Post book thoughts

So, I've finished it. The book I mentioned before. Before I start into that, the keyboard I'm using to write is trash. I imagine that the people who installed them on these library computers thought they were more effective, more economical. It has been like a week or so since I submitted my last post, so the new keyboards must have been installed since then, obviously. The keyboards I prefer are the ones with keys that are probably now considered over sized. The ones I like make a certain comforting sound. I can't explain it. The city of Plano puts a lot of money into their public libraries and to me there haven't been improvements lately. The checkout and return stations are highly automated. Even new bogus orange chairs have been placed throughout the three floors of the library this week. It's all a big mess if you ask me.

The biggest upside to finishing the book is to know there will be another. Arlo Finch and the Valley of Fire will be the former and Arlo Finch in the Lake of the Moon will be the latter. One of the things I struggled with while reading the first book was the setting. I live in a flat area devoid of any great hills and mountains. The in depth descriptions of the outdoors drew blanks for me. I haven't spent much time outdoors and because of that I had a hard time picturing the setting in my head. I'm not a boy scout (past age 10) either. This book showed me that there are so many cool things boy scouts do and I had trouble grasping. The sled construction, knot tieing, and the compass signaling were the most hard to follow.

The use of technology in the book tries hard to connect with what is modern. I think smart phones and advanced technology like Skype make it hard for a fantasy novel to answer "Why can't anyone take a picture or video of what is happening?". I think the author tried to explain that technology doesn't work in the magical areas of the book. I felt like he did, but I can't remember a more specific example.

From the beginning of the book, I had a mental image in my head of the house Arlo would be staying in. I couldn't help but think that the house would have bore a resemblance to the house in the movie Big Fish. The house in Big Fish I'm talking about is the one that the giant moves to an upright position. Because I quickly had that image in my head from the start, whenever something happened in the book that made me question my assumption, I just assumed the book was wrong! I've been attached to Big Fish since I first saw it in Mrs. Heck's 11th grade high school creative writing class.

Every time I felt I was lost or missing something, the answer was usually in the very near pages of the book. I liked thinking that the book had me locked in when I found the answers to my questions when they appeared. It felt like I was connecting with the book and the author was saying: "You've got it! Keep Going!"

As I am about to return the book to the library, I realized I have made an error. I thought the return date was November 14th, but as it turns out, the receipt clearly says November 4th. Three days ago. It's time to see how much money I owe. After, I will spend an amount larger than that to secure my own copy.

Back at it

I don't know if I can ever write like I used to given the circumstances, but I'm going to try. At this point in my life I want to try and take in more information in the form of reading. Movies are great, but I want to read. Maybe it will improve my writing? I'm reading this book right now and I am heavily critical of it. I want to think I could write and be just as interesting or more so than the author. Who am I to take someone's work and be so critical of it? I'm just some guy with no qualifications. Sure, I've taken some creative writing courses in high school and college, but when do you get to a point where your opinion is considered reputable? I'm lucky the author is someone I like and is writing to the target audience of preteens. I'm happier about the latter especially because I am more able to read it carefully and correctly.

I struggle a lot with reading but I feel a sense of purpose when I finish a chapter or just flip to a new page. If that is work then I want to work there. I want to try and start reading roughly one book per month. I'm not for sure how I feel about the aforementioned October book I'm reading now. I think I like it so far but I need to know how it ends. I do know that I don't want to write about my thoughts and comments on it until I finish it. I feel like I'm back in middle school while reading this book. I fit the target audience except I'm fifteen years or so above it. One thing I will say is that I'm pretty sure I already know what I physically want to do with the book. My family is full of men and boys that are either current or former boy scouts, which is the same as most characters in the book. I'm hoping if I gift this book and they do decide to read it, they will like it as much as I have so far.

I think the book isn't very predictable. I'm roughly 75% of the way through it and I can honestly say that I don't know what is left in the other 25%. I'm not sure if that makes for good writing or not? Should the author be leaving you with enough clues and foreshadowing so that you can guess what is coming next? Or is it a better book when you don't know what to expect? It depends on the book I guess. I'm happy to be back reading and writing. Hopefully I will have more specific, positive things to say about the book. I'm not sure if I will post again without having finished it, but we'll see how it goes.

Tree

There's something in trees that are old and that bend in many different ways. I'm talking about the trees without green or flowers on them. Just dark vacant branches. Those trees calm me down when I see them. Makes me take a big slow deep breath. Seeing them makes me want to move to the country and climb branches by the water.

I don't think I've ever read anything that talks specifically about the hustle of the city. The city can grind you down if you leave yourself subject to it. What I mean is that if you don't speak your mind, the days are just like clockwork. Before you have time to think about getting out of the city, you're already wrapped up by it. I've got relatives from the very other side of the country. They think it's a fuckin field trip coming down to the busy suburbs. I don't think any of those relatives write, paint, or anything. Not that I judge a person based on things like that or whatever, I just don't know how to describe them. No matter how those family of mine are described, there sure are a lot of the trees I like from where they're from.

I saw a video the other day of a small tree that was dug up out of the ground and replanted in another place. It was a big process. The tree had a lot of veins that were planted deep in the ground. The video made me want to dig up one of the old trees I like and replant it in my backyard.  

 

Angry Writings

It's called angry writing. You just get started writing. You've got to have good voice though. Without the voice, there is no writing. It sure has been awhile. I sit in my room alone quite a bit. Sometimes I think I'll log on here and write for hours. Other times I can't think of anything I would say. In every case over the last year, I don't end up writing a damn thing.

Today I'm writing a damn thing. A damn, angry thing. A lot has happened in my life since I semi-regularly wrote on this blog. As I look back and reflect on my writing a few years and a few months ago, I see and remember a lot of random moments in my life. Some depicted very honestly, some drastically over-exaggerated.

When you look back on moments of your life and reflect on them, often times you'll wish something happened that didn't. That's just life, isn't it? But, when you write about it, is it more fulfilling to write your moments in the way you wish events occurred, or how they actually did? Probably in the way you wished they occurred. Either way, you can write about your life angrily. Angry at why your life is at such a fictional low point or at a truthful unhappy moment.

That's it for now I think. I don't know how regularly I'm going to start writing on here now. One thing for sure, be it fiction or reality, writing makes me feel better. I try hard to make my writing have some kind of voice. I want the emotion to bleed through. I wouldn't want someone with the type of patience I have to get bored reading what I've got written down. Reality is true to form when I say nobody will ever read these writings. Well maybe not. Maybe I'll share and someone can read my writing and hopefully not be left wishing for something more. That's why sometimes you have to write angry.

I have no legs (4/?)

The last few weeks have been boring. More of the same boring days. The one positive thing I have to say is about a video I found in the hospital reference room. It's entitled "The Young Strays: A Collection of Youth on the Rise".

I'd heard about the Young Strays Organization (YSO) before I found this video, but I didn't know much about it. The organization is not far from my hospital. The building is located just off the coast. It's about a 30 minute drive away.

The video was sort of interesting. It's narrated by this pretty middle aged woman. At the start of the video, she gives the viewers a tour of the building and describes what the organization does. The organization's goal is to "improve the lives of the youths in our program by guiding them into seeking career opportunities while also helping them realize the benefits of being a part of a community."

The video trudged on. The woman did a lot of explaining and I was losing interest, but towards the end I finally got to see the kids and hear a few of them talk. The woman interviewed one 15 year old boy, Andrew, who was so obviously giving scripted answers to the camera. I got the idea that he wanted it to overly appear that way too. His responses were exaggerated in such an obvious way. It was as if he was thinking in his head, "Yeah, here is my scripted response!" The woman interviewing him didn't seem to tell the difference, she was loving his answers. In response to being asked about how the young strays organization had influenced his life, the boy said "The young strays have really helped me see career goals that are going to be a benefit to me in the future. The young strays organization is helping me realize that I can succeed!" 

The fucking smile on this kids face after he finished speaking was so fake! He probably went and laughed it up with his friends after the video. I'd like to hang out with these kids and see what they are actually interested in. 

I asked Barbara the other day to take me to the young strays next week. She said she'd get back to me about it. Barbara always keeps her word, so we'll see what happens. 

I have no legs (3/?)

Today was an interesting day. I get a descent amount of mail I guess, most of which I don't give a shit about. That makes me just like everyone else right? My parents insist on having the youth ministry at the church they belong to send me these 'get well soon' smiley cards, gift boxes, and various other stuff. The people that send me this crap I've never met, or maybe just once or twice at the most, so why am I getting it? They ought to go give their mom or someone that they actually know a gift, not someone they only know of.

I got a package in the mail from my cousin Dana today. She mailed me three seasons of the show Jackass on DVD. She's cool. I enjoy getting to see her although it's not very often. She knows I like Jackass, so it's a good gift and it made me feel good to know she was thinking about me. She definitely likes her style. If you've ever played the computer game Backyard Baseball, Dana looks like Keisha Phillips.

She's fucking good at everything too, just like Keisha. She played volleyball at the University of Hawaii and now she coaches at a high school. She and her friend come visit me when they are in town which isn't very often. When they visit me, they are so up. It's like they're on crack or something. I can't figure out whether she and her friend are just super pepped up or are trying to pretend to be excited to see me. It's weird. Her friend is funny. I can never remember her name, but she always acts out this same routine when she sees me. She'll be abnormally quiet at first and let Dana do all the talking and then she'll randomly start acting just like Dana. It's odd, and seems like they are putting on a show for me. It's entertaining. I swear man, crack or something.

Johnny Knoxville. What a cool dude. His crew is so cool. They all go out in public and fuck around. What makes that show funny to me is not what they do. The makeup, strange outfits, and the crazy stunts they pull aren't the reasons why I like the show. I like the show and watch it just so I can see the reactions of some of the people they perform jokes on. A lot of the time, the jokes don't even get in the way and aren't initially directed at the pedestrians. The pedestrians are the ones who make the show funny.

In this one episode, Johnny acts just like Forest, a patient on my floor with a form of low functioning mental retardation. In this one episode of Jackass, the pedestrian who sees Johnny on the street gets really upset, and all Johnny is doing is dancing like I imagine Forest might in the area close to the guy. So fucking funny. Why did the pedestrian, some 40 year old dude walking by himself, give a fuck? The pedestrian goes up to Johnny and tells him to act right and all this shit. It amazed me to see that guy get all worked up over nothing.

I've known Forest for awhile, well I mean I've seen him for awhile now. He doesn't know what the fuck is going on. He's just there. Get what I'm saying? He doesn't feel emotion like you or me. He has a mental handicap. If the nurses prepared Forest a meal of steamy corn infested shit, and I literally mean shit, I'm positive he would not be able to tell the difference.

I have no legs (2/?)

It's whatever. Don't get me wrong, I like the idea of physical advancements improving everyday life. I like my wheelchair, like the elevation controls on my hospital bed, and my fucking toothbrush. That stuff doesn't bother me.

What bothers me is my longing for a good friend. You would think someone in my situation is given plenty of attention and can participate in plenty of games with a lot of people. You would be right to think that. Most of that stuff is complete shit though. I hate being just given attention, the more I am, the more fake it appears to me and it's depressing. Part of me is angry at the world, not because I have no legs and am physically different than others, but because my disability seems to bring out the bullshit in people. My ability to meet a good friend has got nothing to do with my legs, but to so many people, it seems to have everything to do with it.

You may wonder why it is that a 19 year old lives in a hospital. I am living in a hospital by choice now. After teenage rehabilitation, you can of course go find living for yourself. I don't want to go back to my parents house. I've spent plenty of time there troubling them.

I have more opportunities to meet people inside and outside the hospital by living there. I am active in this hospital program with other physically handicapped people where we all go to rec centers, arcades, and other common places like that.

Here's what I wish wouldn't happen. I wish the hospital staff wouldn't structure the environment so much when we go out. There are a lot of girls and guys that volunteer with my hospital so that they can get the hours they need for whatever organization they are apart of. These people, often about my age, staff the events. I really wish most of them would fuck off. Although they mean well, as I've come to try and convince myself to believe, they are inadvertently preventing me from getting to interact with the public in a normal way, which pisses me off. If you were at the place I was at in public, I'm sure you would realize the handicapped people are in a controlled environment. Fuck that so much. Also, I am certain that these volunteers would act differently in public if they weren't with handicapped people. That thought irritates me. The volunteers are usually different each time though, so I try and have hope that I'll meet one that just talks to me instead of doing pretty much nothing for a whole afternoon.

I would prefer it more if I was just dropped off somewhere in public for a few hours rather than being in a controlled public environment. I swear I would embrace the experience more if something bad happened to me. Like if I was taken advantage of somehow by people or made fun of for having no legs. I'd inwardly smile if I saw a group of young people pointing at me or concealing laughter about my physical handicap. "Look at you hotshot, way to put me down for nothing. Your environment has really fucked you up good hasn't it?". If only those fuckers could know that I wouldn't trade places with them for the world. Despite the bullshit from these people, it'd make for a more enjoyable experience for me than to be met with fake conversation in public. But in the heads of my volunteers and Barbara, the hospital event coordinator, being made fun of would be the absolute worst thing that could happen for a handicapped person.

I need the attention, damnit, but not in the way the staff thinks. That's what pisses me off. Whenever I go around the rec center in my wheel chair, I try and meet people. I'm not the best conversationalist and wish I was more quick with my words, but I know how I am. I'm a real person and present myself as such.

That's what separates me from so many people. I don't want to say I'm above them, but to me, I am. I don't know how I can think otherwise. People are just so full of shit. A big part of maturity is being content with yourself and your abilities, and to me, a friendship starts with possessing the ability to recognize a person's difference, but not changing anything about yourself when you meet them. My lack of legs have pretty much nothing to do with it.

I have no legs (1/?)

It's been that way as long as I can remember. Oh wait, yeah, that's because I was born with this shit. It's a genetic disease, my doctor has always said. The disease is called Phocomelia. I was born without legs. In most cases this disease is hereditary, meaning someone in my family has had it. This was the case with me. My grandmother on my mother's side was born without a left leg. Unfortunately, be it by genetics or by God's decision to physically smite me, I was born without both.

You should see my arms.. I've got the strongest arms ever. Want to arm wrestle me? Forget it. It's over, I'd win. I just turned 19 and I don't have prosthetic limbs and I don't plan on getting any. Depending on what kind of medical coverage you have, you may or may not be covered to get prosthetic limbs. I've seen amputees and have talked to a few of them that talk very highly of their prosthetic limbs. Some of them are very pushy about it. They tell me about how much their worth getting and all that. About how much more normal they feel now. I hate their way of thinking and talking. To me, they now talk to me just like the people who have had legs their whole lives and consider me worthy of their misplaced sympathy.

Fuck that shit. The people that come and greet me that have, and have always had, both arms and legs I have gotten accustomed to giving a pass to. When I say I give them a pass, I mean I pretend to get the same experience out of seeing them  I feel the opposite of what most people would think. I feel sorry for them. I feel sorry for the fact that they are so low of human being that they look and talk to me as though I have a disease. Not every person is like this, but the vast majority of people are. They want to be good people, in their own weird sense, but to me they are bad company and are fucked up. These people are so quick to offer their condolences and tears. Man! I envy them! I want to feel that way. I can notice within about the first 30 seconds of seeing you if you are going to talk to or look at me as someone that has no legs. I'm 19, but when it comes to people, I swear I've seen it all. 

Anyway, I got off track. "Normal people" or the ones I grant my sympathy to, I can handle. I've seen plenty of them and I know how to act. It's these guys with their new prosthetics man. These guys that come in and talk to me about how great their new prosthetic legs are. About how it has really changed their entire outlook on life. I really get upset at hearing shit like that from these people. One guy who I talked the most with went through rehab with me. I considered him a very good friend. We motivated each other to get stronger.

We did too. We both excelled in rehab and became strong. Both mentally and physically. We built each other up when we were feeling low about our situation. We fed off of each other's energy, I think. Looking back, this is because of the attitude we had towards each other. We both were born with Phocomelia and without both legs, and when younger, neither of us had any tolerance towards someone else feeling bad about themselves. After completing our teenage rehabilitation, I thought he was just like me.

Despite the show that he put on to me about his prosthetics last week, I know what he went through. I know how hard we worked out together. I saw him struggle and he saw me struggle. We stayed at the same hospital for nearly 2 years and saw each other just about every day. 

He walked into my room last week and it was as if he was a completely different person. I swear he wasn't the same guy. To tell you the truth, I'm most scared of getting prosthetic limbs because of him, not the Iraq war vets that I'll sometimes visit with. 

I know this guy and his name is Sam. Everything about him changed when he got his prosthetic limbs. It was as if his life had been reborn. That's how he was seemingly describing it. It was a new life that I wasn't privileged to be a part of, or that I had to change to be. Such a fucking hypocrite. When we were younger we both talked, and eventually joked, about how we hated having people come and talk down to us. He was doing this now and it made me sick to my stomach to see from him.

Sam agreed to some hotshot filmmakers to do a documentary about his life before and after his prosthetic limbs for money. Now he's got some sponsorships and shit like that going for him so he can make money from his situation. Bunch of bullshit if you ask me. He wears clothes other people tell him to wear and shit like that, you know. 

I didn't have the tolerance for Sam when he came into to my room pitching me about how seemingly great it now is to be him. He used to be someone who didn't like the attention, who would embrace and challenge himself just because of how it made him feel. Maybe I'm wrong about Sam though. I mean obviously he didn't feel the same about our rehabilitation as I did. I felt good. Committing to rehabilitation had nothing to do with whatever benefits I received from it. We, or at least I, didn't commit to finishing rehabilitation 3 months before expected because we wanted to impress anyone or to get physically stronger. Sam and I committed and worked hard throughout our rehab because fuck it, that was a challenge we, as humans, decided to embrace together. And we fucking did it. When you turn 15 and have Phocomelia, you're supposed to go through teenage rehabilitation in 16 months. Sam and I did it in 13 months just for the fuck of it.

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.

The end of the night and morning after

Looey was the disruption I was longing for. A break from my pattern of thinking. I was infatuated with her body and her movements. After making out for what seemed like hours, we got up from the booth and joined her friends near the bar's dance floor. I could feel the blue and green lights moving on and off my face. I followed her around the bar for awhile and then we left. One of her roommates drove all of us home. Looey never actually invited me home with her, but I don't think she thought that I wasn't going home with her. She wanted me there. Her friends said nothing. I held her hand up the stairs and into her apartment.

One of the roommates starting making mixed shots. We all took a few of them. They tasted like sugar. We walked out onto the balcony of Looey's apartment. One roommate noticed a group of people walking into their apartment complex across the street. She yelled drunkenly into the night, "Heyyyyy, you guys go to elllemmmyouuu right?" I forgot for a second that everyone I was with went to Loyola Marymount University. Yelling back and forth ensued from both apartments and shortly after there were another 2 girls and 2 guys in the apartment. I helped myself to a Maker's Mark and coke. I felt like a stranger as I watched all these undergrads, all of which I hardly knew, talk about other people I knew nothing of. 

I held Looey close throughout the night. She couldn't have looked better, I thought. Everyone finally went either home or in their rooms, except Looey and I. We shared a cigarette outside. I remember the way she spoke. We were both drunk, of course, but I remember her voice distinctly. She would look at me, take a long drag of the cigarette, and then stare at the sky in a way that appeared as if she had never seen the sky before. We exchanged drags from the cigarette. I was hers. She slid the balcony door open with her left hand and grabbed my left hand with her right. 

Her room was interesting. Full of various nick-nacks and movie posters. Some movies I knew, some I didn't. It was powerfully quiet in her room. She went to the bathroom and I waited on the bed for her. We kissed each other passionately. I couldn't believe my luck. Maybe I could stay with Looey. I could live in the apartment with her. Maybe forever, I thought.

I took her clothes off slowly and she guided my hands where she wanted them. After a few moments, we were having sex. The more her tits swung back and forth, the more excited I got. Though she was drunk, she was actively participating. Every movement of hers seemed right and I was just trying to keep up. I felt incredible that night. I slept soundly with my hand around her.

I woke up the next morning alone in her bed. Looey and her roommates were arguing. I was very hungover and they must have been too. When the arguing subsided, I walked into the living room, unsure what of what to expect. Looey smiled at me and said she was going to change clothes. I talked to her roommate for about 20 minutes, who was clearly trying to figure me out. My story must have seemed ridiculous to her. I imagined her thinking, "Oh really? So you just drove out here with no plans, friends, hardly any money, and figured you'd just make it work?" I was a runaway. I was a nobody. 

Looey and I used each other for own pleasure, I realized. Although she was friendly with me the next morning, I continued to grasp the fact that she didn't want to talk to me anymore. I don't know how I could blame her either. I was just some bum to her. I was living out of my car, taking lots of drugs, not working, and had no friends in California. I had nothing. I was in no position to be close to her, though at the time I didn't want to believe it. She didn't want to tell me "No." I suggested we spend the day together, but one of her roommates quickly stammered that they had plans. Looey wanted to get rid of me, it was obvious, but she didn't want me to feel bad. I was prepared to spend any amount of money to keep seeing Looey. But that wasn't what she wanted. Looey and her roommate dropped me off by my car. Looey hugged me very hard and I would never see her again. 

I looked at my car in complete disgust. I was not in the mood to get in it. I didn't want to be alone. My phone directed me to a diner about a mile away from my car. I slowly walked there and the bell attached to the door rang wildly when I opened it. This diner was old. I have been to some diners that attempt to emulate the style of a diner from the 50's, but this place actually was a diner from the 50's. The tables, chairs, and bar looked to be about as old as my waitress. A friendly woman, whose husband, she told me, owned the place. The diner looked like it could accommodate about 40 people but only 6 or 7 were there at 10:00am this Sunday morning. I ordered a breakfast sampler and continued to survey the diner while sipping coffee. 

The only person at the bar was this middle aged man who wasn't actually there. His mind wasn't there. He was barely eating his oatmeal and didn't appear to be acknowledging any of his surroundings. He had the look on his face of a man whose thoughts were consumed entirely by something else. He was shaking a little bit. He was of average height, had an athletic build, and seemed to be skinny as a result of drug use. 

I was waiting on my food when our eyes met. I quickly glanced down at my table. He quickly spoke to me and I looked back at him and saw the shining color in his eyes. I have never seen a man with eyes as blue as his. His eyes were tired, but when fully opened, showed the penetrating blue in his eyes. His voice was moderately high pitched. 

"What's up with the mouse on your shirt?". Once again my shirt had been a conversation starter. I explained to him who deadmau5 was and the kind of music he played. It has always been hard for me to respond to a stranger when I was just thinking about them. I told him this was my first time here and he said this was "his place". I saw my waitress shaking her head disapprovingly at me behind him. I wanted to know more about this guy. He seemed like he wanted to talk to me. I told him I was here alone. He picked up his bowl of blueberry oatmeal, stepped down from the bar, and shuffled down into the booth seat across from me. 

He talked with a certain purpose. Like a man that was ready to divulge some secret. He spoke so quickly, it was hard for me to keep up. I did though, and I was so pleased to have someone to listen to. He talked my ear off. He asked me if I liked the LA Clippers and I told him that I was actually a Lakers fan. He scoffed loudly and antagonized me for that. He began his sort of story of his life from there. He knew people in the Clippers organization. He claimed to have met many staff members of the Clippers organization. Two names he mentioned that I knew were Larry Brown and Lamar Odom, well known figures in the NBA. He told me the LA Times did an article about him. I looked up his name after I left the diner and, to my amazement, found the article. Carl Cook was this man's name. After he talked to me about what he knew about the Clippers organization, he told me about what he used to do when he was in his 20's.

My food came and got cold. I was mentally tied to this man. He told me about a friend of his. A friend he used to get into all kinds of trouble with. He and that friend used to cross dress "just for the fuck of it". He told me about a night where he fucked a girl wearing women's clothes and makeup. He kept the stories coming. One night, Carl said, consisted of snorting coke off toilet seats with his friend followed by their running naked into Huntington Beach. He spent a week in the hospital after that night because he caught pneumonia.

He told me about a foursome he had involving one girl, his friend, and another guy. It was an amateur porn video, he explained. He was paid $40 to participate. After listening to Carl for what seemed like hours, I capitalized on a brief moment of silence. It appeared to me that he hadn't talked about himself like this in awhile. He seemed overwhelmed, so I wanted to change the conversation. I complimented him on how great it was that he had been sober for 5 years. He told me earlier that he was a recovering alcoholic. I thought my complimenting him might direct his thoughts differently. I was right. He told me about how his bicycle had changed his life. That's right, his bicycle. He gave up alcohol and started living off the street. He cut off contact with his parents, and worked odd jobs for money. I don't know if I believe that he's been sober for that long, but I definitely believe these words he told me in tears, "my parents just never had time for me." His tears were true. After I had paid my bill and tipped the waitress, Carl grabbed my hand and told me I was welcome any time here. I said goodbye to him and told him I'd come back and see him.

Carl Cook, LA Times Article: http://articles.latimes.com/2006/may/12/sports/sp-clipfan12

Listing of half a night in venice

I remember Venice the most. I spent the most time in California there. At least a week, if not more. I stayed in my car a few miles away and would walk up to the beach during the day. A hot summer day at Venice beach is a busy one. I saw street performers, odd looking thrift shops, and outdoor skateparks next to the beach. There was one boy I clearly remember from the skatepark. He appeared to me to be the best skater out there. He got the crowd cheering. He was only about 9 years old.

I drank beer and watched football in a bar by the beach. This bar was strange looking on the inside. The interior of the bar looked nothing like any bar I'd ever seen. After talking to the bartender, I found out that the bar used to be a bank. I struck up a conversation with a guy that had the thickest Irish accent I've ever heard. His wife looked and sounded like she was from California. The Irish guy told me that he was a minority owner of a soccer team in Ireland. He and his wife were nice. The wife told me where to go that night.

I followed wifey's advice and went to this sushi bar which was walking distance from where I was. The night started for me at this sushi bar. I had pretty much sobered up so when 9:00 came around, I needed more drinks. I went up to the bar and started. I drank a lot too. I got really fucked up, really fast. I was definitely out of place in this upscale sushi bar. For one thing, I probably didn't smell too good. Living out of your car will do that you. 

The first girl I met at the sushi bar was a tall sexy skinny blonde. I don't remember her name, but I remember what started our conversation. She was picking up drinks from the bar to take back to her table when our eyes met and she said, "Oh, that's deadmau5! Cool shirt!" She was full of pep. Must have been the Irish coffees she was drinking. After telling her which deadmau5 songs I liked and where I was from and whatever else, she invited me to join her. The only thing I remember about her and her group of friends was the girl who worked as a "specialist" for a suicide hotline company. Interesting. Actually, I remember where they went to school. Some of them were undergrads at UCSB. 

At this point in the night, my primary goal was to find a place to stay. It would be a long drunken walk back to my car if I didn't. My only chance was to get with a girl. I followed the girl and her friends to the bar across the street, where they said they were meeting other friends. This was the bar where they left me. I walked to the new bar to get a drink and when I turned around they were gone. 

It was a good thing I met Looey quickly because if I hadn't I might have just started walking back to my car. She must of seen what had just happened. I took a big sip of my beer and walked up to her. She watched me and I approached her and said something like, "Can you believe that? Fucking bullshit!". I was right, she saw. I bought her a red bull and vodka. Looey looked sexy too, but in a different way than the other girl. I was much more attracted to Looey. The other girl looked more like a surfer. Looey was wearing tight cutoff jeans and a pretty revealing top. She had really nice tits and legs. I met her friends. More undergrads. Looey and her friends were attending LMU, which I hadn't heard of until that night. Loyola Marymount University is really close to Venice I found out. One guy in Looey's group was studying film there. He seemed interested when I told him a little bit about the idea I had for the short story I'm now writing, (I haven't worked on in it for about three weeks now) but I had no desire to talk to him. 

Normally, I would never pay a cover charge to get into a bar, but I did this night. Looey and her friends had decided that this next bar, or perhaps nightclub, would be the last place. I had picked up on the fact that the 3 girls lived together, and the guy was dating one of them. I figured I had a good chance to go home with Looey.

I paid 10 fucking bucks to get into that goddamn bar or club or whatever. Every single person in there was dressed in really expensive clothes. I remember wondering if the people there, all about my age, were the sons and daughters of famous actors. The environment just seemed that way to me. When we were in line to get into the bar, Looey told me what she did. She said she was studying acting at LMU and was taking voice lessons. An aspiring singer and actress. The place was small and had bright green and blue lights flashing around. There was a DJ in the back. It felt exclusive and I would have felt out of place if not for the people I was with. I began thinking that the only reason I was able to get into this bar was because of the people I was with. I tried talking to Looey more but it was hard because it was so loud. We were both really drunk. It was about 1:00 am. The 5 of us got a booth behind the dance floor. Looey and I stayed there to talk. We starting making out pretty quickly. I think she realized that we were unable to hear each other. 

Her skin was so soft. I definitely remember that. I had my left arm wrapped around her waist and started to kiss her. Just touching her legs made me horny. I wanted to fuck her right there, in this ridiculous atmosphere. I was so drunk. She didn't seem to care at all where I touched her. After an embrace, she leaned over and arched her back slightly and offered her tits to me. She looked down at them, smiled up at me, and then we kissed again while I slipped my hand under her top and onto her tits. I felt incredible. All of my problems faded from my mind. I wasn't just lost now, but lost in lust. 

My friend kirt

The friendship I thought I had with my college roommates was compromised when I met Kirt.

These roommates, now both engaged, I no longer speak to. I wish I did though. I wish I would hear from them sometimes. I have occasionally dreamt up ridiculous scenarios involving these long lost college friends. In these dreams, I envision myself as a ghostly member of my friends' social circles. I follow them around and make up stories about them. I hover above and between them, in a misty cloud of smoke, as we travel to a college party. I pretend to know what they are thinking, to attempt to understand the motives behind their actions.

Kirt does not make appearances in my dreams. I would never have met Kirt without some luck. I consider my meeting him as being sort of lucky. He may never have existed in my life if I had not met him awkwardly one fall afternoon 4 years ago. On that day, my car was broken down. My car was parked outside my apartment, a few blocks away from Kirt's house. I was condescendingly looking at my car when Kirt walked right up behind me and asked me what had happened to my car. He scared the hell out of me. I was so confused. I was 19 at the time, and was at a loss for words. I wanted to get rid of him. I was angry about my car and I thought he for sure was going to talk my ear off and then probably ask me for money. Kirt is a 38 year old black guy that has lived his entire life under his parents roof.

A good friend of mine, whose closeness in my life has varied, described Kirt in a way that I've always thought fit him best. My friend said to me, "He's a symbol of how cruel and selfish this world is." All Kirt wants is a friend, and the only frustrating part of that to me is that he is always trying. He doesn't understand what it means to be a friend. Our friendship grew over time. Sometimes I remember wishing I could yell at him "I'm your friend damnit!" I got more and more comfortable with him. I got in the habit of calling him "my really good friend". It made him feel good. It was probably about 3 months after I first met Kirt that I started inviting him over. Before that, I would talk to him at the park across from my apartment or in the streets. My roommates, whose inferiority complex is rooted in their hatred towards people they don't understand, immediately disregarded Kirt. They started to talk to and treat me differently and would make snide remarks at me. "Who is that guy and why do you keep bringing him over here." It would be a more honest series of questions if I had asked them the same questions about the dickheads they would bring over.

I can sound like a condescending world despising bigot from time to time. Not only can I sound like one, I most surely am one. You should always be taking steps to understand yourself, and for a long time, I didn't want to. In some ways, I was just as much of an immature prick as my roommates were. My friendship with Kirt helped me combat my feelings of low self worth. After becoming close to Kirt and seeing him almost everyday, I realized how much I enjoyed his company. Although it's wrong, I started to take pleasure in the fact that my peers thought I was "A really strange guy". I would bring Kirt along to my various intramural games and he was happy. I made it a personal goal of mine to try and reveal the hypocrisy in others. People would glare at me and I would rejoice in the hate. People would stare at Kirt and he would look back at them with what he calls his "Rose colored glasses."

I wish my life was as simple as his. Wake up, walk around the neighborhood, go to work in the mall, come home. His mind is so simple, and he's so honest to a point where he could bring out the best in me. He is treated so unfairly by people and he is somehow unaffected by so much of it. Not all the time though. I've seen him at a low point, a time he told me he'd never had a friend like me "to talk to about this stuff."

I was in my bed watching tv and shuffling my poker chips, when I noticed Kirt's mood change. He was sitting next to me in my leather chair and started to ask me work related questions. I was giving him halfassed answers, I wasn't really listening. I had never seen Kirt get emotional and I felt guilty afterwards for not listening to him right away. He was trying to get me to settle down and listen to him, which I wasn't doing this night. My mind would occasionally drift off when he came over to my house, and I felt infinitely more relaxed when he was around. After he had asked me an unusual amount of questions, I turned off the tv and gave him the proper attention.

He started to talk to me about the new position he was getting pushed into at work. I'd heard him talk about it before. After some 15 years spent working as a shoe salesman at an athletic store, management was attempting to give Kirt more responsibility. Earlier that week, he had told me how much he didn't want the new job because of the responsibility he would have towards his other employees. I've met his manager. At first glance she appeared to be a complete bitch, an opinion I further developed after speaking with her. She hurt Kirt in a way I would have never known until this random night. She wouldn't listen to Kirt. Kirt didn't want the added responsibility, but this bitch decided she was going to put him through the management training process anyway. Kirt told me that an employee, a guy he considered his friend, yelled at him because Kirt informed on him for attempting to steal a pair of Jordan's.

Kirt struggled to talk to me about a staff meeting that had occurred earlier at his work that day. Kirt was made a fool of by this employee, a thief who was surely using Kirt and doesn't want to be his friend. Fuck him. I cried for Kirt. Although he didn't explain the meeting to me very well, I knew Kirt was being honest with me. His tears were real, and so were mine. He was slouched over crying in my leather chair. This middle aged black man was crying his eyes out in front of me. His large black hands were making attempts at hiding his face. He was embarrassed and confused to be sharing his emotions. I felt like shit because I wish I had been more ready to hear his thoughts. I wanted to walk into his work and punch that guy in the face.
.
At one point he said, "It's not you, stop thinking that". I thought about this for awhile. In tears, I was thinking about how I could make it all better for him. I felt incredibly strange all the sudden. His life is not mine, I reminded myself. How stupid is it to have to remind yourself of something like that? I can't give Kirt a sort of stubbornness to just dismiss people. He never talks to his parents about anything. If I wasn't there for him, who was going to be? Nobody.

I love Kirt. I love to entertain him with some bullshit and he makes me feel like a person. The jokes I come up with make him smile and that makes me feel good. He can frustrate the fuck out of me sometimes though, this if for sure. I don't see him everyday anymore, and I don't want to text him constantly. I have to convince myself that I don't have to talk to him everyday if I don't want to. It used to be easy to see Kirt because he lived a few blocks away from me, which is no longer the case. If he had some issue that really required my attention then I of course would give it to him.

There was one time that I was laying on my bedroom's carpet and he came up behind me. He wanted to know if I wanted a back massage. He proceeded to step on my back. I felt powerfully bonded to him by this experience. He was stepping on me and it felt good. My back wasn't sore from the basketball I had played earlier that day, and the pleasure I received from this experience was entirely mental.

He texts me sometimes and conjures up some pretty crazy bullshit. He asked me once if I was bragging while playing basketball. "O were you bragging?" Another time he texted me and asked if he was doing anything wrong. He was somehow convinced that he was doing wrong. I don't remember what we were talking about. Doesn't matter. I had to convince my good friend that he wasn't doing anything wrong. His blatant honesty is valuable.. a soothing addiction. I don't think he has ever been comfortable being alone with someone before he met me.

Simply put, Kirt is a gangsta. An honest person. A friend I desperately needed and was fortunate to find.

Just before I became broke

"I don't understand why you wouldn't rather do what you're doing now back here with us," Mike said to me the other day. "You could wait tables at The Dock and stay with us. Doesn't make sense."

The conversations I have with Mike are frustrating because he's right. Maybe if I was broke when I first met him and Rod, I would still be down there.

After working at the hall, I never want to see Johnny again. He wasn't someone I wanted to go out and meet locals with, but I had no one else to go out with. I wanted my relationship with him to be just business. I wanted to make my own new friends, although that's not what I told him. I knew that the people I would probably meet wouldn't get along with him. Johnny was as close to a friend that I had when I was in school, but he's too much of an ego head. He was different from most of the private school kids, but he had that same sense of entitlement that a lot of the other kids had. His dad is a really successful business man and Johnny was obviously going to take up the family business, which he did.

After a day's work at the hall, I went out with Johnny, his family, and some coworkers to a bar close to the beach. The only thing worse than going out with Johnny was going out with his family tagging along with us. It just wasn't enjoyable to be with them at all but after being miserable for about an hour at the bar, the group of them left and went home early. I stayed at the bar and that's where I met Rod, Mike's roommate.

I had just ordered a beer from the bar when I saw one guy hit another guy. I was at the end of the bar and turned my head to watch the bouncer carry the guy who through the punch out. Rod and his group sat down next me, irate about what had just happened. His friend that got hit was laughing and the left side of his face was starting to swell up. Rod was laughing too. The other guys they were with were really upset about it.

It didn't take me long to realize that this group was "Rod's group." Some of the girls kept asking him if he was going to let the group go back to his place for the night. The girls were really sexy. Rod introduced one of them to me. We didn't talk too much, but I liked her. She and her friends were wondering which of Rod's friends would "just buy and go" if the group went back to his place. He was getting angry with them. I think one of them was his girlfriend but I never found out for sure.

Rod and Mike are coke dealers. Obviously Rod was a dealer of some kind, but I didn't know what yet. Rod and I bought each other drinks at the bar and he drunkenly tried to explain to me what had happened with his friend who got hit. The friend came up behind us at the bar and joked "Want to smack my other cheek?" He was really fucked up too. Way more than Rod. I'm still surprised that the bar didn't kick him out too. Rod told me that the other guy started the fight, but who knows. The way his friend was acting, it wouldn't surprise me if he was just as much at fault. After Rod's group was really drunk and it was almost 2:00am, Rod announced that we could all go back to his place, which is a beachfront apartment.

After Rod was done getting the group together, I followed him. All the girls couldn't fit into his car, so I took one of them with me. I was pretty fucked up, but not on the level of the people in the group yet. The girl I took to Rod's apartment was so drunk. I asked her what her name was and she said something like "Emjee". I was going to say something else but she waved her hand as if saying "Just drive".

I parked next to Rod and the girl joined her friends. Rod put his arm around my shoulder and said
"Nice place, eh?". Yeah, I thought, really nice. It was a Friday night and I had finally met some people.

Rod's apartment was way too small to accommodate 20 people. Mike was playing Super Smash with a fucking huge Mexican guy everyone called "Papa". He was cool. The "buy and go" guys left, and they took some of the girls with them, which lessened the group to about 10. I did three or four lines with Rod and Mike and then everyone except Papa went down to the apartment pool. One of the girls and a member or Rod's group were having sex in the pool. Nobody bothered them. Everyone was fucked up, smiling, and joking around. I ended up crashing on Rod's couch that night.

My god was I fucked up. This was my first experience with coke and it was unlike any experience I've ever had. Once I lost my job at the hall, I would help Rod and Mike for the next couple weeks and would stay at their place. There was a trust that Rod, Mike, and I shared. After the first night I crashed at their apartment, the three of us became close. They would leave me alone in their apartment knowing that I knew that there were $100's of dollars of coke and cash that I could steal. That made me feel good. It sort of reassured me that we were close friends, that I belonged.

Who will disconnect first (part 2/2)

It feels strange looking through my chat with Chris for the purpose of deciding what I want to include from it in this post. I’m not sure what to include. The conversation I had with him was different than the one I had with Marcos. It definitely was shorter and developed quicker. At first, I didn't think there was a chance that I wouldn't get disconnected right away by Chris. I had good reason to feel that way, based on what I saw and have seen.

Like I mentioned in my last post, people spam the fuck out of the chats. The conversation with Chris started out no different. But, there was a strange bit at the end of his spam. I didn't realize the potential this spam had for a conversation until I reread it again:

 

Stranger: fooling around with horny puberty guys on omegle that just want to see some girls nudes trying to get my nonexistent kik account

 

The possible conversation starting word here is "nonexistent". Very clever, Chris. Nevermind what Kik is. If you use Omegle you may use Kik, but if you don't know what it is, it doesn't matter.

 

 

When people spam, I like to spam right back with a link to this blog just for the hell of it. So, that's what I did. I sent a link to my blog and said "read" "it's good for you."

 

Then, after I was sure to be disconnected, I quickly received a few questions from Chris. "What is that?" "Why do you want random people to read it?" "Do you think this might be something for me specifically?"

 

I was very taken aback. I did not think I was going to receive these questions from Chris, but after I did, I hoped he was a girl. I of course had my doubts and of course he turned out to be a guy. I answered the questions as honestly as I could. I said that I liked writing and wanted to share my blog. I said that I feel a connection to the characters and authors in the books I read, and how I wanted to sort of do the same with my blog.

 

Now that I'm writing this and referring back to the chat log with Chris, I can already tell that this post is going to turn out worse than if I simply c/p'd the chat log. Despite this, I don't think anyone would want to spend the time reading the entire chat log. Chris was the inspiration behind my asking Marcos to write about him. I met Marcos long before I started this blog and I talked to Chris on Omegle about a week ago.  

 

I've read the chat log with Chris a few times now and, like I said earlier, I'm not sure what to include. Chris and I's chat was good conversation between two strangers. I told Chris I was going to write a post about him, so I'm doing it.

 

I remember getting the feeling I was chatting with myself at certain points. Chris is better educated than Marcos. English, his second language behind German, is extremely good. I told him at one point that he might know the English language better than I do. He even says "In the internet". Isn't that the correct usage?

 

I couldn't help but get the feeling that Chris was my long lost European brother. We were in the same position, it felt like. The feelings we shared about what irritates us about things were similar. I could elaborate more on this or that, which might make this post more interesting, but I don't feel like it. I won't write another post about an Omegle chat, I don't think.

 

So, how do you decide who disconnects first? I have no idea, go and ask Chris the same thing. Neither of us wanted to disconnect first, though Chris pointed out that it was 4:30am in Germany. Chris said he is "Never the one to disconnect first", another thing we have in common. So, we did a 3-2-1 countdown followed by a mutual disconnect.