Never and Always

I'm hers and I'm not
Like an unknown melody
The sun rays of summer
Or that gentle evening breeze

Her name's on my lips
Engraved on my being
In a place I can't forget
But my eyes are never seeing

We are what we don't know
Thoughts live out our desires
Drift between her eye lids
And my physical expires

Fade into more than nothing
Frozen to never rot
We live for another time
She's mine and she's not

Pleas of a Stalker/ The Art of Being Single

Here are some poems that I should have never written...please don't judge. They are not all based on my life.

Oh leaves! leaves!
Why do you get in my way!?
What did you think?
These binoculars have xray?

Oh branch! branch!
Why do you leave me astray!?
I was not made for climbing!
Support me better I pray!

Oh Curtains! Curtains!
Why are you closed all day!?
Give her some sunshine!
And some fresh air ok?

Oh Cops! Cops!
Why do you put me away!?
I was just watching the birds!
Aot the girl as she lays


And this one...


I’d like to thank everybody for gathering ‘round
For letting me share an idea so profound
To the lost, the confused, the abandoned ones
I have come to you like the morning sun
So cut the chit chat, shooting the shit, and the mingle
This is the art of being single

Yes, the thought of having no one can seem very gloom
Your soul seems to cry, even in a crowd room
But whether you’re lacking popularity or high in stature
The key to needing no one is a good back scratcher
An extension of the arm, reaching places yours can’t
Less awkward than calling out for a buddy or an aunt

Don’t be yearning the conversation that couples are making
Just save strangers on face book and then say, “I’ve mistaken
You for someone else who goes by the same name,
But you are much better looking, deleting you would be a shame”
Then you start talking of things that are much more exciting
Than those couples over there, who are now probably fighting

On those silent nights, just pull out a good book
All the verbs and nouns will surely get you hooked
But if the words and paper makes you start to mourn
Nothing screams a good time like some hardcore porn
Then time will pass when hands can’t substitute
You just drive down 95th and pick up Gladys the prostitute

See it’s not that hard to live a life like this
Minus the constant screaming and staring into abyss
The world didn’t leave you behind, you left it
Now you are free, to do as you see fit!
Just remember that you are John and they all are Ringo
This is the art of being single

And I wake...

By dawn, we'll be bygones
Whispered swiftly by the night
A romance suspended
Made a legend through the light

Are we not but our thoughts?
Define what's truth
Difference between them
Memories be the proof

Make haste and recollect
Jot down the profound
Through twist and turns
There is life to be found

So under oceans of warmth
Fight the drooping of heads
Speak of that which transpired
Here and now upon this bed

The Things We Do For Security

My tongue touches the unattractive taste of the pre-applied adhesive on the flap of the mailing envelope – the things we do for security. I’m mailing some important documents for work, which now lays safe in the confines of the impenetrable paper dungeon. I stand, disgusted from the action just described, at the counter of our mailing department, greeted by our enthusiastic mail lady, Daisy. I throw her the envelope as well as a “Top of the morning to you Daisy,” (cause I’m Irish like that) and what followed was an interesting conversation.

“How are you doing today?” I ask
“I’m doing well. How about yourself?”
“Great, I am watching Dark City tomorrow. My Favorite movie! I’m very excited about that!”
“God, did you know that the first movie I ever watched was only 10 years ago?”
Realizing that Daisy was not a 13-year-old kid, my brain screamed, “Hold the phone one second!”
“What?!” I translated. “How is that possible?”

Honestly. How? Unless you were living under a rock or something! Perhaps even in the ocean. Like if Ariel, The Little Mermaid, and I were having breakfast when the tide were low and she said, “you know, I haven’t seen a movie before,” I’d be like, “obviously, you’re a mermaid stupid,” and we’d laugh because electronics can’t work in her world and then we’d get married. And on our honey moon I’d finally be able to take that damn sea shell bra off and….What? oh! Haha. Wrong blog. Point is, Daisy was not a mermaid, so what gives? Turns out Daisy never lived under a rock either. For the better part of her life she lived under a blanket thrown on her by her elders. Yup, raised in a society that doesn’t believe in electronics and luxurious things like that. She couldn’t even wear pants for crying out loud! Imagine that!

“Hey Daisy! Let play leapfrog over these tree stumps!”
“I can’t guys…I’m wearing this dress…”
“Oh right, cause you’re not allowed to wear these awesome pants like us boys.” And the boys do a little jig out of spite. Fucken kids.

So needless to say, her story ended, or should I say began, when she decided that she was leaving that town (which for some reason I picture being in the darkness of the woods) to start a new life in the great city of Edmonton Edmonton Edmonton Edmonton Edmonton. That’s not a typo; it’s supposed to be echo. I’m trying to make Edmonton sound epic-ly cool.

“You left your people just like that?” I was mind blown. That’s some Matrix shit! Like Morpheus just strolled into her town and was like “Hey kid, look what Trinity is wearing. Pants. Leather pants. And look what I’m playing on my iPhone. Movies. Bromances! If you want to come with us, eat this red candy. It ain't going to be easy though. Fucken Neo puked when he first got out.” And then Daisy’s like, “Shit son, I’m coming with chu. I wanna know what’s up, foo!” And if you are thinking that Daisy is black right now, you are stereotyping. All the hip kids talk like that nowadays, even this white mail lady.

Ok ok. I apologize. I got carried away. Please don’t be offended. Obviously, Morpheus wouldn’t do a thing like that. The turning point for Daisy was probably the leapfrog scene. Just trying to make a point. And that point is, what Daisy did has got to be the hardest thing anyone could ever do; turning her back on what she grew up to think was right and having all those disapproving eyes glaring at her as she walked through that forest with her belongings bundled in a cloth tied to a stick, resting on her shoulder.

“Slut!” shouts some old lady as she churns butter.



Jebediah looks at the old lady with approval, while a couple of girls watch Daisy with envy. But they will never do what she did. "It’s safer here in the woods," they tell themselves. I hate envelope adhesive.

Ah, the things we do for security. Foo!


*note, all information is based off my own knowledge, research and imagination and is no way a substitute for solid facts. Do not regurgitate this to some Amish gang who will come hunt me down and do whatever it is that passive gangs do. Thank you

Poetry, Astray

"A Poem is nothing without an audience.”




Well if this is true than in my notebook there are many nothings - just a congregation of words that dare not be seen by those that they were meant for, content with the knowledge of their own existence. I feel like a father witnessing their son/daughter peaking through the kitchen window at a huge backyard that they cannot play in. Oh they were meant to but they fear it so. How about we shed some light on them, hm?

This one was meant for a receptionist, who had just gotten a hair cut, enhancing her hottest.

Damn girl, you done got your hurr did
Just wanted to say I couldn't mind my own biz
Yeah I be staring like a nosy neighbour
I swear that booty belongs in the daily papers
Front-page baby cause it's that news worthy
Like a homeless guy, I'm feeling oh so dirty
Your hair's so damn nice, I wanna mess it up
If you know what I mean, don't bother dressing up
Just dial my number and set up a date
You and I together, let's not fuck with fate
Unless that's your middle name, then break the rules
You like bling bling, I'll show you my jewels
And I aint talking about my errrings...please
We'd have a fever of a hundred and three
I'll shampoo your hair, maybe give it a toss
Got me all backwards like I'm kris kross
Braid it, comb it, style it nice
Pray to god that you'll never get lice
Cause if you didn't know, it's you I dig
Don't give me bad news and say that it's a wig

…..hey, I didn’t say they were good.

Moving on, I wrote this one very recently about a girl that is turning 25, which whom I’m acquainted with through friends and face book.

I only know you through photographs
yeah, I'm a creeper
I could have known you through windows
But your roof is way steeper
Than I anticipated
On a note related
I just bought binoculars
expensive, but I paid it
But enough about that
I'm obviously joking
Kristina C*****
You deserve some facebook poking
If you know what I mean
Hotter than porno scenes
I got gratuity for that booty
and it ain't colored green
so I'm not talking money
I'll keep the weather sunny
And if what you're looking for
Is a man that's funny
Well look no further
Cause I got the stuff
Knock knock, who's there
Boo.
Boo wh..hey that's enough
Baby if you chose me
then there aint no crying
Unless we watch My Sister's Keeper
And that girl is dying
Then it's ok, tear jerker for sure
But dont believe the rumors
I'm really not a whure
If anything, I hope this gives your lips a lift
A smile I mean, on your twenty-fifth

Maybe this whole sharing thing was not such a good idea…Here’s one about a skank.

The secret's out, slipped from weaker lips
says the loveliest potion, that I dare not sip
Hear it is in its glory, cause I shall not deny
not hard to see, no one needs to ask why
As my mind wonders, I see your eyes wander
If not for the circumstance, would our hearts grow fonder?
In my arms, you'd feel like the greatest love song
With you, I'm like a saint, I can do no wrong
Your heart would be safe, like money in the bank
too bad my friends tell me that you're kind of a skank

I Fall to Pieces

“Not again, oh, this ain’t suppose to happen to me”

Ok let’s get this over with. My eyes open at the early hours of this morning, greeted by the bright screen of my cell phone, which for the time I stared, fought the darkness before dawn with great strength. I got a text. As soon as the darkness took over again, my eyes closed – I need my sleep. I have the worst memory when I want to but fortunately (or unfortunately) the image of her eyes is crystal clear. My heart stops beating to focus on this one image. I curse it, “You would kill us all if I don’t read this text!?” “Us all” refers to all my organs of course, cause my body is a team working together to keep me functional, according to my grade 3 health teacher Mrs. Carter. You see, involuntarily I was hanging by this text message as though nothing else mattered. Was it that big a deal if I read it then or, let see, when I’ve had my 8 hours of sleep?! Apparently it was a big deal. My brain experienced yet another mutiny. It shouted, “Go to bed!” like a summer camp supervisor who hated his job, and my right arm said “Fuck you!” like that one rebellious kid that the girls from the neighboring camp always wanted to party with; that the shy boy realizes he wanted to become. It reaches for my phone on my nightstand, fiddling with the buttons and just like the sunshine parting through the heavy clouds on the tragic of days, the light on my cell phone creeps through my eyelids, who, I might add was being very cooperative with my brain, until this point. Even my brain was getting a little nervous about calling my heart’s bluff. It still hadn’t taken a beat. Not even the incredible Timbaland could get a beat out of it at that point. My eyes scroll the text. My lips smile. My brain shakes its head in disapproval. My heart beats. This ain’t suppose to happen to me…

In Love With Ideas

I, I fear,
Am in love with ideas
Of a physical yearning
Of a heart beat so near

But Heaven knows
It so much so
That roses bloom
Where thorns, too, grow

Fingers prick
On romantic tricks
A solid wound
That won't heal so quick

Players involved
Sooner or later dissolve
A little more jaded
And they quietly sob

Uncontrollable tears
For which I'm no cure
All I can whisper is
I'm in love with ideas

Drift Away With Me

I push the fingers of my left hand firm, locking the strings in place as my pick gently calls on the c-chord to ring out on my guitar, accompanying the last word to the song “Follow Through” by Gavin Degraw. My eyes are closed. As silent as it sounds, my ears still hears a struggle. The song doesn’t want to die. I let it fade as I sit in the spotlight of my adoring fans, so perfect, until a fight breaks out. Maggy attacks Lionel, an endless feud that has gone on since the beginning of time it seems. Their attention was mine for a mere four minutes before the teeth came out; the growls and the barking. Oh, Lionel and Maggy are dogs.

I watch my audience of two rolling around together until they just resembled a blur of fur; a blur of fur that seconds earlier sat attentive, in my living room, to a Yamaha acoustic guitar. Then the doorbell rings and as quick as it started, the fight was over. I didn’t feel so unimportant anymore. In fact, the feeling of being ignored by my dogs was overlapped by the memory of a phrase I had heard sung by Andrew McMahon with his band Something Corporate in the song Konstantine, “the present’s just a pleasant interruption to the past.” Is that all life is, a series of interruptions, a distractions that get us by? Think about it. If that were true, than he’s saying that problems that one has face through out one’s life may never be resolved, only forgotten, if not just for a brief moment. One by one we digress the last digression, hoping that engaging in the current will dissolve the pains that linger.

My co-worker is trying to quit smoking and it’s her eleventh day smoke-free, but still smokin'...get it? She's hot. “Great job Mary!” I encourage, as I watch her frantically dig in her purse for the patches that she has to help her out. Three more months go by, Mary throws the patches out like training wheels to a big girl. She pedals on taking in the fresh air like Lionel and Maggy on a summer drive. Sadly, I watch Mary wobble, realizing those training wheel are no longer there to support. She flips over the handlebars and face plants right into one of those public ashtrays by the side of a downtown building. True story.



I, personally, don’t smoke, but there are advantages that I see myself having if I did. Social opportunities. I don’t have any raw data to prove it, but I can probably say with confidence that a smoker will most likely interact with many more people than a non-smoker. While we healthy-lunged fresh-breathed loser are sitting in our cubicles typing away, our smoking co-workers are probably out there having an interesting conversation about the Large Hadron Collider, a physics experiment that collides opposing particles hoping to understand the deepest laws of nature. To paraphrase, scientists hope to find forces and particles that reigned during the first trillionth of a second of the Big Bang. Test runs deemed successful in 2008, which called for great celebration amongst many physicist around the world. After many strange mechanical failures though the machine explodes and was shut down. Thus creating this freakishly entertaining theory of how the Large Hadron Collider experiments was unnatural. Some labeled the work as “playing god,” an act that the human race was not meant to play out. In fact, the many “malfunctions” that have occurred to the collider has been unexplained. So “A pair of otherwise distinguished physicists have suggested that the hypothesized Higgs boson, which physicists hope to produce with the collider, might be so abhorrent to nature that its creation would ripple backward through time and stop the collider before it could make one, like a time traveler who goes back in time to kill his grandfather.” Apparently, I work at the geekiest company in the world.

So Mary, with her new interesting fact of the day, throws her cigarette butt out, goes to the bathroom to fix her hair, waits for the elevator to take her up two floors, bumps into Carol by the water cooler and chit chats for five minutes before returning to her desk next to mine with a blank expression on her face.

“What?” I probe.

“I had something crazy to tell you,” she explained. “But I got distracted and now I forget. How’s that headache of yours?”

“Fuck, don’t remind me.”

The doorbell rings again. My dogs go ballistic.

Inspiration, Where Art Thou?

I wake up to my alarm clock, like walking into a club, mid-way through a song. A truly awful song at that. I slam it off with the palm of my right hand; contact on the first swing. It’s a talent. Sunday morning, and my blinds work way too well. Or does it? Not really. In fact, it didn’t have to work at all. Winter in Alberta has its pros and cons, and this is definitely a con, there is no sunshine. I take a deep breath, which took a bit of effort as I lay sloppily on my chest. So I turn myself over to face my plain beige ceiling. Indeed, this morning is not meant for an artist.



I’m moody. I blame it on what’s laying next to me on my queen size bed. Now, now. Don’t get too excited. It’s a paperback novel called The Road By Cormack McCarthy. Many of you may have seen the trailer for the motion picture of it in-between whatever reality show is most popular these days, running around with all the other junk ads. The book was a downer, as you can tell. I stare at it as it laid there like a used up hooker, pages spread, the bindings warped and curled to meet my viewing needs. (not that I know what a used up hooker looks like, although there was that one time but that’s another story.) My favorite bookmark sits not far, waiting to be pressed between more literature. I kick the novel off my bed, fearing that the story of a man protecting his helpless, and at times annoying, young boy in a post-apocalyptic world, filled with born-again savages who kidnap and eat anything they can find, would leak into my life and cause endless depression.



None the less, McCarthy supplied great dialogue and a realistic approached to a topic that I use to think was so cool. I mean, imagine surviving an event that destroys the majority of humans on Earth. I use to think that as a survivor, my life would be focus on looting all the great electronics and cars, screaming “hello?” and not getting a response everywhere I go, and repopulating an endangered species, and I ain’t talkin’ about no pandas, naw-im-sayin’ naw-im-sayin’?. Cue porno music…..now! Ohhhhhh yeah. But, thanks to good old Cormack here, I probably wouldn’t be able to get it up, on the account of all the cannibalism going on around me, even if I was with the last woman on earth. (ha ha, if you didn’t get my cleverness there, please get off my blog now! Don’t even read another word. I said stop! Stop it! Go!) I mean human meat in someone’s mouth can be a turn on, but not in this context. At least since I’m small, I would be less desired, prolonging my survival, no? Har Har…Shut up! I’m talking about in regards to food to a cannibal you sickos.
So the disappointment here doesn’t lay in the book at all. In fact, I do a lazy roll over the edge of my bed to pick up the book, give it a dust off, and place it gently on my nightstand. I just didn’t find the inspiration I so desperately needed as a self-proclaimed artist. I give a deep sigh/stretch/yawn and return to a vegetable-type state under my warm level 4 Ikea duvet I purchased a week ago. It still smelt of new, that’s inspiring right? I try to motivate myself. With my left hand I reach for my ribs, tracing a tattoo I had gotten years ago. I’m reminded of the man in the novel. At first, I figured the man had a duty to protect his off spring, out of love. However, as I read on I realized it was more than that. It is apparent that his reason for living IS his boy. In a world so poisoned with the need to survive, this boy represented innocence and pure goodness. The boy reminded the man of a day when he too processed this innocence and goodness. The boy was his inspiration. Somewhere in those pages I remember the boy asking the man, “Why are we the good guys?” and the man said, “Because we carry the fire.” I took it pretty literally at first because they did have a lighter, which in those times was gold, FYI. So keep those lighters somewhere safe you worry warts! In hindsight, I’m pretty sure he’s referring to the boy’s innocence. With this thought I recite the words on my ribs out loud.

A Breathe of Divinity
A Moment of Insight
An Action of Intuition
Bolt from the Blue

The four definition of Inspiration. None of which to be had this gloomy morning. Or is there? I guess there’s nowhere on my ribs that says “only found in the happiest of places.” Inspiration can be found on a gray, cold, ugly, Alberta Sunday morning, just like it can be found in a little boy, in a dark dark world. Hmmmm that sounded pedophile-ish, but I’m too lazy to edit. Point is, I’ve written this far, so I found something, didn’t I? Find yours. Because We Carry The Fire! How's that for inspiration?

*note, upon completing this blog, I take back all negative statements I made regarding the book The Road. All kidding aside, it was a great read.

Ever Ever is a Hell of a Long Time

Ever wanted to be like someone else? Well I've always wanted to be Tom Waits, groggy voice and all, standing up there in a 70's jazz club.




(I’m wearing a black leather jacket over a white t-shirt with blue jeans. My collar is popped, my eyes fierce, behind those stylish shades. I got a bassist to my left holding that stand up wooden bass, a trumpet player to my right, both showering in the smoke and darkness of this hole in the wall club. The spot light is on me, and I’m on a stool. The audience’s chatter lowers, anticipating the monologue to start. A lady in a red dress right in the front row eyes me for an encore already, if you know what I mean. She blows the smoke from her cigarette towards me. And I begin.)

Ever ever is a hell of a long time
Believe otherwise then you fit the crime
Get it?
Run that bass right now (soft and low it runs. ba-do do do do ba-do do do do.......)
Just like that
yes, just like that...

Friendship, championship...
Pirate ships and relationships
All would be a hell of a trip
All those ships
Don't you think?...

Oh, and when the waves are high
Man, they.are.high
And for seconds there you thought you could fly
But that's the deck falling from your feet
Your heart skips a beat
You try to contain
But you're far from discrete...

And now that bass line runs
Juuuuuuusst a little ahead, Just a little
Cue the trumpets cause you're as good as dead (bam)
That's right. Give that trumpet a toot
Burglar rushes and forgets his loot
Shame shame shame
Do it again (bam bam)
Nice, nice, nice...

The forecast warned you
This is no time for sailing
It's not a fiasco
Consider it barely failing
And there goes that trumpet again (bam bam)
Sometimes it's like its your only friend
Solo! (bam bam bam toot toot toot)
Keep the bass going, keep it going (ba-do do do)
What's information if everyone's in the knowing?

Addicted to second hand
What's glass without sand?
If time were alive it'll be a hell of a man
Amen brother

So don't ever get caught up
Ever ever get caught up
When does ridiculous weigh more than enough?
Know what I mean?...

Put that life jacket on before committing the crime
But....ha.ha.
Ever Ever's a hell of a long time
Hell of a long time

Good night
*applause*
*fade out*

Whatever We Wanted

“What are you, heart broken or something?”

I was once asked that by a middle-aged waitress at 3 am at a Humpty’s Diner as she poured me another hot coffee with her left hand. Simultaneously, with her right she set down my breakfast of eggs; over easy, hash browns; extra burnt, and bacon; greasy. The plate hit the table hard, snapping me out of my trance brought on by lack of sleep, lack of hope, and lack of food. Even my guitar couldn’t save me now. “Yes,” I replied. But she didn’t hear me. In fact, she was already on to the next customer. Thanks for the heart to heart Flo, if that’s you’re real name. I remember asking myself, “Why am I here?” Literally. I mean, I don’t drink coffee and I don’t eat bacon. I was in a bad state. No… not Wisconsin. The state where breathing becomes voluntary – each breath was such a chore. The scene I just described is as cliché as they come, don’t you think? I guess when you’re lost, you look for familiar situations, which usually comes from movies and literature. I remember thinking to myself, amidst all the chatter of the nighthawks, clinks and clanks from the plates and glasses, “what now?” I was twenty-three. A mere boy in men’s clothing. Well, I’m only 5’2” so it might have been a Gap Kids attire, but you know what I mean. My thoughts searched for stories told or movies watched that tell me "what now." but I drew a blank.

It’s been three years since that night and I can state now that what I was feeling was not heart break. Sure, a month prior, under the artificial lighting of a parking lot, my relationship with my fiancé ended, but was it really that heartbreaking as much as it was growing up? You see, life was too comfortable. She no longer gazed at me from the passenger seat; she gazed out the window. She no longer explored my palm and fingers; they did not nervously sweat like they use to. Red lights were not excuses to kiss anymore; they were the symbol for awkward silences. We were more safe than happy; more forced than free; more done than not. So I made a promise to finish what we've tried to end many times before.

Victims of clichés, that's what we were. Two young energetic lovers acting out romantic scenes from big budget films, our hearts carried away by poetry that we misinterpret, our ears ran from voice of reason. When we fought, I'd think, "What would Lloyd Dobler do?" And then there I'd be with my portable stereo, playing the love song of the summer outside her bedroom window. We held hands and laughed as we ran through fields of flowers on warm sunny summer days. At night fall, we'd stare at the stars, but not really. What did we know about stars? Surely not that they were massive, luminous ball of plasma that is held together by gravity. They were just something to wish upon. And even then, we didn’t need wishes. We had each other. Are you puking yet?

Enticed by normality, we crossed off things we've achieved; House, dog, careers. What now? Easy. Marriage and kids. The answers were there, embedded in us since the day we were born. Our parents, our neighbors, our friends all traveled the path. We knew it all. We wanted it all. And as long as we lack the balls to face reality, we'd live happily ever after. What a joke! What a cliché! We got lost in the lives of our elders. We planned for future events instead of living. While others were defining themselves as individuals, we were defining one another.

“What now?” I never got an answer that night at the diner. In fact, I drank the coffee and ate most of my breakfast, minus the bacon, got sick and went home. It wasn’t until a time later that I realized what the true answer should have been, back at the diner, now, and even with her; and that is.....

Whatever we wanted, not what everyone had.

Scream If You Want To Live!

I place my black Beats by Dre headphones tightly on my eager ears. No, that was not product placement....

The red cables connect my ear drums to a black modern day bible; its contents? 18,453 testaments waiting to be heard in the form of Mp3s. Yeah, I’m talking about my 160Gb iPod Classic that I purchased for a low price of $278 at my local Apple Store. But for this evening, one song has taken my attention. One song has commanded my eyes to close, my body to relax, and my hands to push the headphones closer to my ears. Shhh! It’s on. I hear the introduction guitar riff, all distorted and grungy as though to state that this world is not so clean cut. The bass accompanies the initial riff with a run that screams “Do what you do guitar, I’ll be here the whole way.” In the distances, the high hats slowly warm up. Chee-chit-chee, chee-chit-chee. The drum beat joins soon enough with a marching beat strong and proud, along with the second guitar, creating a build up to one thing; Kenneth Vasoli’s amazing scream into the first verse of a song called Untitled by his band Person L. “Well yea I! I was going through a change. Well a change was going through me.” And with that scream, I allowed the burden of lack of self expression to evaporate from my very core.



I know what you are thinking. “Screaming songs are hardcore. They give me headaches.” But I assure you, Person L is no screamo band, not that those bands aren’t good. The difference between those bands and Person L is that when Kenneth screams, it’s for a reason; and it’s affective. Look at it this way. You have two people in a room, one guy is mean and grumpy all the time, the other guy quiet and easy going. Both of them snap at you. “What’s the matter with you!?” they shout. “You knew damn well that she was my girlfriend!” Who are you more likely to take seriously? I hope you picked the quiet guy that snapped, because you know he’s really, truly mad! The other guy? Well, sure, you slept with his girlfriend, but he also screamed at you for eating his Go-Gurt, so whatever. So when Kenneth screams, I feel it, I believe it.
What about that quiet, easy-going guy I mentioned earlier? Yeah, sleeping with his girlfriend was bad, but I’ll bet you a box of delicious thanksgiving stuffing that only 30% of that anger came from that incident. Ok, maybe 50%. Think about it. Point is, the quiet ones are the ones that build up all that anger inside until one day they snap. (I’m obviously excluding most deft people). And an innocent sleeping-with-his-girlfriend issue becomes World War 3. Hence the saying, “Don’t sleep with others’ girlfriends unless you want to start WWIII, especially if the guy is usually really quiet and doesn’t look like he’ll snap at all, when really he’s the one that will most likely go ballistic.”
Anyways, I took in all the genius words from above and decided that I am not going to be that quiet guy. So there I was, sitting in my black 2008 Toyota Tacoma, windows up, A-town down, with my chest full of air. I felt all my stress and grief of living in my momma’s basement, paying $600 rent and getting free food all gather into the center of my torso. I hear the guitar riff, the base line, the drum beat building up to one thing; a scream similar to Xena The Warrior Princess' war cry. I was actually going for a “dragon who’s slumber was disturbed” kind of scream, but like Ginuwine - I can only be me me me.
What I’m trying to say is, we all need to find time to scream once in a while. Not at others, not at ourselves, but just scream. Anger, stress, sorrow and all that shit are things that do not belong inside us. Let it out. I guarantee you’ll live much more pleasantly. Happy screaming.

P.S. Sorry for so many product placements, I’m trying to get mo-fucken-sponsored. And I expect a delicious box of thanksgiving stuffing in the mail.

Zombie Blogger, Rise!

“Here lies the heart-broken blogger. May he rest in peace,” it reads on a tombstone planted on soft dirt in a quiet open cemetery field. So quiet that you can hear my screaming as I pound at the coffin door from the inside!
"Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh! I live! I live!"
The fresh pile of dirt above me gives a little and the hinges on the door participates with my escape. You see, the more words I write in this entry, the more strength I will have to getting myself out of this coffin. You like that huh?
Did I tell you that I love zombie movies? Well I do. There’s something about slow moving brain eaters chasing perfectly healthy, smart human beings around that really hits me right here….(I’m pointing to my heart). In truth, I’m rooting for the zombies anyways. Poor things, they just want some brain, and all they get is their heads blown off. That was quite possible the dirtiest sentences I ever wrote, not including all my erotic novels of course. But really, I love the scenes when a “victim” is being chased…sorry, followed, down a hallway by some zombies, and they can’t seem to open that door! Cue mob of zombies moaning. Oh my god, the suspense! So the victim is screaming and crying and panicking trying to figure out how the damn door knob works, looking back from time to time to realize that they still have roughly 30 minutes before the zombies get there. And yet they are so distraught that for the life of them, they can’t open this god-for-saken door! Then, when the zombie’s teeth is oh so close to the victim’s ass, they end up jumping out the damn window. A window I swear was not there until that very moment! Then there’s more screaming and crying as they run down the street. Classic right?
Makes you realize that if you can’t make something work the way you want it to, maybe it’s time to find a window. Let’s paraphrase.
For the last couple months I’ve been overly hopeful that I had found the girl of my dreams. So, throwing my successful careers as a blogger away, I pursue her whole-heartedly only to be denied. So now I’ve turned to porn (“the window!” shouts Mr. Obvious) and trying to reclaim my reputation as a blogger. Not at the same time of course. That would be a messy keyboard. Ohhhhhhhhhhh haha *pause* awkward.
So here I am, nearly buried alive because I just kept trying to open that faulty door. I part the dirt aside with my hands, gasping for air in the dead of night. The moon glows as if to say “welcome back to the living ZOMBIE-BLOGGER! MUUAHAHAHAHA!” I’m back! *pause* Bitch.