Thursday, February 26, 2009

Meet The Parents

I'm just hoping it doesn't go anything like this.


Wish me luck


Monday, February 23, 2009

Who Gives A Fuck?

I saw a homeless man on the way home today who held a sign reading, “Homeless, but who cares anyways?” Now that’s what I call a good fucking point. Either this guy was aiming to make a case to the passing motorists on Dana Ave, or he was tugging heartstrings to get a buck. Either way, the man has a good fucking point.

So driving the last few minutes to my apartment I thought to myself, “Who really does care?”

Short answer: no one.

Think about it.

No one cares about the motherfuckers who get blown up daily in some sandbox hell on the other side of the planet. No one cares about the ones who lost their houses, shit we don’t even care about the people who never had one in the first place. No one cares about the people I see standing outside the unemployment office by my work. No one cares about…fill in the fucking blank. Look, for every one person who has serious problems such as these I’d be willing to bet there are ten fuckers who don’t give a shit at all.

Take a minute and think about that. We are concerned with our own shit, our own kids, our own finances etc. We are self-absorbed, self-aware, self-righteous and we have no qualms about it. Think about it, my friends, we bloggers are the worst offenders. We bitch…and bitch…and bitch about our problems which are mostly (in my case at least) self-inflicted. We whine for sympathy like a dog who whines when he has to piss, and I am the worst of all. Now before you click off this page with a “fuck this bastard” attitude in your head, hear me out.

I’m not that big of a pessimist.

I was watching the NBC Nightly News with my main man Brian Williams on the night before I drove to Columbus for my little hooker game with Pitseleh roughly two weeks ago. Now, if you recall this was the day Continental Flight 3407 and its fifty passengers flew out of the night sky and into someone’s house. I hate to be an asshole, but I’m good at it so I’m going to tell you the truth, the first thing I thought was nothing less than:

“Who gives a fuck?”

Oh yeah, I know that is some pretty harsh shit, but you need to understand where I’m coming from here. Don’t you think for one second that I don’t have feelings for the people who die in random plane crashes, in fact my uncle John died in this one here. I was seven, I had no idea what the hell it meant or just how gruesomely horrible it must have been, but now I get sad thinking about the uncle I hardly even remember anymore. I feel for these people, the ones who lost someone close but more so for the ones who will never know them. “So why is this asshole saying he doesn’t give a fuck about the 3407 dead?”

To make a point.

I don’t give a shit because everyone else on earth gives too much of a shit. You know what else happened on Friday February 13 2009? Of course not, and neither would I if Brian Williams hadn’t told me, so I’m not blaming you. Friday February 13 2009 was the deadliest day in Iraq so far this year. Despite my eternal love for B Dub, this story was just a footnote. “Forty dead and sixty injured as a result of a suicide bombing in Iraq.” Short, sweet and to the point…now on to the housing crisis…NEXT! Still not following me? It’s simple so bear with me.

Why are the people on flight 3407 so much more important than the ones who were ripped limb from limb on that same day in Iraq…shit or everyday for that matter? It’s obvious that they aren’t, there is no difference in either set of people. None of them woke up and thought, “Better hug my kids extra long today because I’m going to DIE in a few short hours.” Truth is we have been hearing about people being turned into new age Jackson Pollock paintings in Iraq on a daily basis for the past six years. Let me ask you a question. When you watch the news, if you can even stomach it anymore, do you see those people as humans? Do you think about their families, their jobs, their friends or even their fucking pets? Or do you think of them as a number?

Forty one dead, not forty…oh well, just another number.

We have been completely desensitized. They called flight 3407 a “tragedy,” but made no mention of “tragedy” when talking about our splattered friends in Iraq. It just isn’t a tragedy anymore, it’s commonplace, it’s usual and sad to say…it’s the fucking norm. Think about it, if a plane crashed everyday and fifty people died as a result, eventually there would be no “Remembering the Victims of Flight 3407” type shit. There would be no talk of how memorable and loving these people were. They would just be numbers. 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10. Numbers. Not people…not humans…not souls.

So let’s come full circle, shall we? We are back to our homeless man on Dana Ave. He’s right…no one does care anymore. The more we hear it, the easier it is to block it out and go about our lives. You know maybe it’s for the best, after all we can’t be going around worrying about all six billion or however many godforsaken people are infesting this planet, now can we? No, we would cease to function if we did that. So here’s my equation, and I’ve never been so good at math so bear with me if it makes absolutely no sense at all.

Hard times = bad situations. Bad situations + good people = bad news. Bad news = noteworthy news. Noteworthy news (bad situations + good people) = sympathy. Too much sympathy + too much noteworthy news = apathy.

Apathy = Who gives a fuck?

So, my dear pupils, where does this leave us? Straight in the shitter. But wait, there’s more!

Let’s get back to my NBC news broadcast. Depressing news, apathetic population and pissed off Cheese was the only product of said newscast. I was thinking it out to myself and the question I kept coming to was, “What happens when we all really just don’t give a fuck anymore?” Well I’ll give you the short and long answer all wrapped up in one.

What happens is that I board myself up in my apartment with rations, water and ammunition while sleeping with my gun and waiting for the evil zombie poplutaion to come and eat my brains. Ok well maybe that isn’t quite what would to happen, but you get my point. When we stop caring…everything goes wrong.

Now, where were we? Oh right, depressing newscast that made me hate humanity.

But then there was that final story, the one that had me singing Brian William’s praises the whole way to Columbus even though he had nothing to do with it…I just love that dude.

That very same day, February 13 2009, there was a single mom in Searcy, Arkansas who was shopping at Wal-Mart. She had been laid off and moved down from Michigan, I imagine in search of a better life. She was buying groceries and supposedly cringed; showing the heartbreak only a single, unemployed mom could show when the register handed down her sentence: $139. I imagine this woman reaching for her wallet wondering where the fuck this money was going to come from. That is until the checker told her that the man who had checked out in front of her had already paid for her groceries. I bet she cried…I would have and I bet you would have too. And even nobler was the fact that when that woman walked out of the Wal-Mart there were no news crews with the Good Samaritan standing by to receive the reward he most certainly deserved…no, the man had left without giving his name or any way to reach him. He did it for the sole purpose that he knew she needed something…anything to remind her that this life wasn’t just some sick cosmic joke.

So look at my point now…all ripped to shreds and full of holes, apparently people still do care. Ah, but now you realize the point I have been making all along, don’t you? This world needs people who care for and love their fellow human being. This world is a shithole and too many people lead lives of despair and hardship, we need each other. I’m not asking for money or tears or sympathy…I’m just asking that you give a fuck.

Please…just give a fuck.

Remember that the guy who won’t be coming home to his children because a suicide bomber killed him in Iraq or Afghanistan or wherever is exactly the same as each American who died in that plane crash. Their children will weep the same tears; just the same as my mother wept for her brother when he died in Evansville, Indiana all those years ago…we are all in this together. Their husbands and wives will share the same loneliness, their kids the same lack of guidance and their parents the same misery, for we are all human. We are all in this together; whether a poor kid in Haiti or Bernie Madoff under house arrest in his posh Manhattan apartment…we are all in this together.

So just remember that when you pass the homeless guy with a sign wearing tattered shoes as you head home from your 9 to 5. Just remember that there are people out there who have it way harder than you and I…even though they breathe the same air and weep the same tears. Just remember that we are social animals, we are animals of community and not caring goes against our very nature. This is not Survivor, this is not last man standing…this is us…HUMANITY…in this together and don’t you ever forget that.

So like I said; I’m not asking for your money, tears or sympathy…I’m just asking you to give a fuck.

Saturday, February 21, 2009

trying to write a post on your 24th it didnt go well.doc

At this moment exactly twenty four years ago a woman, barely an adult herself, lay on a surgical table in a hospital on a cold night in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. Exactly twenty four years ago a man waited nervously as his wife’s flesh was pierced by scalpel, delivering to him his firstborn son. I often wonder the thoughts that went through his mind as he waited for the life he and his love had created. I wonder where he saw his son on his twenty fourth birthday, what kind of a man would he be? Would he be just? Would he be a sinner? Would he be strong? Would he even be alive?

I don’t really know what to say. To be honest I wrote that paragraph above, got up to get a glass of wine and didn’t know what to say when I sat back down. I must have started fifteen different sentences. What am I supposed to talk about? I feel like I am obligated to say something, I mean isn’t it normal to remind people of one’s birthday in some sick attempt to get people to suddenly care about you for a second or so? I thought about writing about the hard times of the past year and I thought the prospect of this new year. I also thought about how incredibly boring that was to write about, let alone read. I thought about writing a lot of shit, but when I sat down to write it nothing happened. Fingers moved, words appeared but what I was trying to say was not what I was reading.

I have absolutely no fucking idea what is going to happen this year, just the same as anyone, but I have this burning feeling in me telling me that this time it’s do or die. I’m still feeling obligated, staring at the ceiling, wondering what to say. I have mastered the art of self pep talks to the point where I could be a motivational speaker for neurotics I don’t have anything to say though. It’s strange, every year at this time for as long as I remember I had a chat with myself about becoming the man I grew up wanting to be. Unfortunately I don’t have memories from that age so I don’t necessarily remember what I wanted to grow up to be.

This is an absolutely terrible post, isn't it? This is the epitome of bad writing...hey...I'm sorry. Doesn’t it read like is has been forced? That’s fucking pretty damn annoying. In fact you know what else is pretty damn annoying? I am. Seriously, do you ever ask yourself, “Why the fuck am I reading this crap?” Hey, its ok, sometimes I do too. It’s ok…hey…we’re still cool. I know…I know it’s alright. Really I don’t even know what the fuck I’m writing anymore, I just read the last few sentences and thought, “I. Am. Retarded.” I know I was trying to make a point when I started writing this but I completely forgot what that point was, and hey I’ll tell you I think I remember it being a pretty damn good one. However, like I said, this point we speak of is completely fucking evasive. Right. I think the point that I was trying to make was that all I want for christmas…wow…I mean my birthday is not forcing my fucking writing.

You know, I was going to post this just now but I got up to get another glass of wine before doing so, and in a moment of clarity, while staring at an old LBJ speech on public television, I decided that I rather like sitting here and reading I mean writing complete utter nonsense. Sometimes I wish that I had a device that was hooked into my brain, maybe through my ear or some shit that recorded some of my thoughts. Not all of them, you know because I think about a lot of stupid shit, like Brett Favre and guns and how Microsoft Word puts the squiggly red line under Favre to tell me that I misspelled it. Hey fucking Bill Gates, I didn’t misspell it you bastard, that’s how it is…bastard. You know the more I think about it I really do enjoy my birthday. This is my day to be a complete fucking moron and people are totally cool with it. It’s almost like some fucking hypnotizing effect, I can do the stupidest shit and people will just say, “It’s his birthday, man.” I think I remember hearing that once before bonging a 16oz Solo cup full of vodka once. Although that might not even be my memory, I can’t remember.

Ok so the point that I’m trying to get at is that I can’t believe you are still reading this, just about as much as I can’t believe I’m still writing this, just about as much as I cant believe I’m just going to post this with out reading it, just about as much as I can’t believe how neurotic I am about writing, just about as much as I can’t believe how many times I just said “just about as much” in this terribly onrunning sentence.

I should probably go to bed.

Friday, February 20, 2009

No Solicitors

"pitseleh said...
unbroken - if we got sponsored, i would start to post video on my blog."

You hear that people? Send money.

She's hot too.


Monday, February 16, 2009

Atlantic City Diamonds.

I was in town on business. Or at least that was the story.

The flight was scheduled to arrive at 10:30; she said she needed a few minutes to get ready so pick her up at quarter till. My suit fit a little tighter than the last time I had worn it; I flicked my cigarette, tightened my tie and took off my coat as I walked into the hotel lobby.

“I have reservations.”

I threw my jacket on the bed and stood surveying the room. I stared at myself in the mirror as I brushed my teeth; a different man stared back at me with icy blue eyes.

It had always been a forbidden fantasy, something hidden away from the world…lest they see me as a deviant. The foul things hidden in the depths of my subconscious had been beckoned back to life. I had been in the grips of temptation before but valiantly I had resisted. I had pushed back the filth and sin, hiding it from the light and keeping it from reality.

This time was different.

She named her price, half up front, half after, plus the cost of travel. I deliberated for days, weighing the risks and consequences to no end. What to do…what to do? She sold herself like I sell my business: professional, methodical…efficient. She was devious; pulling things from me that had never been given words before. I was a tough sell.

“If you don’t like what you get you don’t have to pay the other half,” she said, “but I’m sure you won’t be disappointed.” I realized that the angel on my shoulder was making his last stand, trying to hard to keep me from the abyss. It was too late…my mind had been made up.

“Deal. I want high heels, knee high stockings and a short dress with your tits spilling out the top.”


My stomach was in my throat as I pulled out of the hotel parking lot, I reached for my phone:

how will i know it is you?

black coat red stripe.

blue nissan.

be out in 15 minutes.


I circled the terminal, passing under the sign reading "Arrivals/Baggage Claim"; I couldn’t believe what I was doing. I drove past the hugging couples and elated parents, their kids home from school, before I spotted her standing by the trash can. She was as advertised. I pulled up. She started toward the car. I didn’t get out. She asked if it was me. I replied an affirmative.

Her perfume hit me as she climbed into the car, I couldn’t look at her at first…Lord knows I didn’t know what to say. I awkwardly said hello, she replied with the confidence of a queen.

Fuck was she hot.

Few words were spoken, but the glances were piercing…I felt the growth in my pants. She told me to pay her when we got to the room. She told me that anything goes; there were only three rules:

Don’t spit in my face.

Don’t slap my face.

Don’t you dare kiss me.

“Break any of the three rules and I’m gone, you got it?” I understood clearly.

She sat smoking in my passenger’s seat, an air of self-assurance surrounding her. Her coat was buttoned up and her stockings were pulled up to her knees. I instructed her to open her coat and let me see what I paid for. She reminded me that her sole purpose was me. Besides, I was paying for it; she did not come all this way to disappoint.

The dress was trashy, green with rhinestones below the breast line. It was short and tight, as requested her tits spilled out the top. She reached over and felt the bulge swelling in my pants. I did not touch her. I only looked. She dipped her fingers inside her panties, withdrawing them and holding them to my lips. She tasted sweet.

I took a deep breath and as the door shut behind us I exhaled deeply, I still didn’t know what to say. I told her to take off her coat and I stood there staring at her. I had gotten what I asked for. I gave her the money and she told be to sit down in the chair she had positioned in front of the full length mirror on the wall. Before I could react I was out of my clothes sitting in the chair looking in the mirror at her back as she bobbed up and down on my cock. I couldn’t believe what I was doing. I had never been with a woman like this; she pulled on me hungrily, earning her wage to the best of her abilities. My eyes rolled back into my skull as I let my senses take over.

After a moment I grabbed her by the shoulders and stood her up, taking off her slutty dress before tossing her onto the bed like a rag doll. She bounced onto the mattress, staring at me like I was an animal. I told her I wanted a professional to teach me something. I put my tongue to her clit and worked it up and down slowly, with a firm surface. She reacted ever so slightly as my fingertips traced from her knees to her pelvis via her thighs. I saw her neck crane in pleasure.

“Oh sugar…you don’t need any lessons.”

I felt my licking and sucking becoming more urgent as I rammed four fingers into her. “She is used to this,” I thought, “She can take it.” I looked up to see her staring down at me, there was a look in her eyes. It almost seemed real, but I knew the hunger was not for me…it was for my money.

“Sugar, I need you inside of me.”

I pushed in raw, and against my better judgment I was fucking a whore without a condom. She told me she was clean but how was I to know? Maybe that was half the fun…the risk. It was so unlike the love I made to my girlfriend. There were only sounds and sensations. I felt the sex act reduced to a simple economic function, devoid of emotion. Currency to be traded and bartered, an exchange of goods and services. I pounded into her, feeling her nails dig into my back as her teeth sank into my shoulder. The pain ran through me, mixing with the pleasure to complete the cycle.

At once she was on top of me, slamming herself down onto me, but in one violent instant she stopped and stared at me. “This isn’t why you hired me is it?” I told her she was right. “You hired me to do things to you that you are ashamed to admit to the world, things you’re ashamed to want and things you’re ashamed to love.” She was right…as much as I didn’t want to admit it she was right.

I didn’t know what she was doing as she told me to roll onto my side, relax and shut my eyes. I heard the familiar sound of a bottle of lube squirting out onto her hand. My mind raced, I didn’t know what was happening and then I felt it.

Violating, disgusting, wrong, vile and sinister.

She pushed in a bit further as I regained some control of my muscles. What was happening? I looked down to see the line of precum extending from the tip of my throbbing cock down to the comforter. I rolled over and she put me into her mouth, it was a sensation I will never forget. I felt her becoming more urgent as she violated me. Soon insults were flying out of her mouth, degrading me and making me feel hollow. She cut me to the core with her words and I liked it…no, I loved it.

At once she was on top of me, the toy still in my ass. I felt disgusting, I was ashamed, I felt like a faggot and a queer. She assured me that she thought the same way.

“What kind of a man pays a woman to do these things to him, huh?”

“What kind of a man begs to be fucked in the ass while he cock is being worked by my pussy, huh?”

“Disgusting vile piece of shit, you make me sick.”

I remember the animal taking over; I could feel it in my eyes. I pulled her hair back to the point that I knew it hurt, she squealed and I quickly choked it out with my hand clenching her throat. She gasped for air as I studied her reaction, letting go as it flooded her lungs. She stared back at me, the fight fresh in her eyes. I reminded her that she was mine I had paid her to do what I wanted. She complied, redoubling her efforts up and down on my cock.

I felt it building slowly in my legs, every insult and slur only egging me on. It was coming faster; I clenched harder and pulled her hair back mercilessly. She begged for it, just like a whore would, I pulled out and she rushed to my cock. Wave after wave of cum shot into her throat, she tried to pull back but I only shoved her down onto it harder. I had paid for this and I was going to get what I paid for. She made choking sounds as I felt myself coming down.

I pushed her off of me, suddenly disgusted with what I had just done. I did not touch or look at her as I stepped in to the bathroom; I gazed into the mirror seeing the same unfamiliar figure staring back at me with his icy blue eyes.

I ran the water warm and let it collect in the sink before splashing it onto my face. I pushed the lever and watched the liquid spiral down the drain along with the man I had just been.

I entered the bedroom to find someone completely different lying naked under the covers. I walked up to her and gave her a long kiss before pulling away to survey the change from whore to lover. I stared into her big brown eyes and leaned into kiss her again, lingering a little longer than normal to take in her scent.

“Is the game over, “she asked?

“That’s why I’m kissing you, dumb ass.”

I climbed into her arms, taking note of the difference between the hooker who was there minutes earlier and the woman I was now loving. Our game ended and I had finally gotten the part I was waiting for all along. The build up was raw and sexual but I knew the release would be sweet and intimate. Simple, effortless and natural:

I was again in the arms of my girlfriend, my woman and my love.

In Black And White.

Sleep eluded me for the duration of the night; I laid awake listening to her sleep. Just as elusive was the switch which turns off the swirling thoughts in my mind. She offered me anxiety medicine just after five, I turned it down before kissing her and telling her to go back to sleep. It was not anxiety haunting me; in fact I wasn’t being haunted at all. The tossing and turning was simply a product of the restlessness and excitement a man feels when he knows he is about to jump.

The last time I felt this was the summer before I left for college. There was sadness in knowing that soon I would leave the place I had come to call home but it was overshadowed by the excitement and promise of a new life. A new city, new people, somewhere to call home again, somewhere to push reset.

So this morning, in the moments before the sun rose, I drifted off thinking about the prospect of a fresh start.

Morning radio stirred my sleep as the alarm clock turned 7:00, the start of another day. I rolled over and remembered I was not alone. A sleepy smile greeted me when I opened my eyes, I felt my own creep onto my face. I pulled her into my chest and felt the warmth radiating from her body, kissing from collarbone to earlobe. She held me tightly as we slipped into another world, one second in time when everything is at ease.

She stood in my doorway, my blue fleece blanket clinging loosely to her naked figure. I leaned in and kissed her goodbye, hearing the lock click as I started down the stairs. The air was crisp, the sun bright and the sky blue as I lit my cigarette, my sore muscles aching as I got into my car. Music hung in the air and smoke, as always, trailed out the window toward the sun which beamed in my rearview mirror.

It was the exact same routine as every morning, yet it was completely foreign to me. The normal loathing of a day at work seemed somehow quieter today. I still had the same smile on my face, the one plastered on me like a fool since the moment I woke. Maybe it’s the fact that I had sex before work for the first time in months, or maybe it’s the fact that she is home waiting for me, even if it is for a ride to the airport. Maybe it’s the fact that my friends were jealous, not only of her looks, but of her charm. Maybe it was the dirty things we did to each other this weekend, or maybe it was the sweet and tender ones. More than likely it is all of them.

But what I find even more likely is that it is the fact that plans have been sketched out. Our logistical nightmare isn’t quite over but I have my fingers crossed and, no matter how foolish some may say it is, I have my hopes so high. I’m ready…I’ve been ready, I need to go. I would say something along the lines of “up up and away,” but the truth of the matter is my feet never have been on the ground.

I’m just enjoying my time in the clouds.

Friday, February 13, 2009

Wednesday, February 11, 2009

Ordinary Like Everyone

I got a comment the other day asking me what was so absolutely terrifying about being ordinary. I am going to answer it.

Sabina asked, “Can you explain why being ordinary is more frightening than, say, being buried alive, or never accomplishing anything useful in your life?”

I have a natural restlessness inside of me that drives me to think this way. People tell me that it will die off slowly as the years pass. “Someday,” they say, “you will be content and happy with what you have.” They say that as you get older you lose the idealism and the drive of your twenties, but I don’t think you “lose” it per se, I think you learn to shut it up. You quiet that voice inside that tells you not to be run of the mill, to break out of the mold and do something worthwhile. It seems to me that accomplishing something useful is far from ordinary…depending on your system of measure I suppose. But the truth is that accomplishment does not come without hard work and inevitable failures along the way, whereas ordinary is easy. We are a people who are too comfortable with taking the easy way, even though it makes them feel empty, so…they learn to shut out that nagging.

Or they just never hear it in the first place.

I am not the latter, for I feel the nagging in the back of my head. It calls to me when I lie awake at night, and it whispers to me as I watch my smoke trail into the night. There has always been this incredibly arrogant belief in my head that I am not ordinary and that I am meant to do something extraordinary. I remember the first time I told anyone that. I was sitting under an expressway bridge in the rain with a drug “friend” having the typical drug induced conversation about life. I told him that I thought I was put here to do something great…he laughed and I can still hear his exact words today:

“Yeah look at you sitting under a fucking bridge in the rain high off your ass…that sure is great, isn’t it?”

He laughed and laughed, clearly not realizing how badly that hurt…or just how right he was. I thought about what I was doing sitting there, completely blocking out my life…stoned senseless and utterly worthless. It wasn’t a conscious decision, but somehow I thought that my aspirations and dreams were just more effort than I was willing to put in. I was perfectly satisfied to sit on my ass and get high under a bridge in the rain with a kid who smelled like he just shit himself.

I was fine with being ordinary…worthless…robotic.

There is a general restlessness among our population which many have learned to tune out or use as a means to success and prosperity, even though that only leads to further restlessness (read Democracy in America, I’m not writing another research paper about it here). I think learning to suppress that restlessness is essentially coasting to the bottom. If everyone was content to live ordinary and boring lives there would be no inventors, no scientists, no leaders…no, we would just be a bunch of fucking slobs, sitting on our couches watching Jerry Springer and reaching for another KFC drumstick as we ash our menthol cigarettes into the empty Milwaukee’s Best Ice can on the floor.

So, in my mind being ordinary is exactly the same as being buried alive. Being ordinary is the same as never accomplishing anything useful in my life. It is essentially me spitting in the face of the family who gave me the potential that I know I have. It is the loss of all will, it tricks you in with the promises of being “content” and “happy,” but only leaves you a shell of your former self.

Ordinary is failure. Ordinary is surrender. Ordinary is not trying. Ordinary is giving in. Ordinary is giving up. Ordinary will take you nowhere and it will leave you empty and unfulfilled.

Ordinary is the muzzle keeping you from singing. Ordinary is shackles the keeping you from freedom. Ordinary is the blinder keeping you from the light. Ordinary is the whisper in your ear telling you to be like everyone else.

Ordinary like everyone; a curse, a sickness, a rotting hollow feeling.

Something to which I will not submit.

Monday, February 09, 2009

Things I've Left Unsaid

Sometimes we put ourselves into extraordinary situations, situations in which none could reasonably be expected to thrive. There is a struggle in our minds that is understood by us alone. There is a secret frustration, subtle but constant, lurking in the shadows, one that never fully emerges and never quite takes shape. Out of your grasp, it seems so elusive, yet you reach nonetheless. A panic grips, I see it in your eyes. I know it well, for I have seen it in my own.

Do you think that for a moment that fear can subside? Or is there a point when it takes over and never relinquishes control? Did you consider the importance of this battle? No one’s fear ever dies, no man is fearless, but to let fear reign is to fall defeated and ashamed.

Where red meets white I finally realized what I was looking at, I understand what I see. Imperfect yet not in the same regard. Strong yet vulnerable, just like me. There are things in our heads that tell us what to do. Words that do nothing other than complicate the mind and create a fog. A spinning circle that will never let us go. We are ordinary, just like everyone.

In the end though we are not. Ordinary is my greatest fear, it keeps me up at night. I know that I am not ordinary and that being said, neither are you. This is an extraordinary situation, ordinary people would not thrive.

But you and I, my dear, are far from ordinary.

Friday, February 06, 2009

Do Work Son.

Before this little thing I have going here I had never been in a long distance relationship, yet I still had a very serious piece of advice for people on the brink of getting involved in one:

Don’t fucking do it.

Now that I have been in one for a little over 6 months I have formulated some new and improved advice:

Don’t fucking do it.

The simple fact of the matter is that any (normal) person is going to drive themselves crazy, and if you’re like Pitseleh and I (abnormal), you are going to drive yourself FUCKING crazy. The stress and strain of making something like this work is literally unbearable at times. Inevitably there are going to be arguments and times when both parties don’t see eye to eye. Now in any normal relationship, at least my old ones, solving these problems revolved around getting together and arguing until we end up fucking each other senseless and forgetting what we were arguing about in the first place.

But that isn’t the case with long distance, now is it?

The arguments or misunderstandings over the phone or on Gmail cause much more grief than the “in person” variety. There is no make up sex, there is no holding each other and there is no solace in falling asleep in each others’ arms. There is also no visual and no seeing in the other’s face what they are thinking but too afraid to say. Most of the time they end in one of the two comforting the other as they fall asleep, reminding them that the love is still there…that they feel the same.

Reminding each other, and sometimes yourself, is the hardest part of it all. For some reason we seem to forget the things the other has said, the things they mean with all their hearts, the things you saw in their eyes. Paranoia grows and you wonder if maybe…just maybe…they have changed their mind. You might think that you are going crazy and the simple truth is that you are. Going to sleep alone, unsatisfying phone calls and boring nights spend drinking with Netflix are slowly driving you batty. It’s to be expected.

Take it easy though, ok? Don’t give up now; if you do you will have thrown away everything you have worked so diligently to build. The mountain you’re standing in front of is by no means insurmountable. If you think about everything that needs to be done all at once it is gonna seem pretty daunting, like climbing fucking Everest daunting. So just stop and take a deep breath. Realize that moving incrementally is the only way you are going to get to where you want to be. Be somewhat patient with each other and remember that nothing has changed since the last time you saw each other, except that your feelings are stronger.

It isn’t your fault and it isn’t their’s either, it’s just the circumstances. There are a thousand things that would make it easier on you, but not one of them is going to happen and this is only going to get harder. So be patient, be strong and please…please don’t you give up. If each of you puts in your fair share of the work, things will work out.

So do work, son, do work.

Monday, February 02, 2009

Clarity (Part Two)

The feeling comes almost instantaneously. The sensation radiates in your brain, washing out the clutter as a wave erases footprints from the sand. There is never such a moment of clarity as the one gained in the tenderness of a touch. All the insignificant worries of the day disappear; the mind is simple and focused. Pleasure floods the brain, senses heighten and eyes focus, no worries about the past or future plague you. Nerves spark as the body responds to the warmth of the flesh, melting away your cares. Time stands still as you surrender to her.

I have never experienced such a feeling of simplicity.

I remember what it feels like to have her near. The smell of her perfume hangs so vividly in my mind, leaving me glimpses of her. She faced away from me, laying on her side, as I traced the subtle changes in her figure. I remember her smile greeting me as she turned into my chest; she raises her hand to my face.


I remember sound becoming clear and my vision sharpening as I felt myself slip away. Decisions were simple. Kiss. Grasp. Suck. Bite. I thought of nothing. The sensation in my muscles took over as body pacified mind. Snapshots of the hunger in her arms as we tangled under the blankets still my mind. I thought not of pain nor of fear, my brain focused on the one before me.


The memories never accurately describe the feeling, never capture the power. Her eyes stare back up at me, piercing into me. She pulls me down and whispers to me, I bury myself in her chest, still as one. We lay in silence, time passes, the moment gains control of the mind.

Alive like I had never been. I could feel my heart beating and my eyes growing heavy as we lay there smiling. Fear and worry held so much power over me, I was paralyzed, she saw past that...taking me in spite of the risk.

The same feeling surges through my body every time she is near…calm. There is an undeniable urge for silence, a time to stop the insanity in both our heads. No thoughts of if it can work, how will we change or what does this mean…just the simple, burning ache for touch. So I lay there in silence, the sensation still clings to my skin where her fingers once moved. It is so much more than anything else on earth.

The next day I wake up to her asleep next to me, I watch her so peaceful, chest rising and falling. The euphoria is still fresh in my brain and the worries of the normal day remain distant, kept at bay. Something changes in my brain; as if the burden never existed. With her there is no slate to be erased; no list of grievances, no grudge is a cornerstone. It is beyond good, I know now that I need it, time and again.

There is no clarity like that which waits in her arms. The rush of blood from her touch and the sudden urge to have her dominate my waking life. The taste of her skin as she clings to mine…primal, instinctive and cohesive, but most importantly, liberating. Everything washes away; she digs through the layers and defenses and takes what is hers. Simple, clear and lucid. We are humanity in its rawest form.

Clarity (Part One)

The feeling comes almost instantaneously. The pain radiates in your brain, washing out the clutter as a wave erases footprints from the sand. There is never such a moment of clarity as the one gained in the sting of a fist. All the insignificant worries of the day disappear; the mind is simple and focused. Adrenaline floods the brain, senses heighten and eyes focus, no worries about the past or future plague you. Nerves spark as the body responds to the shock of the blows which flush out the waste. Time stands still as you brace for impact.

I have never experienced such a feeling of simplicity.

I remember one of the last fights I was in. I had slipped and fallen down stairs at a party, inadvertently spilling my full beer all over him. He was, apparently, less than satisfied with my drunken apology. Later in the evening I stood outside the house peeing on their air conditioner when the guy shoved me from behind, greeting me with a fist as I turned.


I remember sound dropping out and my vision tunneling in as I braced to defend myself. Decisions were simple. Punch. Duck. Lunge. Kick. I thought of nothing. Muscle memory took over as my body wrenched control of itself from my brain. I felt none of the pain from the punches as we struggled on the frost covered grass in the yard. I thought not of consequences nor of injury, my brain focused on the task at hand:


My eyes began recording memories again as I leveled my forehead into the crown of his nose, knocking him back to the grass. He shouted “Alright, alright,” as he held his nose, lying in the grass. I walked across the street to my apartment building and sat on the step lighting a cigarette, the ringing in my head continuing to block out sentient thought.

I felt alive like I hadn’t in a while. I could feel my eye swelling and my knuckles beginning to throb as I sat there smiling. When worry and fear grab hold of me, I lose control, but my instinct changed all that...removing me of my baggage and putting me in the driver’s seat.

My choice: fight or be beaten.

The same feeling pours into my brain after every fight, win or lose…calm. It is a perfect sense of tranquility, one with your pain, marveling at its ferocity. No thoughts of homework not finished, dishes not cleaned or bills not paid…just the simple, dull ache of the fight. I sit and sip High Life or bourbon with a blank stare and a slight grin, completely entranced. It is almost like coming down from being high.

The next day I wake up to a splitting headache, sore fists, black eye and bruised forehead. The euphoria is gone and the worries of the normal day take over again. But something still lingers in my brain, and it feels as if something has been lifted off of my shoulders, as if combat cleansed my brain, leaving me with a clean slate. It feels good, almost good enough to repeat.

There is no clarity like the clarity of a fight. The thrill of a punch landed and the shock of one received. The taste of your blood and the sight of his…mortal, savage and brutal, but in the same token liberating. Everything washes away, stripping you down to animal instinct and muscle memory. Simple, clear and lucid. Humanity in its rawest form.