Stupid is as Emo does.

I haven't updated in a while and I don't have time for a real update now. So I'll leave you with a throwback to my teen angst created on Wednesday night. It's fucking embarassingly bad, but in my defense I wrote it at a stoplight on the way home from the comic shop. Enjoy the horrible.

I run with my heart in my fist and my guts on my sleeve.
I've got butterflies gathered like maggots feasting on my shit for brains.
And this heart, the heart in this fist that clenches as I run, is a cold dead rock.
From which no pity shall be born and no blood shed.
This body is a ghost town.

The heat...the impending doom.

My productivity shares a correlation with the temperature. The hotter it is, the more sloth like I become. The downside is that during the winter I'm only motivated when the sun is up, therefore I have about 45 minutes of "motivation" before it's dies faster than the hopes and dreams of an African child.

In other news, I moved. So that's my excuse to not update the past 2 weeks.

"But I'm sure you had internet that you could have used if you were truly dedicated to your craft!"

Firstly, sure but I'm lazy.

Secondly, the only thing I'm truly dedicated too is masturbation.

So there's that.

I've had a few conversations in the real world, with the few people who are willing to converse with me, all about why people live their lives. Or maybe more directly why people make the choices they do. Everything as minuscule as why do you eat to bigger and more important questions like why do you wake up?

There has to be a reason. If there's no reason, no goal, no objective, then what are you doing? Are you living just because you're too afraid to deep throat an 9mm? Are you living vicariously through someone else? Why? Why.

Why.

I've said this before, that this is the only question that matters. I don't think it's quite gotten through to you. So let me pose these questions to you. Answer them in comments or keep them to yourselves. It only matters that you have an answer.

Why do you wake up in the morning?
Why do you go to work?
Why do you eat the food you eat?
Why don't you make a change?
Why don't you stop bitching?
Why do you work towards your goals?
Why don't you constantly work towards your goals?
Why are you here?
Why should anyone deal with you?
Why do you think others are more successful than you?
Why aren't you more successful?
Why do you do what you do?
Why do you procrastinate?
Why do you care what others think?
Why do others care what you think?
Why?

Do you understand now? I'm serious. Take a pen and write this down on a sticky note and attach it everywhere.

"Why?"

If the only reason you're with someone is because of a child, you're doing it wrong. I'm not saying raising a child is bad, it's a hard thing to do and most people fuck it up. What I'm saying is if there's no love in the relationship then give it up for your sake, for the kids sake, and your partners sake. If the only reason you're doing anything is because you don't know what to do, you're doing it wrong. Video games, watching tv, eating food, masturbating, whatever, they are all just time killers.

A friend once wrote something to the effect of: "I don't have time to waste on people who aren't doing things."

So, basically. Fuck off.

These are the Beginning of days.

I know, I'm sorry. I updated TWICE this week (this being the second), and I'm too good to you. You're welcome.

So as some of you may know, I'm currently living with my best friend since 8th grade and his father. The house has had some "issues" as well as my mental and physical health so I'm moving. Tomorrow. I'm sure he has some mixed feelings about me moving out, the cause, the reasons, the reactions, but we're men. Emotions are for pussies. So I highly doubt there will be a conversation and just maybe some passive aggression from his end.

However there have been some incredibly awesome highlights to this house. Like living for free! But also some great stories and jokes. Which I guess will all be shared in due time.

The time is about 4:20 on Wednesday afternoon. I have just gotten home from work and have changed out of my jeans and button down shirt, and into camouflage shorts, a band t-shirt, and a black zip up sweatshirt with 2 giant skulls on the front. Yes, I'm a stereotype. I'm following my usual tradition of mentally relaxing while surfing the internet when my guts begin to brew a stench that would make Cthulu flinch. So I do what I normally do, grab the nearest reading material and head to the bathroom to unload a steaming pile. About 2 minutes into my transgression against porcelain the doorbell rings. Lady Killer and Charlie go absolutely fucking ape-shit. Barking their stupid little faces off and I just assume it's FedEx or UPS, and they'll piss off and leave a package.

The door bell rings again.

Ok, at this point I'm like "Goddamn fucking Jehovah's Witnesses." The dogs are still barking their heads off when I hear a female voice I've never heard before in my life (now keep in mind that I've been a regular visitor of this house for over 17 years).

"Genius (house owner), Rev (son that doesn't live there), Roommate?"

Fuck. There's a stranger in the house and I've got my pants around my ankle and stinking up the second floor with the door open. Fuck.

The door closes, and I think I'm saved. My leather cheerio unclenches it's poo jaws and I resume the business transaction.

"Genius (house owner), Rev (son that doesn't live there), Roommate?"

Fuck.

So I wipe and wash my hands and head downstairs. Now heading into the kitchen from upstairs the hallway narrows and turns virtually 45 degrees in 3 steps so, as I'm descending the stairs I look into the kitchen bathroom (the door is ajar) and say "hello?"

In the mirror I see a grown woman standing up while adjusting her pants.

"I'm sorry, I'm looking for Genius or Rev. Are you Roommate all grown up??"

"Uhm..no. I live in the basement."

"Oh, I used to babysit Rev. and Roommate when they were kids. I was friends with their (dead) mom. My mom died too.."

"You're mom died around the same time as their mom?"

"No, she died last week. My dog died the next day."

"Oh. Ok. Wow."

"Yea it's been a bad year. My father died 8 months ago. Fuck 2009."

"Yea, wow. You've had a shit year."

"Yea, it's been rough. One time I let the boys buy Albino mice and they got loose in the house. One of them turned up dead in Genius's underwear drawer."

"That rules!"

At this point the dogs are DEMANDING her attention. So she kneels down to play with the girls and I walk to the fridge to check the food situation. There's no food, there never is, but I always hope for change. I turn around to see her shoulders shrug and hear a faint sob.

Fuck.

Tears streaming down her face she looks at me and says: "I picked up my mothers ashes yesterday, and my dogs ashes today. I just wanted to go somewhere that felt like home."

She might have said something else at this point but my brain had turned to white noise because I was trapped behind the kitchen counter with no escape. All exits where being blocked by her.

Fast forward a few minutes she says she's gonna go for a walk and asks if it's ok if she leaves the car in the driveway. I say yes and that I'll leave a note for Mike that it's her car. I go to check the bathroom and holy mother of god, she blew it up. The smell was horrible and the toilet was unflushed. It didn't hit me 'till later one important fact.

There was no toilet paper.

This is all fiction. That is to say, a lie.

Tonight was one of those nights where everything just seemed right. The kind of night that lets you know that summer is coming but it's not quite here yet, so you don't have to worry about sweat gluing your balls to the inside of your thigh. Yet.

It feels like a night in a movie, where everything has a place and there's a place for everything. The wind isn't chilling it's just moving the warm air, so you can roll down the windows of your car and crank your music up enough to piss off the neighbors and let the bass change the way you breathe and your heart beats. On narrower streets no one is in a rush, people are pausing for pedestrians and the red faced rage of New Jersey drivers hasn't reared it's head in a good ten minutes.

Even turning onto the highway isn't that bad. It's not too crowded, and no ones tailgating. The sky over the Turnpike has turned a deep purple'ish blue, like a fresh bruise with the blood just under the skin. A familiar pink haze hovering over the apartment buildings, duplexes, and low-income housing that create the skyline.

Of course, now you're doing 75mph so the music needs to be turned up. So you can hear the raspy warble of Conner Oberst and pseudo hiss and pop of a vinyl record. Still enjoying yourself, you feel a sudden shift in your chest.

The shithead in the SUV behind you either has it's high beams on. Or he's at the perfect angle to absolutely blind you. He's refusing to pass and the guy on the left keeps speeding up and slowing down. The car in front of you is a douchebag and cruising at a good 5mph under the speed limit. You're constantly tapping the breaks. The SUV's brakes are therefore also being tested. The fuckhead to the left keeps checking his brakes on the off chance we're slowing down for a cop. Due to the stupidity of the drivers on the left and the one in front of you there's a decent sized chunk of traffic hanging out behind you. If you could just get around the guy in front of you. But this fuckhead on the left won't speed up or slow the fuck down. In this sea of blinking lights, flashing high beams, and pink skyline it's mesmerizing. No one even notices the broken down vehicle in the left hand lane.

That's when the chorus kicks in.

"So hurry up and run..."

It's in these instances where time seems to pause and your brain is capable or recoding facts you would otherwise be unable to retrieve. The small rainbow that was created by the shattering headlights, as the fuckhead on the left doesn't even slow down during the initial impact. The look on woman passengers face as physics plays it's part in slowing her moment and frames her face in cascading curls that would be beautiful if it wasn't for the windshield that's already begun peppering her face with broken glass. Fuckhead is trying desperately to dodge his steering wheel while the airbag sprays white powder in his face.

"...to one that you love and..."

Both cars are being pushed forward and into your lane of traffic because of the slight bend in the road. The disabled vehicle starts making a right turn over the white dotted reflective line. Your foot slams on a pedal. You're not sure which one. You just hope it's the right one because the black crumpled bumper is already halfway across the lane.

"...blind him with your kindness."

Sparks on one guardrail are shooting over the white sedan that was the fuckhead in the left lane as your car leaps forward. The green Saturn who was going 5mph under the speed limit, is oblivious to you as you accelerate in his mirrors. You quickly cut the wheel to the left to avoid the driver's side mirror of the black disabled car which jack knifed into the Saturn you just passed. The shithead SUV driver, who it turns out DID have his high beams on, silently mouths "FUCK" as he plows into both the black disabled vehicle and the fuckhead in the white sedan.

The shatterproof windshield of the SUV releases it's hold of the car as a suitcase from the backseat crashes into it. The windshield lands less than a foot behind your car. Pissing little teardrops of windshield onto the back of your car.

The crazy thing about it is, even with all your windows down, the stereo blasting, and the metal on plastic on metal on flesh, the quiet is deafening. The movies lead you to believe that in these situations the volume knob gets cranked up to 11. You realize that movies lie as you continue to drive while refusing to look in the rear view mirror.

You pull in your driveway 15 to 20 minutes later unaware that Bright Eyes is still playing. It takes a minute for your thoughts to catch up to your head to catch up to your car. The car is already in park and the lights are off with the windows up before you even realize you've done it. You're halfway into the house before you turn to click your keys and lock the car. As you sit on the bed, hitting the power button on the remote you sip a bottle of water to help wash down the Xanax.

It's not till you lay down and pull the covers up that you realize you have an erection.


****disclaimer: none of this happened, it's a work of fiction that popped in my head as i drove home from blond girlfriends house and i wanted to pretend i was a writer****

I built this city.

I've come to the conclusion that I do my best writing when I'm nowhere near a pen, paper, or a keyboard of any kind. Typically when I'm in my car right before the temptation to steer the car into a cement guard rail at 75mph over comes me, it's at that moment I have the clarity of thought to fully articulate whatever it is I'm pondering. Blonde girlfriend, would disagree, saying that when I talk in the car I give her a 15 minute back story to tell a 3 minute shit joke.

She typically doesn't appreciate the shit jokes. She does however appreciate a well timed fart, and that is why I love her.

Last night I went into New York City to go a fiction writing class being held at Barnes & Noble on 6th Ave and 8th St. The class was free and I'm jewishly cheap, so being the dutiful nerd that I am I hobbled my way up to the front row and took a seat right in front of the podium. Eventually my crippled friend Rev. Stompy showed up and fell into the folding chair next to me shaking the floor with his girth. He's not fat in the traditional sense of the word, he can find his penis without the aid of a mirror, he's fat in the sense that he carries around way too much shit. Leatherman tools, laptop, chains, Bat-a-rang, three transformers, four hot wheels, and at least one fistful of Lego's are on his person at all times.

There we were surrounded by other aspiring writers, columnists, the homeless, and bloggers who were all too cheap to actually pay for a class. At first I thought there were only about 30 people there, but upon further thought there was no available seats and no way to walk around the 2nd floor. Full of losers at every stage of development, from the guy in sweatpants with the elastic ankles all the way to the granny with the sixteen strands of pink hair and her mauve flower print shawl. Thankfully, most of these people understand the concepts of basic hygiene and the smell wasn't horrid.

The "class" began and then they spoke and my confidence grew, my ability to stop myself from knifing them all in between their ribs so their lungs would collapse and I could fuck the wound, was shrinking.

After we were lead through a few writing exercises and briefly lectured on characterization, the "class" had ended. The Rev. and I got up and did our best Frankenstein impression 'till we got to the stairs where we used the hand rail to pretend to be able to walk normally. Meeting up with his pixie wife outside, we ventured across the street to get sushi, which I hate myself for enjoying. Acting like good tourists we waited for the crosswalk light to tell us it was safe and we hobbled across the street. Instead of acting like New Yorkers and just walking into oncoming traffic because hate is more powerful than a Petersbuilt moving at 50mph. However it was comical, the race to get across the street before the light changed and some meth fueled Pakistani cab driver would plow through us without stopping. I put my money on the cabbie.

Waiting online to place our order at Go-sushi took approximately too fucking long as the foreign tourists tried to place their orders in French to a woman who barely speaks English. Eventually I payed for my over-priced and still delicious raw fish and sea weed, sat down only to inhale it before Rev. and his wife sat down. As they leisurely ate their meal, I was able to look around the restaurant and the crowds as they passed. I saw homosexual couples proudly displaying their colors, I saw homo-thugs, I saw Brooklyn hipsters, I saw fashionistas, I saw stuffy business men, I saw worried yuppies, I saw the stereotypical chicano in his flannel shirt, I saw every race, creed, and body type before either around me or wander past my view.

I was hit with one dominating thought.

I fucking hate this city.

Fuck New York.

Good Friday, my ass.

So here we are again. Me at a loss of things to write about, or rather how to write about them and you, my non-existent audience sitting in rapt attention waiting for my next diatribe on living through losing.

Now chances are if you're reading this, you're fairly savvy at using the internet. Maybe you too are a part of Web 2.0, maybe you're even a part of 3.0 because you're a trend setting douche. However I've noticed a growing trend in technology fearing Luddites (lol double negative) who actually use the interwebs. They've gone so far as to write articles about the evils of "online usage," which are then posted...

(wait for it)

...Online.

Generally these people are older people, who still haven't grasped the ideas that Blacks can vote, piss and shit in any bathroom they choose, and work for minimum wage. Yet there are those younger people who've grown up with this technology who still haven't managed to figure out not to click on the flashing advertisements that promise you a free iPhone. Thanks to these thoughtless fucks, viruses such as Conflicker (downadup) are happily sitting in MILLIONS of computer stealing all of your personal information.

And you know what. You fucking deserve it.

This is like letting your kid touch the stove, teaching them to look both ways to cross the street, and only trusting strangers who offer them candy inside vans.

Afraid of viruses? Don't be a fucking idiot. Don't know how to keep flash and java from automatically loading? Don't know how to block cookies from unsecure sites? Don't know the difference between actual security and scareware? Learn.

"But we shouldn't have too! It should be designed so that we're all safe! Keep the internet safe! Internet bullies are bad!"

Get fucking real.

There's a reason we have jails, police, and fire alarms everywhere. Nothing's safe. No ones secure all the time. The real world gets scarier and scarier every day, why the fuck should the digital one be any different?

In conclusion, thank you for your bank account and social security code. I promise I'll put your credit limit to good use.