leg on the bed frame, left arm first. Rope winds tightly around her wrist connecting her to the frame: no give, no shelter and no control. She rubs away with the right hand as he secures the legs, rope wound tightly around her ankles. He takes her wrist into his mechanical grip and rips it away from her pussy, plunging it onto the bed, quickly strangling it with his restraints. He stops and looks at the sight before him.

Complete control.

He kisses and licks his way across the lines of her body, paying the utmost attention to her minute details. She arches up but is quickly pushed back down under his weight. His lips leave trails of wetness across her thighs as he draws nearer and nearer, only to pull away at the last moment. Hands trace her body; he grinds himself against her leg, staring at the look on her face. Mouth open. Eyes Closed. Head back. Wetness meets wetness…sound emits, pulse quickens, fingers curl, pupils dilate, toes spread, and nipples harden, dripping and slurping. Rising up her length slowly he takes time to drip his mess onto her before sliding inside. Her chest rises to meet him, but he pulls away as she struggles against the tension from her binds.

“I am in control now, do you trust me?”

Her eyes were the answer and her words torment him, egging him on. He leaves her, standing up and walking back into the kitchen. Eyes fix on the cutting block. “Too big, too small…uh that one’s dirty…ah…perfect.” Holding the metal firmly against his chest he checked the sharpness, again perfect. She stares at him as he walks back into the bedroom, the knife out of sight as he climbs on top of her. Their eyes are locked such that she does not notice the blade as it comes into view, her lips part when she finally does.

“I’ll ask you again, do you trust me?”

The blade meets her skin a few inches above her left breast, slowly making its way down her chest. She does not move, knowing the imminent danger and her inability to fight him off. The sight of the metal both frightens and excites her, his touch reassures but reasserts. The control is his. He moves his body lower, bringing the knife to rest just above her clit. The cold metal meets her outer lips, she gasps but does not budge, and he trails it out down her hip. The pattern repeats and mutates, each inch of skin covered producing new taboo sensations traveling in its wake.

He mounts her, placing the knife on the bed as he slides himself into her. He knows what she wants but is hesitant, wondering if she really understands what she is asking…the danger. He puts her trust to the test. The blade comes to rest on her throat as the pace of his thrusting increases. She does not breathe and he does not press down, it is there as a mere reminder. It is equilibrium between the two of them, an unspoken testament to his power over her. He lifts, she breathes. The excitement in her eyes is an echo of the animal in his; she sees what she has drawn out of him. He does not recognize himself in this moment, but he carries on. His full realization comes as he pulls the knife away for the final time, looking down at her face. He wakes up, realizing for the first time that he wants this just as much as she does. His eyes open, he draws a breath and grabs a handful of her hair.

I pulled back hard and saw the obvious pain on her face as her neck craned upwards. I thought about what I was doing, “Sick fuck,” but it only pressed me on further. I think she saw the conflict in my eyes because she began to curse me, I pulled her hair harder. She demeaned me; I bit down into her flesh. She spit, I pushed her head into the mattress. The insults flew back and forth; I fucked her harder with each word from her mouth. It turned to a struggle as she fought against her binds, I could see the rope sawing into her skin. Harder and harder, I pulled back on her hair and licked her neck, “I don’t want it,” she said. “Get off of me, you're pathetic.” Egging me on and on, I knew she liked it…I told her she did. Her flat refusal brought it on even more.

“I don’t care if it feels good for you, it does for me.”

I saw the fire in her eyes when I said that, she told me I was raping her, I told her she liked it. Two sick demented fucks picking at the back corners of two twisted brains, pulling it out of each other. The fight continued, she was successful in getting my cock out of her a few times, only to be beaten back under my weight to feel me in her once again. I fucked her mercilessly, ripping back on her hair and telling her it was for me. She began to break, slowly but surely.

“Baby, please make love to me.”

I pulled her hair back and growled my response in her ear, doubling my efforts. She begged and begged but I did not bend to her will. Every plea for mercy was greeted with a snarl and a yank of her hair. I was pounding into her relentlessly, the sweat coating our bodies, as she wailed a mix of pleasure and pain into the damp air. It pushed me over the edge; I felt it start growing in my legs. It pushed up to my ass as we slapped together, the bed banging against the wall. The sweat dripped down my forehead as I pulled out, releasing myself onto her arched body…begging for my cum. I took her head in my hands and kissed her, looking into her brown eyes.

“That was fucking unbelievable,” was all either could muster.

“I need a cigarette.”

We laughed and I climbed off of her, she begged me to cut her free. I grabbed a different knife and cut her arm free before handing it to her. "Do it yourself," I said. Instead she lustfully rubbed my cum into her chest and face before tending to her binds. There were deep red rope marks on her wrists and ankles, I took pictures and kissed her wounds. I held her for a few minutes before we got dressed and went outside to smoke.

“I didn’t realize how badly I wanted that,” I said.

“I do trust you with my life,” she responded.

“This I know. I would never hurt you.”

“I know that as well, I love you.”

“I love you…oh and just so you know…that knife was so dull it couldn’t cut butter.”

One Moment in Time in a Midwest Town

It was odd to walk back in here alone. Stepping through the door I could still smell her throughout my apartment. Alone again but not at the same time, she is still here. I can still feel her hand on my face.

I watched her walk down to the security check in, I could see the tears in her eyes as she turned around and disappeared from my sight once again. I choked back the tears, ran my hand through my hair and turned to walk away. I sat there in my car, smoking a cigarette and thinking about the conclusion to this utterly perfect weekend. Everything had gone right, everything went smoothly and for the first time in so very long I felt at peace.

We laid there in my bed, our sweaty skin pressed together in the aftermath of heaven. It was a conversation that had been looming over our heads since the moment I got in that cab almost two months ago. We both knew that this couldn’t continue forever, it was taking too much from our souls. It was on the tip of my tongue; I knew it burned on hers as well. Neither wanted to say, neither wanted to hurt the other but both knew it had to pass.

“What are we going to do?”

I heard it in her voice a few weeks ago; I could sense the loneliness and the anguish. I knew because it was present in mine as well. Something had to change; even though it might crush each of us…it had to be done. I told her that I didn’t want her to go back to being alone. I love that woman way too fucking much to hear the pain I cause in her voice, to see those tears in her eyes. I knew in my heart that I wanted her to wait for me forever, but I knew that was not just.

If you love her, you will set her free.

I told her that she needed to find someone back home that would love her the way she deserved. I felt the tears run down my cheeks as I said it, but I did not stop, I told her what I needed to say. So did she. She made me promise not to go back to drinking. I promise. She made me promise that I would take the first step towards my future. I promise. She made me promise that I would stop treating myself like crap. I promise. My love, I promise you these things because it was you who helped me see them. We must carry on, but we will forever be together.

We laid there in silence for a few minutes before she finally said that she would never let someone take her for granted again. I can’t possibly explain with these words how that made me feel. I hate her blog because it is a collection of tales about a bunch of cunts that didn’t realize what they had in front of them. So many nights I have been unable to sleep, upset beyond belief thinking about how fucking unfair it is that those fools had an opportunity to love her and they treated her like meat. How horribly unfair it is that I love her like I have never loved before and I can’t have her like I want. Such bullshit that those fucking morons had a chance with the most incredible woman on earth and they let her go. Fools, the fucking ignorant fools, if they had only opened their eyes they would have seen the same thing I do.

I told her I never wanted her to go back to Craigslist and I never wanted her to settle. She needs a man who will love her like I do but who can be there in a way that I can’t. “Don’t you dare settle, don’t you dare let some man hurt you again and promise me that you will find someone who will love you like you deserve to be loved.” She gave me her word and for the first time I realized this was not a one way street. I had shown her something about herself, just like she had shown me something about myself. I helped her, I showed her how someone should treat her, care for her, pamper her and love her. I know that she understood.

That made me…no that makes me feel like a man, to have the guts to say something that broke my heart because I knew it was right. I love her, I can’t subject her to the torture of waiting for me…and that is why I let her go.

But, my heart could not let her go without telling her something. It became apparent while lying in that bed that this feeling was not going to disappear. I said that I would always love her, and I meant it. When the same words came out of her mouth I knew it was the God honest truth. She said that maybe someone was up there looking down on us, how else could we have found each other? Maybe she was right.

Are you still up there? Do you still care about me, even after all the evil I have done? I think maybe you do, otherwise…what did I do to deserve this woman?

We laid around watching football all afternoon on the bed we made on my living room floor, eating cheese and crackers. It was so simple and yet it was so very perfect. I finally had the opportunity to treat her like my girlfriend, if only for three days, but it made me so very happy. Maybe it was a glimpse into what could be someday, maybe not, I’m not going to sit around thinking about what might have been. I won’t sit here and ask myself, “What if,” and I won’t cry over things that can’t be right now.

You know, I feel like I should be sad…but I’m not. I feel like my heart should be broken…but it isn’t. I feel like I should be crying…but I’m not. I am content. I am smiling. I am happy. For once I know I am worth more than I gave myself credit for. Why would she bother to love me? Because I am worth it, I am worth something. So strange to read that, but what is even stranger is that I actually believe it.

You know what? For once I am smiling and for once it isn’t a disguise.

I’ll leave it at this. This weekend will forever be a memory of a perfect moment in a Midwest town that I used to hate. I saw a different city when I crossed the river on the way back from the airport. This moment changed my life, and coming back into Ohio tonight, I knew I was a different boy…no, a different man. For she is not just a woman, she is the woman who made me a man; she is the one who saved me.

Patrick-

I never would have loved you this way if you weren’t worth it.

Love always,

N.

48 Hours

Not nervous. Not worried. Not biting my nails, smoking constantly or losing sleep. Not jittery, twitching or twiddling my thumbs.

I’m just not thinking about it.

I have worked so many hours in the past 5 days that I have gotten sick from exhaustion. I am stressed, tired and my brain is only half on. On the bright side, the past few days of the countdown went by relatively quickly. Quite frankly, I haven’t had time to put myself through the stomach churning worry I did last time. The whole thing about having to work on Friday is up in the air for about another half hour, but surprisingly it has not really bothered me this whole time. For once, I am just going with it.

It has me dumbfounded because this time there is much more on the line than last. Things have been said, fears have been expressed and desires have been shared like they weren’t last time around, but that’s ok. This whole intensely fucked up situation the two of us are in has really given me insight into to how to deal with worry.

Don’t fucking worry about it.

All I will end up doing is tearing my hair out and driving her insane. There is nothing I can do now that will change what happens this weekend, so why bother.

Just relax and let it happen.

Story Time Part 1 Revisited...Awkwardly

In order to read this you need to read Story Time Part 1.

It’s a little before three here right now. One of the girls is out on lunch and I was covering the phones as we were pretty busy. The phone rang and I answered.

“Hi this is Jess from ________ Trucking in _______Wisconsin.”

Oh shit. Oh holy absolute shit. I recognized her voice almost instantly. I knew this would happen someday, I was just waiting for it. I didn’t know what to say so I just went on telling her about the freight she called on.

“Wait a minute, I know you don’t I? Oh wait…oh my God. Um….This is Cheese isn’t it?”

“It is.”

The conversation was about as awkward a shower in high school gym class. My plan to stick to the details of the load did not really work so well.

“So how’s Meg?”

“She isn’t.”

“How are you doing?”

“I’m better than I was a few months ago.”

She dragged the info out of me so I told her about Pitseleh. Told her how we met and how far in over our heads we had gotten. She laughed and said that maybe I should consider not meeting anymore older women from other states while I am supposed to be working. I must admit she broke the awkwardness a bit with that comment and we shared a laugh. She asked if we had met before, I told her we had and that it wasn’t at a Best Western either. Again, we laughed.

I asked her how her kids were and she said that they were good. Said things were better now with her husband. I had forgotten she was married and suddenly remembered the email from some strange guy in Wisconsin saying “FUCK YOU ASSHOLE” when she got caught shortly after the trip. I felt the guilt creep into me. Back then I didn’t really care what happened to her, I only felt guilty for cheating on Meg. Although, now that I think about it she was probably screwing someone that weekend too.

I suddenly felt so guilty for sleeping with a married woman, I’m not going to lie…I still do. Eh, chalk it up in the sin book. I guess it just means I get a better seat in hell.

So anyway, the conversation meandered on in a slightly less awkward fashion for a few minutes before I told her that I had to go.

“Do you mind if I put you on my list of available loads that I send out every morning?”

“Of course not, Cheese,” she laughed, “It was really nice to talk to you again, I’m glad you’re well.”

“It as nice to talk to you too, Jess.”

Its almost four now, I should probably get back to work. Between the IM conversation with my favorite ex-blogger and writing this down so I didn’t forget, I have officially wasted the afternoon…yet again.

But that…well, that threw me off.

Once again, further proof that there is no such thing as an uneventful day in my completely insane life.

Single Digits

The text I got at 11:58 last night said, “9 days!”

If I was not asleep I would have responded with, “In two minutes, dumbass.”

In any case we are down to single digits here…again. This time she comes here, requiring me to clean, launder (clothing not money) and buy things to put in my refrigerator so I don’t look quite so poor. Friends will all be out of town for the Thanksgiving holiday so no worries about drunken rednecks telling her even more embarrassing stories about me. She gets in at 12:30 or so and I’ll be ready to pick her up and spend the afternoon together. So all in all we are good, right?

HAHA

OF COURSE NOT, DIPSHIT.

Coworker 1: Just so you guys know, ________ is shipping on Black Friday.

Me: Your point?

Coworker 2: shaking head

Me: YOU HAVE TO BE FUCKING JOKING ME!

Coworker 1: Nope, we are working Black Friday.

Me: I hate my fucking life.

I swear to God nothing can ever be easy for me, can it?

I swear.

Motherfuckers.

Irony At Its Finest

So one of my friends got a job for R.J. Reynolds, pretty sweet gig actually, they even gave him a company car.

The only catch?

You can’t smoke in it.

Paranoid

What am I trying to write to myself? I stare at this screen as I write this and I can watch the letters appear in response to the movements of my fingers. If I don’t look at my fingers I type quite awkwardly, as if I were learning to ride a bike once again. You know my brother turned 21 years old yesterday and he still can’t ride a bike. Ok but I’m getting off topic.

By contrast if I sit here and watch my fingers dancing rapidly across the keyboard I look up to find that entire paragraphs have been written on the screen before I even realize the thoughts had been wrenched from my head. I can stare and stare and write without my instant urge to correct every mistake that appears on the screen at any given interval during the writing process. But then, like this instant right now, I look up and I see the words that I have written and I must correct them, enhance them to make them tell me something I just can’t see, something that isn’t there.

I am utterly convinced these words are out to get me.

11/11/08

The Devil's Workshop

“Once you've taken a few punches and realize you're not made of glass, you don't feel alive unless you're pushing yourself as far as you can go.” Matt Buckner in Green Street Hooligans.

List of things to do: (roughly dated 08/25/08)

1. No more late night fist fights – Check.
2. No more waking up to a vomited covered bed – Check.
3. Shorten list of people to apologize to on Saturday and Sunday mornings – Check.
4. Stop sleeping with stupid women I don’t care about – Check.
5. Eliminate the blindingly drunk driving – Check.
6. Eliminate the bar tabs in excess of $30 – Check.
7. No more waking up still drunk before work – Check.
8. Cut down on drunken late night phone calls – Check.
9. Quit making a belligerent fool out of myself – Check.
10. No more visits to The Party Source after 11pm – Check.

So it has been a few successful months of behaving like a reasonable and (halfway) responsible adult, I’d say I’m doing a good job. I have to admit that waking up and not feeling as though I drank a bottle of Clorox bleach the night before is quite nicer than the opposite. My checking account is thanking me, my friends are thanking me and believe me my body is thanking me. So all in all I’m on the right track…right?

Well, I am not so convinced.

Yes of course there are numerous benefits to my lack of late night bar time shenanigans but for all those benefits there is one new problem I have created. A few months ago if you put a few bourbons in my system you would see possibly the most insane human being on earth. My memory of a normal evening would end at about 11pm, which normally left me the task of reconstructing my whereabouts via credit card statement and text message records. Now after a few weeks of serious loss of control I learned from my mistakes by deleting my texts before bed and leaving my credit card at home so I had no way to remember my misadventures. Honestly I didn’t want to remember them.

Towards the beginning of fall things were in a serious downward spiral. I woke up to puke covering my face, chest, pillow and sheets more than once and drank so much bourbon that on one occasion I pissed the bed. I was driving at over 100mph on the freeway with a blood alcohol content high enough to knock down an offensive lineman in the NFL. I was punching more inanimate objects and close friends than a pro boxer on training day. I routinely heard stories from people I barely knew about a maniac they heard about last night named “Cheese” and my friends were telling me I needed help. I had a death wish and was more than happy to demonstrate it.

So, what the hell am I complaining about?

I’m fucking BORED!

There is something to be said for the constant chaos that I created for myself over the past few months, it kept me on my toes. Normal nights at 12:30 I would be midway through a massive bar tab, now I’m midway through a public TV infomercial. Normal mornings I might wake up on my floor in a puddle of drool, now it lands on my pillow. Normally I would be called a maniac now you could call me tame. I guess this is abnormal for me. I don’t know how to live without chaos, drama, fighting, blood, tears and everything that makes a maniac feel alive.

I have taken more than my fare share of punches and have known for a long time I am not made of glass. In fact, if you think about the number of times I have escaped from death or danger, you could say I was made of stone. I am fucking invincible. I’ve been shot at, hanging by my neck, in near fatal car wrecks and in fights that almost killed me, yet here I sit writing away. I need the presence of danger to feel alive. I need the knife to my throat and the gun to my head before I will be fully convinced I am still breathing.

Ok now this is really the lack of sex talking here.

So yeah, I replaced the excitement I got from my psycho ex Meg when we broke up with even heavier drinking and partying. Oh and please believe me that my little New Yorker does the same, its just she isn’t here. If she was, this wouldn’t be a problem because as I discovered during my visit to see her, my cock remains perpetually hard in her presence (it actually kind of hurts after a while). But since I am left alone here in this mess of a city, I sit here and think about all the fun I’m missing on those long weekend nights.

Well I guess that’s that, I’m bored and there is nothing I can do about it. I mean it really isn’t all that bad, my season on NHL 08 is getting a ton of attention and my apartment has never been cleaner. Instead of hearing stories about me on the previous night, I am hearing them about others. Instead of apologizing profusely to friends in the morning, I have them calling me to apologize. Instead of waking up to texts from her saying that I am an ass, I wake up to them saying “I love you.” So yeah, I am not necessarily complaining, I like this thing I have going here. I just have to be plain old honest and say, it gets a little boring from time to time.

Just keep in mind that, “idle hands are the devil’s workshop.”

Best Man?

I understand why you did it, but I still don’t agree. You’re one of my closest friends and we have seen each other through more than a few tough times. I will always be there and I will always support you, pit bull, remember? But when you called me and asked me that question I felt my heart sink.

“Will you be my best man?”

You know I don’t like her, I never have, but I’m not going to sit here and tell you all the things I despise. But seriously, there are some things that you need to open your eyes and see.

When you moved to Texas, you moved alone with the knowledge that you would know no one once you got there. You moved with the idea that after a few years of hard and miserable work you would be able to return and live the life you wanted. I backed you on that choice even though I wanted you to stay. I took your calls and we talked for hours every week, I could hear how lonely you were and how much you just needed a friend to talk to about the general stupidity of our species. I knew it was only a matter of time before you couldn’t take it anymore. So when you told me that she was moving down there I wasn’t angry, I understood but I was still sad.

She cheated on you constantly and she did it blatantly, as if she wanted you to know. Yeah, I cheated too so what could I say? You guys broke up for 10 months and within that period of time she had a baby…one that didn’t look like you. She moved down and the baby and dog came with her. As if it wasn’t enough for you to work sixty hours a week, now you raise her child as your own while she gallivants around Dallas. You put up the money for the house and you pay the bills. You work third shift when they need you and I never hear you complain. What does she do?

She works at Pac-Sun in the mall…and she isn’t even a manager.

So I watch you slave away at a job you hate, raising her kid while she works a part time job and you make the mortgage payments. I must admit, it drives me nuts how quickly she forced you to grow up and how she leaves all the responsibility on you. There is so much more I could say, so many other transgressions, but you have heard them all before.

The question I have is: how do I tell you that this is the worst fucking idea I have ever heard? How does one tell one’s close friend that his fiancé is toxic? How does one say to a friend, “Hey she is a fucking worthless user”?

I can’t go on not saying anything, you are my friend and you will have to live with this mistake for the rest of your life. But I seriously wonder how you will take it, you aren’t exactly the biggest fan of constructive criticism, you know? I just want you to open your eyes and see what is happening around you. You are raising her kid and she doesn’t help. She stays out all night every night. You have strange numbers calling all the time and she spends hours on the phone with them. Open your eyes man, you are whipped.

So, tonight you are in town and we will go out drinking and watching Monday Night Football and we will talk about things separated friends talk about. I just wonder, how the hell will I not say anything? Should I say something? What happens if I do? What happens if I don’t?

Ugh, I wish you were gay, that way I wouldn’t have to worry about being your best man.

Unless of course Ohio or Texas were to legalize gay marriage in our lifetime.

Yeah right.

11/10/08

Is This Thing On?

Is there a point to this anymore? What good has writing here done me?

I have confronted lies, drug abuse, heartbreak, betrayal, pain, anger and alcoholism and I have left it out there for the world to see. But I ask myself why? What is the point of leaving it up for the public to read? Why not just write this in my bedroom and leave it saved for eternity on my hard drive?

I’ll admit to myself that when I first started seeing people comment I got caught up in the narcissism of this little game. Running around flirting in comment boxes and coming up with witty one liners was a lot of fun. Who doesn’t like knowing people are reading and thinking about their life? I found myself seriously debating the deletion of this blog for that exact reason. The reason I came here is beyond me now and I’m not entirely sure of the reason I stay. It is so much easier to write when drinking, getting high and almost dying on a nightly basis, but I’m not doing that anymore. I felt like I had some sort of obligation to keep on writing stories about self destruction, but I don’t feel like writing about that anymore. To be honest I don’t know what I feel like writing anymore, I just know I need to keep doing it.

It becomes so much harder to write the god honest truth when you sacrifice your anonymity to let people into your world. You see everything you write through their eyes and you wonder if they might not love you when they finish the next sentence. I can’t go forward like that and I issue my last warning to this blog that it will be removed if this continues. This is my space and I do still need it, but I cannot allow it to be compromised or painted a certain shade for another’s eyes.

Yes, I can admit to myself that things are so much better right now, but I can’t keep burying my head in the sand waiting for the things I ignore to kick me in the ass. You will only ever see a little bit of an iceberg unless you jump into the water to see what lurks beneath the surface; writing is how I jump in. Sitting in my room writing by myself accomplishes only so much. I did a remarkable amount of writing during my little nap from this blog but I found that none of it scratched the surface the way I needed it too. Something about the fact that knowing only I would read it compelled me to write a version of events that I wanted to hear, one that would make me feel better. The truth is, however, it did nothing of the sort. I saw how quickly and easily I would lie to myself to make the events of my life palatable.

They are nothing more than lies and incorrect accounts of how I REALLY felt. In short they are pointless.

So I feel that in one week I have made a serious about face. I need to be able to read accurate accounts of my past so I can learn from them. “He who controls the past controls the future.” I debated making it private and inviting no one, I debated deleting it, I debated writing by myself and I debated just plain not writing at all. None of those are going to work; it has to be here or nowhere, this is how I control the past and how I control the future.

I made a promise to myself that I would be totally honest in every word that I put on this blog and that is what holds my hand to the fire. When I write alone or not at all, I find myself lying to make me better or worse or whatever the fuck I want to feel at the time. I write in this space knowing that if I lie here, I lie to the entire world. I lie to anyone who chooses to read it.

But more importantly if I lie here, I lie to myself. I end up back where I began and I gain nothing. I put up a quote as the second post I ever wrote, “When a man lies, he murders some part of the world.” I need this blog so I can be honest with myself; it is my only check and my only balance.

So that being said, I think what makes more sense to me now is, “When a man lies, he murders some part of himself.”

I am done with suicide, be it real or metaphorical, and that is the reason I stay.

Goodnight.

Now it's time to say good night

Good night, sleep tight

Now the sun turns out his light

Good night, sleep tight

Dream sweet dreams for me

Dream sweet dreams for you.

Close your eyes and I'll close mine

Good night, sleep tight

Now the moon begins to shine

Good night, sleep tight

Dream sweet dreams for me

Dream sweet dreams for you.

Close your eyes and I'll close mine

Good night, sleep tight

Now the sun turns out his light

Good night, sleep tight

Dream sweet dreams for me

Dream sweet dreams for you.

Good night good night everybody

Everybody everywhere

Good night.

"Good Night" The Beatles

Yes We Can

I sat for two hours on I-275 in Kentucky this morning due to a fatal accident on the bridge into Indiana. At around 9:30 people started to get out of their cars to smoke, stretch and talk. The people in the cars and trucks next to me hopped out and we congregated in the median discussing when the bridge would be reopened. Not surprisingly the conversation soon shifted to the election.

The group was clearly divided about the election but for the first time in 10 months I finally heard civil discussion from real people, not left or right wing nutcases. They expressed both fears and hopes, not only for the next four years, but for the future of our country. It was clear (by their bumper stickers) that they had all voted differently but managed to have a meaningful conversation about the state of affairs in our beloved America. I said that it was of the utmost importance that we throw down our party flags and pick up the one flag we all share in common. They nodded; we went to our cars and shortly after traffic began moving.

There is a dangerous storm bearing down on our great land and the skies look ominous, but this is no time for fear. This is not a time for division, it is a time to stand together and show the rest of the world that we are united under one flag. We are all family and we must fight together as one. Now is not the time for us to point fingers or place blame, it is the time to move forward…together.

United we stand / Divided we fall

The thing we so desperately need to remember is that it is not one man who is going to bring us change. Barack Obama is not going to change this country. He will not fix our economy and he will not end our wars. He will not repair race relations and he will not improve our image in the world. He will not change any single one of those things.

We will.

We must show this world we mean business. We must set the right example. We must cooperate and we must listen. Obama is merely and agent of change, much the same as King and Kennedy. Both were great men, but both were only the catalyst. They saw that the people were hungry for something new and they listened to the heart of their nation. They let the people guide them and speak through them, thus enabling and inspiring the change the people cried out for.

They were the agents but we are the change.

So I say that now is not the time to cower in fear, now is the time to remember our great history and stand tall. Now is the time for the American dream to be reborn for all people, the people who have always deserved it but have always been denied. Now it the time to heal the rift and to work together as one, for if we do not, we will surely perish.

So when I heard that speech last night and I saw those crowds I felt something new. Each time I heard the words “yes we can,” I got the chills. And by the end of that speech I had tears in my eyes. I listened to and I believe in the promise which has been made to me. I believe that this is the beginning of something new. I believe that the United States of America will once again be a shining beacon on the hill, a role model and a pillar of justice in this world. I drank the Kool Aid and it tastes pretty damn sweet. I believe that this is our time, we are America and if there is any nation on this earth who will answer the call, it is us.

Yes. We. Can.

This is our chance to answer that call. This is our moment. This is our time - to put our people back to work and open doors of opportunity for our kids; to restore prosperity and promote the cause of peace; to reclaim the American Dream and reaffirm that fundamental truth - that out of many, we are one; that while we breathe, we hope, and where we are met with cynicism, and doubt, and those who tell us that we cant, we will respond with that timeless creed that sums up the spirit of a people:

Yes we can.

From the Obama victory speech in Grant Park, Chicago.

On Forgiveness

We only realize our mistakes after the shit hits the fan. Foresight slips away in the spur of the moment and will leave us to wallow in our sorrows. That guilt will hit you like a boxer’s fist to the chest, only you will never fully regain your breath. The instant pang of regret that forces the cold sweat from your pores and the knots in your stomach will cause you to cringe. Realizing that it is too late, that there is nothing you can do, will leave you broken and battered.

Getting up, however, is what will put you back together.

When you look at yourself in the mirror after taking a crushing blow, you don’t see the same person. Admitting fault is so very important but it eats you up inside and in the end it changes nothing. Meg came to me not too long ago and asked me for forgiveness, I told her to fuck off, but I said it out of principle. Look contrary to the way that I might portray myself I am not an asshole, the bad things I write about keep me up at night and cause my nightmares. I don’t derive pleasure out of hurting others and I don’t get off on rubbing their mistakes in their face, even if they weren’t mistakes but premeditated lies.

I have been thinking about it a lot lately and wondering if I am simply the pot calling the kettle black. I made my fair share of mistakes and have told my fair share of lies and got pissed when I wasn’t forgiven for them, as if I was owed. I inflicted so much pain on that woman over three years and she always took me back and forgave me, why am I so self-righteous that I can’t return the favor.

I have no intention on ever taking her back, but I see no point in letting her drown in guilt for the rest of her life. How cruel of me, how hypocritical. We all need forgiveness whether we deserve it or not and I’ll be damned if I am going to go down as the asshole who threw away a friend. You don’t spend that long with someone and then cast them aside that easily. I could do it out of pain and thankfully it has let me put her down and while I do not miss my girlfriend Meg, I certainly miss my friend.

Admitting ones trespasses takes a lot of courage but forgiving means so much more.

Opiate

What am I doing here?

I got suckered into it with a promise of free dinner, I hadn’t been in a few years and wasn’t keen on the idea. Oh and I was still slightly drunk from the Browns game not more than an hour earlier.

Nothing like going to church drunk.

I stood there and watched the altar boys carry the candles down the aisle, thinking about how that used to be me. I remember how I believed everything I had heard, unquestioning and unwavering. One of them took the book up to the priest so he could read the opening prayer. I remember how he used to smile at me when I did it, such a good wholesome kid.

What am I doing here?

I could feel the guilt washing over me as the first reading began. I tried to listen, maybe even learn something from the Scriptures I used to hold so dear. It was nothing I hadn’t heard before; I just sat there trying to deny the alcohol in my system. I could not keep my head in the building; I just kept seeing flashbacks of myself in that world.

I sat through the rest of mass feeling a mixture of emotions I had not felt since the last time I was in a church. I can’t begin to describe what it feels like or how I got to this point.

The questioning started around the time I got old enough to think for myself. We had a sex education class, Fully Alive as they called it, when we were pretty young and I recall the boys on the playground talking about it. I thought about something the whole week at school until Sunday school finally came and I asked my teacher a question which dropped her jaw.

“How did Mary have Jesus if she was still a virgin?”

The teacher was kind enough to explain it to me, but unkind enough to tell my parents which resulted in some good ol fashioned Catholic discipline. I never forgot how my simple question was squashed underfoot and labeled “misguided,” it only prompted me to question more. It was the beginning of the death of my religion.

When I came home after the first year of college I told my parents that I was no longer attending church with them on Sundays. My mom cried and my dad asked me what the hell had happened to me over the course of one year that made me throw away 19 years of very serious faith. I didn’t have an answer for them then and to this day I still don’t.

My mother has still not forgiven me for that conversation. I was never able to fully justify to them why I left that faith behind, I still can’t justify it to myself. I know this doesn’t make a lot of sense; I just have to say something about it. I just find it so difficult that I still believe in their God, just not in the “they” who tell me what to believe and what not to. I don’t need someone to tell me right from wrong and I don’t need someone to hold the threat of hell over my head if I don’t agree with everything they say.

I don’t need that.

I did not, however, forsake everything I learned inside of that building; I carry some of it with me to this day. Things like the golden rule and the Beatitudes. Things like forgiveness and turning the other cheek. Things like love of our fellow man and sacrifice for the greater good. I may not live them perfectly but I try.

At least I haven’t forgotten everything I learned in the one hour intervals I spent inside of a church. Be it good or bad, it is just another facet of the complication that I am today

Holy Crap!

I haven't done SHIT today at work. Literally almost nothing. So I was on Statcounter looking up my little anonymous friend when I noticed something, my ass got Fleshbotted.

Now, I had no idea what the hell that meant until I did some digging around (it is hard to look at that site at work) and realized that they posted something of mine.

COPYRIGHT INFRINGEMENT.

Kidding.

Thank you very much, I am flattered.

Cheese

Dear Mr. Anonymous Commenting Cocksucker

Ok, I have had about enough of it. Look I have absolutely no problem if you want to come here and comment anonymously, I leave that as an option for a reason. But SERIOUSLY, you wanna come here and talk shit to me, call me disgusting, tell me to fucking grow up? That what you want? That make you feel good? Righteous? HUH?

Well listen here you fucker, I already have that covered perfectly fine myself, so thanks for your effort but I have it taken care of.

I watched you since you first commented some “holier than thou” bullshit a few months ago. I know that you have read every single post I have written. I don’t track my readers, but you are a different story. For example I know you have read “The Virgin” more than 5 times. I know you’ve read the “Hotlanta” posts more than once. And I know that you have read my phone sex post numerous times. So you tell me, saint, what your fucking reasoning was? Why did you read some of my most sexual posts over and over again? HUH?

You fucking piss me off, not because of what you say (it is watered down anyways, try a little harder to insult me next time you pussy) but because you do it in such a fucking cowardly manner. Now you listen to me, you anonymous bastard, I don’t give a fuck what you think about me. In fact maybe tonight I’ll go fuck someone in a goddamn church and use the Bible to roll a joint, just for you. Would you like that? HUH?

So you want come here and try to make me feel bad, huh? Try harder you boner. You want to act all righteous and point out the obvious? Keep pointing bitch. You want to throw your religion in my face? Well toss it then cocksucker. You want to feel good about telling me I am a lowlife? Well I hope it helps. Is that what you want? HUH?

Well listen to me you fucking piece of shit, I know what you’re doing…I’m on to you. You sit in your room and jerk off to my posts and you feel bad about it. You then comment and tell me I’m scum (I FUCKING KNOW ALREADY ASSHOLE) so you can feel better about yourself. Then you repeat. I know my writing is good simply because you come home after church and log on to THIS BLOG and read, and don’t you fucking tell me otherwise you fucking bitch. So fucking pray about that.

So, in conclusion, you make ME sick you fucking asshole so fuck off go find someone else to fucking bitch at, you can jerk off to pictures of little boys, you don’t fucking need my blog to get you off. So fuck you fuck off go fuck yourself fucking shut up you fucking fuck I fucking despise you fucker.

FUCK YOU!

Sincerely,

Your unrepentant, asshole, vile, disgusting, sinning, jerking off, fucking, cum spurting, beer drinking, pot smoking, world hating dickhead author Cheese.

National "Make a Fucking Fool Out of Yourself" Day

Every year my friends are incredibly curious about my Halloween costumes, always pestering me but never getting a response.

The reason?

I happen to think of Halloween as national "Make a fucking fool out of myself" day. My costumes have not only increased in the stupidity and outrageousness but have decreased in the amount of clothing I wear. I'm not even going to go into examples.

So this year I intend on carrying on my tradition of making a fucking fool out of myself...by going as one of these fellers.

Only trouble is that I am not one of the chiseled, roid raging, dollar bill attracting men that you see above. I am closer to this dude below.

Should prove to be an interesting evening especially since it will be in the 40s tonight and I will be outside and half naked. Although I bet those cut off collars provide some much needed warmth, kind of a sexy scarf of sorts.

Have fun tonight.

Your esteemed colleague

Cheese

Silence

It goes without saying that certain aspects of a long distance relationship can drive you mad. It isn’t just the distance, but the impersonality of a phone, email or text message conversation. They betray sarcasm and wit, often causing confusing situations which require an obscene amount of time to clear up. I can only properly express myself with the aid hand gestures and my countless facial expressions; which electronic communication fucks me out of. I can actually feel my persona slipping away from me on the phone. I am reduced to a mere voice.

That being said, I still enjoy the conversations immensely and it doesn’t bother me to the point of not wanting them. There is one thing, however, that I can’t get over.

Silence…or the lack thereof.

On the phone one feels the need to fill every blank space with words, however meaningless they may be. There sometimes emerges a need for silent moments, which are simply not possible on the phone. The moments of nothing on the phone always seem so awkward and unnatural, yet in person they are everything. A look or a gesture can cover things that a million words could never express.

I remember how odd it was to hear her over the phone for the first time upon returning, so mechanical and lifeless. I was exhausted and lying on my couch about to (attempt to) fall asleep. We had nothing to talk about, yet I jabbered on and on.

All I wanted was the silence.