Do so

"Don't worry about the things you can't control. We can leave tomorrow. You understand don't you?" She told me, full of confidence.

"I don't feel okay about this," I said back. "You know we're leaving here eventually. We both don't like it here, but lets not just get up and go. We need to think this through."

"What if I said I didn't care if you kept drinking? You know I don't care about that. You would drink anyway, wouldn't you? If that makes you love me then that's fine. I've always loved you. Don't you fucking get that? I want you with me. If we leave it's not going to be me, it's going to be us."

"Just listen to yourself. You know I love you. What would you have me do? I'm finally away from my parents and I have my own place. I love that you are staying with me and I wouldn't have it any other way. We can't leave all of the sudden. Where are we gonna go? It would be different if we knew people in Seattle, but we don't. What will your parents and sister think if we just left?"

"Yours wouldn't give a fuck if you left would they!" She enjoyed saying that. "We aren't best here, you and me. There's more to life than the people we see here everyday. You belong with me and we belong somewhere else."

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In the end it didn't matter. She was right. She was right all the fucking time goddamnit. Maybe I let her be right. Fuck it, what's the difference? The real truth is that I would have drank myself to dysfunction had it not been for her, but that isn't what she thought of my drinking. A long story shortened is that she saved me. She didn't realize that my drinking was a supplement to my wellness, not a crutch for me to love her. I loved her and still do.

And you know what happened? We fucking went, that's what fucking happened! No plans, no nothing. Just a little bit of money and a lot of wishful thinking. We had each other and that was enough, right? Wrong. Not enough. Why couldn't it be enough!

She said one thing in our biggest fight that stuck with me more than anything else. "You were always looking for some kind of meaning when there was none. It irritated me. You made me feel like I wasn't enough."

Let me tell you, out of everything I heard from that dirty fucking mouth of hers I hated that bit most of all. I've always felt a little paranoid. She was the answer though. This was the problem though. Just her being there was the answer. She said a lot of this and a lot of that, but in the end that wasn't what separated us.

What separated us were her reactions to my behavior. She believed I wanted to just get fucked up and write all the time and not spend any time with her, which was a bunch of bullshit. Like she said, she didn't care if I drank. She thought I was making up for something by drinking though, which isn't true. Well maybe it is, but my drinking never had anything to do with my love for her. The truth is, I made time to spend away from writing and whatever else to be with her. She knew that too.

I drank and still do drink. I like to drink and write. Fuck me, right? I made sacrifices for her and stuck to them. It was never enough though, and I guess she figured she would justify my behavior with her actions. She said that my desire to be alone made her love Darren. Fucking bullshit. It's always gotta be someone you know too, doesn't it? Your girl never gets with some random guy. Or maybe they do, what the fuck do I know.

I found an apartment near Capitol Hill, Seattle. The place was cheap and there was a bar within walking distance that we started to go to. We met this Darren fucker at the first bar we went to. It was pretty nondescript. He was a local Seattle guy. I liked him at first. What the fuck was I thinking. He had his lip pierced and had his hair pulled back. Fucking whatever. Who knows what that cocksucker told Katy so he could get in her pants. He knew we were together when we first met. He promised to show us around town.

And yeah, you know, he did all that. Some girl all blacked up and dressed in rags was with him. Real fucking trendy. It was a double date according to Darren. We went to this and that coffee shop and various thrift stores. Katy would later say she loved "the atmosphere.. the way things are here.. the beauty is all around us.." Whatever.

When we were in Seattle and went out, I used to wish that some people in public would yell at Katy. I then imagined myself telling her that they were wrong about whatever it was and then she'd be closer to me. Sometimes when I was with her, I used to get the idea that there were two sides. I was always on hers, mind you, but there was always another side trying to bring her down. To this day, I still believe that part of her liked getting yelled at, I swear. She fell in with that fucker Darren's posse of local people and I have no idea what she's doing now. She doesn't talk to me. It was always up to her though, so now maybe she's living for her. But again, what the fuck do I know.

_________________________________________________________________________________

If you must know, I'm doing alright for myself now. I occasionally struggle with the ending to my writings and I sometimes find myself stylizing things too much, but hey, I'm getting better. Without the style, I'd have nothing.

I live alone, have my own place, and am back where I started. I'm able to sleep with the cute young girl on the occasional lucky night. It works for me and for her. I keep myself with good company and I try not to isolate myself or drink too much, though I firmly believe both are essential to my writing and happiness. I miss Katy. If things were alright with her, it'd be so great for me to hear that from her. That would never happen though. If I heard from her, I have full confidence that it would be negative.

Oh the good times though. As down as you may be, you have to have had some. The good with Katy is what I remember. Her words of encouragement were always something I relished hearing. The good always overshadowed the bad. She was great. The sex was great. She would read something of mine and love it. I loved her so much. I believe that if you love and remember the good from someone, you will always love them.

If you think you have true love and are sharing that with someone, do so. Do so until you can't anymore, then come see me. I'll be around.

A quick runoff

The knife slips in. In and thin. The mirror reflects the bliss you feel and shows you the physical beauty that harbors the storm inside you. You turn and look at me. Those eyes. They're dilated. You look up at me. An unforgettable look. Your black makeup has mixed with your tears to create a new form. Though your screams are real and I'm listening, I'm thinking about the symbolism of the new form. Tears are your sadness and the makeup is the hate. The terrible truth is that you love it. You love and live inside the hate. I don't, which, maybe unconsciously, is why you have chosen me to reveal yourself to.

You're no secret to me anymore. I believed you were my sunshine, but now you're weak. I have been misled. 

Hate fills you up and you continue to spit it out at me. I'm not holding back a feeling that I don't have. Maybe, if I felt bad, I could somehow live in a sort of solace with you. Your world of inner hatred could become ours. Unfortunately though, I know I'm not really helping you, but enabling you.

You're laying down now, visibly uncomfortable. You just screamed at me not to look at you. Screaming at me because you think I believe you to be a freak. I don't believe you're a freak. I'm comfortable with how I am and I am here to help you.

For so long, I thought you were just as freaky as me. It was all a game unfortunately. All the sex and drugs in the world could not change this game. A game based almost entirely on your feelings. 

You continue to scream and cry and I start thinking about my friends and their girlfriends, all of whom you have seen. These friends of mine continue to fight with their girls that have similar problems to yours, but you don't really know any of the girls. Their real problems are ridiculously similar to yours, but you'd never know because of how dishonest and inwardly hateful you are towards them. Your feelings are like a special fucked up power you think is distinct to you, but, in actuality, it's what makes you weak and isolates you from everyone else. 

Too much dreaming

What makes two people connect? God, if only I could know! Is a connection something that occurs over a certain period of time? Do you reach a point where your soul and another intertwine?

I like to think in the following way. When I am honest about myself and am happy, I project the best of me. I am the best of me. I can't offer anyone else anything more and I am in a position where I shouldn't expect anyone else to offer any more or less than what's best in them. If you present yourself in the purest of ways, you should only expect and be prepared to receive the same. I'm so in love with people. I see the way in which they are untrue. I know that I cannot be them. I see their petty struggles, but I am not a part of them. It's so fucking sad. I want to remedy everyone's bullshit. 

Then what? Will they be on my level. Or wait, will I be on theirs? Will the tears in casual conversation stop flowing? Will I somehow be free? I want to be free of all the misplaced insecurity.

Maybe I want something that can't be obtained? Too much dreaming and not enough living will isolate you.

Reminders of what I miss

I miss the dreams I used to have in grade school. I miss driving around in my car listening and singing along to music. I miss living in the world I had created. I miss the stories I would write and never finish. I miss the old music I would listen to over and over again. Sometimes when I get drunk enough, I'll somehow remember an old favorite song. I'll quickly listen to it and remember the exact feelings I felt while listening to it when I was younger. Those memories don't stay though. They come and quickly go.

I miss how great it felt to be alone, to not have to share myself with anyone. I miss running up and down the stairs in my parent's house without feeling pain in my knees. I miss playing basketball alone. I had created a way to love myself in a way that didn't involve anyone else.

Most of all, I miss the innocence. There was no more pure a time for me than when I was innocent. I played basketball by myself today and there was a young asian boy playing basketball on the other side of the court by himself. He was maybe 9 years old or so. I abruptly stopped playing and started to watch him.

His back was facing me and I evaluated his play. It seemed to me that nobody was teaching him how to play, and he wasn't naturally gifted. He was shooting the ball with great form and was trying to keep the ball low on his dribbles. I could tell he was intentionally doing these things. I could tell it wasn't comfortable for him. To me, he just didn't have the look of a boy receiving coaching. I guessed he was copying the basketball form of someone he had seen play. He was trying really hard. I could tell he wanted to get better. I wanted to go over there and show him a thing or two, but I didn't. His mother was watching him intently from the bench. She was so excited whenever he made a shot. She was so happy. She came onto the court and gave him a big hug when he was finished playing. He looked embarrassed when his mom hugged him with that smile of hers. After some obvious irritation, he let his mom hold his hand. Like any kid, I'm sure he would have wanted to avoid the attention in public from his mother. But I saw this smile come onto his face. He let his mom hold his hand and gave her this smile. They walked off the court together with his mom sort of leading him out.

When the boy was walking out of the gym with his mother, I pretended not to look at them. But I was. I was taking shots on one side of the court purposely so I could watch them. After they left, I about emotionally lost it, but you'd never know it. I had already been in the gym for about an hour and a half and was exhausted as hell from playing, but I decided to play extremely hard for the next 10 minutes. I wrapped my headphones tighter around my ears, selected my favorite Paul Keeley song on my phone, and played hard. I preformed quick crossover dribbles followed by quickly released jump shots. Despite the increasing pain in my knees, I decided I would jump higher on all of my shots. My concentration level became extremely high, and a certain desire was fueling my play. I made almost every shot. Something like 23 out of 25 shots. I would run around to the top of the three point line, take the shot, then quickly hustle to the basket to retrieve my made shot. I wanted to get myself as tired as possible and still make everything. I wasn't thinking about basketball at all, I realized. I was trying to prove something to myself. I was thinking about the joy that little boy must have been feeling after showcasing his basketball skill to his mother.

After about 10 minutes had gone by and I was physically exhausted, I paused to think about what I had just done. My shots had been pure. Ridiculously pure. I was shooting the ball with complete ease. After finishing, I noticed the 7 people who had stopped and sat down on the benches to watch me. While looking around, I could feel the looks from the people above me running laps on the track. I then became sad, as I realized what I was trying to do. I was trying to emulate the feelings of that boy and his mother who weren't there. In a way, I was playing as that boy. That boy had given me strength. He had somehow fueled my desire to play harder.

I became angry with myself. What weird feelings I was making up in my head. What did it matter if they were there, anyway? It wouldn't have mattered. I was trying to prove something. "But what am I trying to prove?" I thought to myself in disgust. I pounded the ball onto the hardwood floor in anger and then left. The people watching me must have been so confused.

Just another night

For one of the first times in my life, I'm drunk and wouldn't rather be anywhere else or with anyone. I'm happy now. I'm happy here.

I'm doing two things I never thought I would do. I'm sitting in my dad's recliner and drinking his whiskey. I'm alone. If he woke up and wandered out into the living room, I would pickup on his mindset instantly, assess it, and then him and I would probably shoot the shit. I love my dad.

I hate that sound. I still hear it every day. The sound of the family refrigerator dispensing ice into my dad's whiskey glass. It's an unmistakable and unforgettable sound.

Tonight I made that sound. Tonight I mixed the Jack and Coke. Tonight I'm sitting in the recliner. I'm not speaking or lamenting though, I'm writing.

I'm sitting in this recliner, drunk, and wondering what it feels like to be my dad. I'm imagining what goes on in his head. I just looked over at the empty couch and pretended a young 10 year old version of me was sitting there. I can imagine what I would be doing. I wouldn't be sitting still. I'd be cheering for the Lakers on TV probably. I wonder what my dad thought of me then.

I was at a bar near my house earlier tonight and I chatted it up with the 30 something bartender that I know works the weekday shifts. She's a cutie. My dad hit on her the only time I went up there with him. He was drunk. She remembered me when I first started coming in to the bar to see her.

I also met the barback tonight. His name is Fleet. I talked to him for about 20 minutes. I couldn't believe what he said he used to do for a living before working at this bar. He used to play poker. Go fucking figure. I couldn't believe it. I could tell he really played, too. He knew his shit. Although there were other things about poker we talked about, we mainly discussed the differences between online and live game play. He told me about the money he lost on FullTilt when the site went under two April's ago. He's in the process of trying to become a bartender and said he'd been working at this bar for 3 months as a barback. Best of luck to that guy.

One of the waitresses walked up to the bar and took a seat near me. She looked tired as hell. She had just gotten off her shift and ordered a gin and tonic from the bartender. She had great tits and pretty smile. I was thinking about her when she looked over at me. She made a slight smile, then casually looked away. I smiled back then looked down at my drink. After, I imagined myself ripping the button down shirt off her. Next, I saw myself pulling her tight jean shorts and panties down then picking her up and fucking her really hard on the counter in the men's bathroom. I imagined her yelling. Yelling at me for more, but also yelling at something else. She must have been yelling at the thing all men would love to understand, I thought to myself. I kept envisioning myself grabbing her thighs tightly and thrusting my dick in and out of her.

As if almost on cue, the bartender interrupted my thoughts and brought me my tab and said "We're closing sweetie, see you next time." I tipped, said goodbye to the few people there, and drove home. Now I'm here.

Work and Porn

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When you're true to yourself

What happens when you act like you don't give a fuck? I'll tell you. You bring out the gay in everyone. The true actions of people. Days of work go by. I'll get ignored by people and continually disrespected by my coworkers and managers and I don't give a fuck. If you want to tell me to act differently in order to make you feel comfortable, let me know. Say one thing, do another. That's the way you operate. If you want to take me in the back and rape me, then do it.

Think I want that? You're wrong. Think I care if you do it? Not really. Sexual repression is man's most prominent problem. There's just so much gay. Gay gay gay gay. And maybe I'm wrong. I'd love to be wrong. Tears will flow down your face in casual conversation. Concealed homosexuality? If that's just the way you are, I'm going to know. If you're real about it, I'm not going to give you a hard time. If you pretend I know what the hell you're talking about or know your true feelings, you're wrong. Stop trying to cover up how you are. If you're real, people are going to know and you're going to be respected.

I admire some men. I can sense the pain in them, their struggle. These people are true. I'd help them if I could. If you want to see me get off. Then hell ya man, lets fucking do it. Want to have me put a dress on and have me parade around like a girl? Fuck ya, I'm down. Be honest about it though. Be straight with me. It's a fucking crazy world we live in. If you have been wronged, you're in good company with me.

I'll act a certain way. My eye contact will stray, body language will react how I see fit. It's involuntary. I don't care. Neither should you. I'm still listening to you, and in so doing am acknowledging your presence. Whatever feels comfortable to me is what I'm going to do. There's nothing more easy and simple to do than that and there is nothing to understand about people that can't be comfortable when they are talking to you.

There are some men that are infuriating. One simple glance from me. That's all it takes. They can't handle getting looked at. I change it up. I change it up for you I guess. What else am I supposed to do? I know that if I look at you for a long enough time you'll feel pain, like I'm trying to assert myself over you. It's like it doesn't matter that I'm there. Fine by me, but how pathetic are you? I bet you have never been stared down to the point of dismissal. You're a boy. Insecure about your body, kid? Get the fuck out of here. You have created some interesting pain, kid.

Somehow, that's okay with me though. I'm not really sure why that is. Your shit is interesting somehow. I'm just a boy, too. But, I can handle more. Who cares? We are all just kids trying to cling to some kind of happiness. We're all so fucked up.