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Thursday, September 26, 2013

I dreamed of ecstasy

and I woke to this.

I had a really deep thought ready for today. I had it all planned out in my head, and now I can't find it. It's floating around somewhere between dreams and opinions. It will resurface again. When it does, I'll be sure to make a note of where I've hidden it. Until that happens it will remain nothing but a bit of seaweed in the aether of my subconscious. Too bad for you, I guess. Would you like another story today? I can probably come up with another. The first few were old. The last 2 or 3 I came up with off the top of my head. I did not edit them. I hope they are alright. I like this way better. It's good exercise for the imagination. Plus, as I go through the list of ideas, I'm forced to invent more. I'm enjoying it. I hope I'm not boring you. Then again, I wouldn't know. At this point, you are nothing but a page-view to me. Nothing but a nameless, faceless statistic. Maybe you'll say hi one day and quit being such a creeper. Maybe you won't. Maybe you just like secretly stalking me and my daily reflections. Maybe you're sitting the bushes outside of my window right now. Wave if you are, so I know where to throw this empty bottle.

In the sky there floated a speck of dust. A plain, old insignificant thing. It was no different than any other speck of dust that came before it, nor any future dust that will one day pollute the air and clog our sinuses. With no appendages or any other form of locomotion, the puny little fleck is doomed to go where the wind takes it. It has been taken across great distances on the wings of the wind. It has been swept under couches with the forceful shove of a broom. It has rested in the gutter with the stray dogs and drunken men. It has been atop mountains and lazily skipped lazily across great plains. He'd seen so many great things, and lived through the vast changes of the known world.

He'd seen so much that one day, he had a thought.
"These humans, why do they struggle so? Why do they tirelessly try and change the world to suit them? Why do they not instead relax, and let the world happen as it will? Why fight at all? I've never in my time have seen one single human, with all its efforts, change the way the world works.Nor have I heard of any great leader change the hearts and nature of mankind.A great many have tried and it has always been for naught. Mankind never learns; and mankind never learns that mankind never learns so the cycle continues endlessly. Why can't they see? They're just like me: a bit of nothing? An affect-less speck tossed around in the flow of circumstance. Nothing more. Why can't they see it and enjoy it for what it is?"

Wednesday, September 25, 2013

Hey. It's me again. That guy I am.

When I take a look around me I can't help but shudder. The thousands of people who answer questions primed with the words "Only geniuses figure this out on their first attempt" or "90% of people get this answer wrong." or some other bullshit. It's just another example of the stupidity and desperate need for recognition people have. They want to do as little as possible and get the largest reward. They want to stand out, to be looked up to, to be admired, and they don't want to try. It's simple lies like these that fuel the ego of the tragically deluded. It's these same lies that keep the social media websites powerful, and these same lies that keep us bound to our insignificance.

On one side, I'm glad the unoriginal and unremarkable people have an outlet in which to feel proud. They can answer an easy math problem correctly and feel like a genius for a moment. They can get a ton of likes for some pointless statement, and feel admired for a time. It's a good feeling that everyone should be entitled to at least once in their life. It's that feeling which first pushes us to work hard and create something worth remembering. Something meaningful to leave in this life after us. But this is not what happens. Instead, they just answer more silly questions and post more stupid statuses, and that feeling (like a drug) wanes over time. They don't feel the same gratification they did before. They end up cluttering our minds and the internet with inconsequential dribble in an effort to feel affirmed.

I feel sick. I don't want to see all the selfies of girls too afraid or not good enough to actually model. I don't want to read awful short poetry by people who haven't written a single poem. I don't want the opinions of the uninformed. I don't want bits of "wisdom" from the small-minded. I don't want to see unverified "true fact"s with a pretty picture. I don't care what you had for lunch or how much you worked out today. At this point, I basically want all of you to die. Shut the fuck up and die. Please.

Now that that's taken care of, here's a story. Enjoy


Joseph Patrick Marsh wakes from another restless sleep at eight in the morning. The sun burns bright through the open window and reflects harshly on the white walls and furniture. Nurse Heeley is standing at the foot of his bed. She asks how his sleep was and holds out a tray containing a bottle of pills and a small paper cup of water. Joe takes his pills with a grimace. He deposits the empty containers back onto the tray and Nurse Heeley walks out into the hallway as chipper and bright as ever. Joe grunts and climbs up from the bed. He's been at this facility for little over two weeks now. They say he killed his wife, tore her to shreds, but he doesn't remember. What he does remember is loving his wife dearly. That, and a growing pain in his chest and limbs.

Before the accident, Joe went to see a doctor about the pain he was feeling. The doctor said there was nothing physically wrong with him. He was told it was just stress and to take it easy for a few days. Joe took a few days off from work. He sat on the porch with his wife Martha, and passed the time drinking iced tea and telling stories.

If Joe could claim to have any real talent, it would be his ability to tell captivating stories. Every time he told one, all other talk would cease. Everyone within earshot would inevitably get pulled into the magic of his words. His memory for details was incredible. Joe would always be able to recall even the most trivial of details and weave them seamlessly into his masterpiece. Even when he would invent a story out of thin air, it seemed as though he truly lived through it first-hand. It was nearly impossible to tell the difference. People would play games trying to tell the real stories from the fake, and Joe would just sit and laugh. He took great pride in his storytelling. It was his one art.

The night of Martha's death, the last thing he remembers is falling asleep by her side.When he came to he was waking up in the New Hampshire Mental Care Facility. The doctors told him that he brutally murdered his wife in the night. It made no sense. Why would he do that? They said he must have suffered a psychotic break, as his forms did indicate he was suffering from extreme stress, and that he was not in control when he performed the act. Afterward, he must have repressed the memory. The police had a solid case against him. All the evidence confirms this. He would stay here at the facility until his hidden neuroses were found and cured.

Joe's current roommate was also committed the same day as him. The man was clearly disturbed. He would only talk in broken sentences. He was always giggling and acting very much like a man who belonged there. "Won't you quit it, Grady!" Joe shouts, "It's bad enough I have to be trapped here, but I don't need you acting like a twisted freak all the time!"

Grady quiets a little, then responds "but I know... I KNOW! The reason... why... you're here... we are. You don't understand yet, but you will. Time... we must wait! It's only--"

"Will you just shut your mouth?!" Joe yells angrily. He stomps out into the hallway and down the corridor to the activity room. He spends his days lately sitting around reading in the sunlight. He hasn't told any stories since he arrived here. His heart just isn't in it. He'd much rather lose himself in the stories of others. He reads and basks in the sun. It's the only time he feels safe. Safe from what, he isn't sure. Sometimes it seems as if there's something waiting, lurking.

At night, he tosses around in bed restlessly. He can not believe his beloved Martha is gone. There is no way he would ever hurt her. He loved her more than anything in the world. She must be alive, waiting for him. If only Joe could get to that house, to see it for his own eyes. He needs to get out, he needs proof.

The pain he feels inside gets worse every day, worse still, at night. The pills aren't helping. The doctors tell him time will heal all his wounds. They aren't.

Two days later, as Joe was in his chair reading, Grady comes up to him as feverish as ever. He speaks of a plan. He talks of escape. Joe tries to get more out of him, but the man is as loony as ever. After getting no concrete details, Joe grabs Grady and starts shaking him, trying to force the answers out of him. Nurse Heeley comes to break up the commotion. In a reprimanding voice she says, "Joe, let go of him." He releases Grady and the frightened man takes off running. Nurse Heeley continues, "Now I don't know what has come over you, Mr. Marsh. You are usually so well behaved. Take these and go to bed. It's a sedative. Maybe a good night's sleep will calm you down."

Joe takes the pills. He goes to his room. He lays down on his bed. He sleeps a dreamless sleep.

Waking in the middle of the night, the facility is in chaos. His room is filled with smoke. Alarms are blaring. People are screaming. Grady bursts out from the smoke shouting, "Now! Now we go! Come with me!"
Joe grabs his hand and follows blindly through the white-out. Stumbling through the corridor, they come across the bloodied body of Nurse Heeley. Joe tries to stop and help her. Grady pulls him onward screaming, "Leave her! She's dead! Leave her!"

They exit out of the south entrance. A crowd is gathering at the north side of the building. They slip away into the treeline unnoticed. A cloud of black smoke rises from the burning building to join the ones up above. Walking through the woods Joe asks Grady how he knew Nurse Heeley was dead and not just unconscious. He answers that he came across her body earlier on the way to the room and checked then. She suffocated.

"We need a place to rest and change our clothes. We can grab a ride on the freight in the morning." announces Grady. Joe responds, "I know just the place."

The pair slip in to the yard of the Marsh place by way of the back hedges. At the back-door, Joe lifts up a plastic rock and removes a key. "We're monsters, you know?" speaks Grady. "They don't know but I know. I've always known. And now we're free monsters."

"Tell me again how you knew Nurse Heeley was dead?" Joe questions. "She was bloodied, as if she were struck. It wasn't smoke inhalation."

Grady answers matter-of-factly. "I killed her. She caught me trying to start the fire so I killed her." He then slips Joe a mischievous grin and adds, "But don't you worry. You're safe. I would never hurt my good friend Joe."

As Joe fiddles with the key in the lock, he tries to think up a way of ditching the maniac, maybe tying him up and leaving him for the authorities. The clouds part and soft moonlight crawls up the backyard toward the house. Grady turns and looks up. "Really? It's tonight? I thought we had one more day." he says.

Angrily, Joe asks, "What the hell are you talking about? One more day for what? Will you ever talk sense?"

Grady laughs, "You don't know, do you? How could you forget? Don't you feel it? Something deep inside of you, dying to get out? Something powerful, primal? Well, you can't fight it. Not tonight. Just look, it's the full moon. Been about 3 weeks since you mauled your old lady, right? Can't be helped. We always go after the ones we love most first."

Since the instant Grady pointed out the full moon, Joe has been unable to take his eyes off of it. All throughout Grady's speech, the two men stared wide-eyed up into the sky. The pain inside their chests grew. It grew and slowly tore the flesh from their bones. As the muscle and skin ripped and fell, a thick fur coat revealed itself from underneath. The two men screamed and convulsed. The screaming became warped, changed to howling. Sharp fangs sprouted bloodily forth from their jaws. They fell to their hands and knees. Then there was quiet. The two beasts stood side by side, snarling and growling. Ready to spread terror through the hearts of men.

Saturday, September 21, 2013

A quick one (while he's away)

I literally have no time to do this today. I've got to get cleaned up, pay my phone bill, get my ass to Bloomfield so I can grab a few hours sleep on a couch before having to be at the studio at 3. We're recording drums and bass today. Then I have a show to play at 8 so this blog isn't very high on my list of shit to get done right now. I think I can squeeze a quick one in, though. Here it is.


Okay! All done! Now here's your story that I'm going to make up on the spot.

Spilled Milk

So, uh... once was a man who knocked over an open milk carton during breakfast. The moment he saw the cow juice hit the table and start flowing in all directions, he couldn't stop crying. He was totally inconsolable. He was a fucking wreck.

He went into the other room to collect himself. Slowly, the tears stopped coming, his heart slowed, and his breathing became regular again. "Okay, now back to the kitchen to clean up that milk!" he shouts.

He enters the kitchen and OH MY DEAR GOD! THERE IT IS! WHYYYYY!!!! WHY MILK?! WHY YOU DO THIS?!?! And he's back on the ground weeping.

He cried and cried and cried. Then he cried some more. He cried all day and into the evening.

At 6 his wife came home from work. She threw off her coat and cradled his head in her big, soft bosom. Then she asked him what was wrong. He told her. She let out a heavy sigh.

She walked into the kitchen, grabbed some paper towels and wiped up the mess. She got a sponge and some cleaner, and scrubbed the area clean. Afterward, she sprayed air freshener to clear out the stank.

She walked back into the other room. Looked the love of her life right in his eyes. Kissed him once softly and said, "Honey, I want a divorce."

That's it. I hope you enjoyed it. I know I enjoy this time we spend with me in your mind. Goodbye.

Friday, September 20, 2013

Sleep. As defined by Tony Bones.

Sleep is when your body stops working for a long period of time. This usually happens after a day or so of being awake. You know sleep is coming by the fact that your body starts refusing to listen to you. You want your legs to move, but they wobble. You want your eyes to stay open, but they get heavier. Your breathing slows and your thoughts speed up. If you can fight it, then make sure you do. When sleep eventually does creep up on your ass, you'll be out of commission for quite a while.

Once your eyes finally close, there's no telling what's going to happen. You can wind up anywhere, literally doing anything with anyone. Often times most people don't even have control over it. You're simply trapped and doomed to go wherever it drags you. The worst part is you think it's real. You have no recollection of how you got there, where this all began, or why it's happening, and you just blindly accept it. What's really strange is the whole thing feels natural. Not just natural, but meaningful. It is as if there is something significant about every object, action, and person. It's freaky. You don't even realize how absurd it all clearly is. In fact, you somehow feel like you know what's going on. You believe you understand the symbolism and morals of everything within this made-up world. You're a weirdo for not thinking this is weird. You're a weirdo for finding comfort in an act as misunderstood as this and willingly accept it on a daily basis. Some of you sick fuckers actually long for it and complain when you don't get enough of it. You truly are twisted little freak, aren't you? I bet you haven't even thought of any of these things until now.

So I guess sleep is a lot like death. It eventually comes to take every one of us into its cold, mysterious arms. You don't know what will happen when it does, but when it does, it feels absolutely wonderful. There are those of us who choose to fight it, and there are those of us who willingly give in to its soft embrace. Which one are you?

Here's your fuckin story. It's part 2 of the Arkady series. Part 3 isn't finished yet so don't expect to see it tomorrow.

Arkady and the Sea

Akady’s feet reluctantly brought him back the towering dark obelisk that housed the home offices of B&E Paper Co. He stood for a moment in front of the entrance. Looking up at the smooth dark stone he came to realize that this building was Death. Death to him, and Death to all those inside; whether they realized it or not. He understood clearly that this building was naught more than a tombstone.
Accepting this, Arkady sluggishly made his way inside, through the lobby, up the elevator, and back to his cubicle. He saw no one and heard nothing. He was no longer a man, but the shadow of one. He trudged through his day experiencing as little of it as he could. As he also did with the following day, and the next, and the next…
Arkady continued in this way for three more years. In that time, his favorite bistro went out of business and he received a six cent raise. His memories of these past years were nothing more than murky visions of paper, pens, pencils, manila envelopes, and paperclips. These visions flitted about in his head like dreams, terrible ones. The kind people fling themselves out of seventh story windows to wake up from.
Falling asleep on his ratty old mattress, they stalked him as nightmares. He felt trapped; like he was lost in an endless fog of forms and deadlines, and it was these very things he felt, these insignificant objects, that bound him to his personal hell. Hours passed as he lay under these chains of bondage, when miraculously, it all disappeared. Arkady opened his eyes to find himself lying on a beach, the midday sun shining brilliantly above. He looked around and saw his coworkers and their families playing blissfully in the warm sands.
Climbing to his feet in order to join in on the joy of living, he froze in place before taking even a single step. Watching in perplexity, Arkady witnessed the happiness leave their faces only to be replaced with terror. With all eyes on him, their faces contorted in fear, Arkady understood it was him they were afraid of.
The ground beneath his feet darkened and stretched itself out towards the families. He tried to control it, to stop it by strength of will, but it encroached upon them like a merciless juggernaut. When the shadow fell upon them, Arkady turned away suddenly in anguish.  It was then when he realized it was not him that they feared, and the shadow was nothing but a shadow.
Rising directly in front of him was a massive tidal wave. It’s black waters blocking out the sun. The families panicked and screamed. Arkady stood unmoving. His apathy at last reaching it’s limit, he was filled with unbridled rage. Rage for everything, rage for everyone, for life, for death, for routine, for heartbreak, disappointment, monotony, rules, politeness, and lies. All of it. Screw it all.
For the first time in his life, he stood his ground. He swore he would never let anything push him around anymore, not fate, not people, nothing. “WHY WON’T YOU LEAVE ME ALONE?!”, he shouted with all his might. “FINE! YOU WANT ME?! COME AND GET ME!!!” All the years of pent-up anguish and pain came exploding through the fabric of his very being. It fueled him, empowered him, made him more than human.
Arkady braced himself and the tidal wave came crashing down upon his shoulders. The families were washed away like leaves down a sewer grate. Malevolent forces pulled and tugged at his body with the full fury of nature itself, but Arkady did not budge. He dug himself down and resisted with all his might as the tide shifted instantaneously, trying to throw him off his feet. He held on with all his strength while the blackness engulfed him and his lungs burned with the intense fire of suffocation. When the rushing waters receded, all were washed away. All but one. Arkady stood triumphant.

And yes, everything is themed to go together. Even this silly little line I put up on Facebook yesterday: The hardest part for someone who always runs, is when they finally decide to stop, and let their problems catch up with them.

Goodnight, readers. All six of you.

Thursday, September 19, 2013

I really like watching things with subtitles, especially when they're speaking English

because most of things I watch have subtitles like this:
[more screaming]
[thunder again]
[metal slicing noise]
[ominous metal music playing]
[girl] No no no no no no
[screaming continues]
[meat sounds]
[bones cracking]

First of all, what the fuck are "meat sounds?" I was unaware that meat made sounds, then again...

And something about "ominous metal music" just strikes me as wrong . (Haha I wrote meatal music at first by accident.) Ominous and metal just don't seem to mix. How about dark metal, or slow metal, or doom metal? How many ominous metal bands could there even be?

I don't know, and frankly, I don't give a fuck anymore. I'm going to start a new genre called meatal and slap steaks together and pour pig's blood on the crowd.

Here's your fuckin story.

Arkady and the Doves

It is a magnificent summer day. The sun is bright, yet not too hot. There is a gentle breeze swaying the tiny branches of the sparse trees on the city blocks. It is noon and the sun rests upon all that one can see, unobstructed by the massive skyscrapers of New York. A middle-aged pudgy little man has just finished another lonely lunch in a downtown bistro. His name is Arkady. He has been employed at the same tiresome paper company for 26 years. He initially took the job as temporary income while he found something he truly loved. A quarter of a century later he still has not found his true calling and he doubts he ever will. In all that time, Arkady has only received a handful of raises and has moved up a scant four floors in the tall building that houses the entire staff of Benson &Eggers Paper Company. Life is dreary on the seventh floor and he is gladdened by his one-hour lunch break, if only slightly. He ate at the same bistro he has gone to for decades, having his usual pastrami on rye with a vanilla egg-cream. He notices with regret that hardly anyone even knows what an egg-cream is anymore, much less drinks them. The once famous Brooklyn beverage has fallen ignominiously much like his dreams of being someone he could be proud of. Everyday the light gets dimmer and the colors of life fade to gray.
Today is July 24th, Arkady’s birthday. No one at the office remembered. He has long since cast off his friends and family. He is alone in an endless sea of people, drifting along unnoticed. There were no congratulations, no cards, no presents, no cake. He did not expect anything different, but on this particular birthday, he decided to make a slight change. He fell to thinking on his way out of the bistro, staring down at his black leather shoes glistening brightly in the sun at every step. The slow, steady rhythm of hard soles on concrete had a hypnotizing effect, and while the miseries of life still weighed upon him like a heavy woolen coat, it lessened his awareness of it. After aimlessly wandering for some time, he looked up to find he was standing at the edge of Central Park. The rich green grass and tall dark trees drew him inside. He longed to be near nature, to escape his world just a little bit more. He found a bench in a clear space and felt as if it was made for him. He sat down rather uncomfortably at first. So used to feeling depressed and full of self-loathing, he lost all sense of self-respect and often did things in a matter purposely uncomfortable for him, like a punishment for being such a disgusting failure. But soon he relaxed into a more comfortable position and began to feel the slightest sense of what might be peace.
As he sat there surrounded by lush greenery and laughing people, he started going over his life-choices and decisions hoping to find the moment when he became this vulgar shell of a man. Regrets came quick to mind, followed closely by embarrassments and stupid mistakes. He felt the pain of these moments renewed and was on the verge of tears when his thoughts shifted and he thought of all the people he had helped. In all his life he had tried at least to be good and helpful to others. “Blessed are the peacemakers; theirs is the kingdom of heaven” as his mother used to tell him.
At this recollection, he looked up into the clear blue sky. There was not a cloud to be seen, only endless pristine blue framed by the edges of his vision. For a moment he felt as if he did not exist as he was. In this singular instant, he was not the disillusioned accountant, but a wandering soul floating carelessly in the great and vast sky. Arkady felt easy and good. Staring up into such beauty and perfection, he felt whole for the first time in what seemed like a lifetime. All at once Arkady truly felt his existence, and felt that it was a noble one. He believed that he did the best with the little he had, that he made the best choices available to him and would continue to do so. Oh, how silly his despair seemed to him now. There really was no cause to be so down all the time. Life is meant to be enjoyed. At that lovely and serene moment five doves flew up from the lower edge of his vision. The birds appeared as if from thin air, as if they were called forth by his will alone. They traced a straight, linear path upward into the sky. Direct and purposeful, almost as if they were being lifted up into heaven by god himself. It seemed to him that these pure white doves symbolized himself and his soul being redeemed. He felt that it was a sign that god loved him, was looking out for him, and would be ready to take him in a loving embrace at the end of his days. Just as he came to that conclusion, three of the doves turned black as if suddenly incinerated and fell gracelessly downward to the cold, hard asphalt. Arkady watched in frozen horror as their charred carcasses were promptly smashed and shredded by passing cars till only a dark stain was all that remained of them. A bad omen. Darkness once again oppressed itself down upon his heart. He stood up and walked out of the park, and his dreams, and his momentary happiness to once again join the world of men. Back into the hopelessness of his meaningless job. Back into the cruelty and corruption of reality.

Wednesday, September 18, 2013

It's like my brain just exploded all over your imagination's titties.

I like writing and adding stories on here. I think I'll keep up with that, or I won't. Who the fuck knows?!

Today I took a shower. It was nice, but more importantly I rubbed my roommate's toothbrush on my balls before I took the aforementioned shower, which is nicer. He's not that bad of a guy, but when I can't be openly violent, I settle for passive aggressive. The thing is, he's the type of guy who would try to have a conversation with you when you are on fire. Like, you're screaming and running around, your skin is melting off, and he's just like, "Hey, man. How's it going? I feel like I never see you. How are things? Do anything cool lately? I've been pretty busy with school and work, but what about you?" and you're like, "I'M ON FIRE! GET OUT OF MY WAY! SHUT THE FUCK UP AND DO SOMETHING!" Meanwhile he continues on as if you said something along the lines of  "Fine, been busy too. How is your very extremely more important and better than everyone's life going?"

At which point he'll flood your ears with boring crap you already knew until your fingertips liquefy and your bones become ash.

Okay, story time. This is another one I'm sick of editing. So again, any thoughts or advice? Stick em on at the bottom.

A True Story

Where to begin? I guess I should begin in darkness as it is only appropriate. Not normal absence of light, but a sort of nowhere place filled with great anticipation. Like as in the time before something drastic happens. Like being born or dying. It is here I float. Nothing to keep me anchored as I drift endlessly into the void. In here I lose all touch with reality. Names, people, places, events, and everything that fills my life are wiped clean and gladly forgotten. It's peaceful here. I am no longer the person you know and see on occasion. I only exist here. I never had a life, I can't even grasp the concept of it now. All is lost and time melds into itself and disintegrates into nothing.

A blinding flash takes me out of the void and into a lime green garden of which I see no end. I take in my surroundings. The sun is hot and bright. It reflects off the foliage and intensifies the greens and reds and yellows and purples. Large hedges flow in patterns across the rolling knolls into a distant clear blue sky with tufts of ivory cotton creeping through it. I see small animals scurrying, birds chirping. I like it here. It's nice.

I begin walking slowly through my own personal Eden, when I notice something in the corner of my eye. I stop walking and slowly turn to face it. In a full crimson gown highlighted with black ribbons stands a girl. Her hair is dark brown, almost black. Her skin is pale and full. Her long lashes draw me into her eyes and I remain in awe of the beauty I have found. She watches me intently. She reads my mind. She smiles slightly and skips into a maze of hedges giggling.

I follow slowly at first, still taken aback by what has transpired. My pace increases exponentially as I realize I may lose her if I don't catch up. I dash into the maze full force and follow her shadow as she dances through the leaves. I run faster and faster until my feet ache and my legs are heavy. My body collapses and a nameless sorrow fills my heart. I lie still in the shade. A light breeze cools me as I try to breathe all the fire out of my lungs.

I lie there dazed until strange voices startle me awake. I sit up quickly and get my bearings. Three small men approach me. They are reminiscent of those popular lawn gnomes you see all over.
Gnome #1 "You've made it quite far for such a young one. What are you doing here?"
Me "I don't even know where I am. "
Gnome #2 "You don't? Then how did you get here? You don't belong here. You must have traveled from somewhere. Where do you come from?"
Me "I can't remember. All there is, is a lingering feeling, a constant prodding, that there was something before this.
Gnome #1 "Well well. I know what you are, and where you came from. There have been others like you, although only a handful. This is not a place you can reach ordinarily. It requires an intense amount of mental strength and complete detachment from the flesh to get here."
Me "I saw a girl..."
Gnome #3 "Yes, this place is technically a dream world. But we are not made up creatures, dreams are real places. They just exist outside of your plane of existence."
Me "I don't care. Where did that girl go?"
"Dream worlds are trials. Tests to reach a goal. At the end of every fantastic dream is a prize of unimaginable worth."
"Do you know who she is?"
Gnome #3 continues on, ignoring my questions. "But to reach that goal, you must overcome all obstacles."
"What do you mean?" I ask, intrigued and worried that 'she' might amount to nothing more than some stupid test.
Gnome #3 "Nothing in any world is free. You must earn your prize. Now go, into the vine!"

I look up and the hedges loom eerily over me as thick, swamp-like vines coil around them. Soon the vines will overcome the maze and I'll remain trapped in here. I've wasted too much time with these ugly dwarves! Which way is out! I stumble aimlessly down innumerous identical pathways while the sun is slowly blotted out . More and more, darkness envelopes the labyrinth.

I begin losing hope and make a mad dash for the exit. The vines are closing in. I see the exit. It's barely there. I dive into it. I'm caught in the vines. I can't move. I guess I'm not that strong...

I feel a warm, soft hand grip my arm and pull me out. I'm safe, but who saved me? I rise to my feet. The girl wrapped in crimson smiles and dances away from me and continues on into the plains. Drawn like a moth to the flame, I follow.

I don't care if she's real, fake, good, or evil. I don't care if she's the devil incarnate. I don't care if she's leading me to my end. I want nothing but to be with her. I will follow her the ends of the universe.

And so I did. I followed until the morning star faded away and I only had the glimmer from her eyes to guide me.
I followed until a new sun was born and fireworks filled the air.
I followed her through the lives and deaths of a million worlds.
When finally, for no reason, she stops. Turns to face me. Opens up her mouth. And at that exact moment a horrible buzzing fills my head and I lie on my bed, alarm clock blaring.
I am filled with exquisite sorrow as I get ready for school.

I'm back, real world. Did you miss me?

I'm new at this school. I don't know anyone here.
I mull through the day and dwell upon that dream.
"What was that?''

I'm in the lunch room now. I buy a chicken sandwich. I look for a place to sit.
When I swear, across the room, a few tables from the back... it's her!
She is standing there looking right at me. She not in her crimson gown, but it is her! I would never forget that face in a million years.

I try to ignore her at first. Scared that I had finally gone over the deep end. But that is with no doubt the girl from my dreams, standing in the middle of the cafeteria.

I finally look back. She smiles and begins to walk towards me.

"No way this is happening! There must be some mistake. She must want to talk to someone behind me or something. She can't have literally walked out of my dream and into my life."

She draws nearer and my heart beats harder and harder with every step.

She stops directly in front of me and says, "You look very familiar, have we met before?"

Tuesday, September 17, 2013


The sun is newly risen and the glare off the street gives one the impression of a red hot river of lava. The clouds appear to be burning, too, that fearful crimson ringed around soot-colored puffs. It hurts to keep one's eyes open in this environment. Even the sun looks like it's bursting. It's as if the entire world is exploding around me; and I'm hot, too hot. In fact, my entire body is seething. I became conscious a few minutes ago and have woken to this hell. The shattered wreck that was my car lies smoking by the treeline. I was flung into this river of death on impact. The deer that jumped in front of me lies in chunks and pools to my right. Its still-warm fluid creeping ever closer to my torn body.

My first conscious thought is to pull myself from the road. I try to move. It hurts too much. I can plainly see a few bones jutting out from my left thigh. I may have survived the crash, but with my car on the side of the road and my legs unable to lift me up, it's only a matter of time before someone else cruises by and finishes the job. I focus my mind on my goal and begin pulling myself off to the median. The pain intensifies with every inch I cover. It seems to take forever. I stopped twice to howl and writhe a bit but kept on until I reached that grassy paradise. I breathe deep and lay down. I stay still and do my best to keep my mind off the agony my body is going through. Why won't anyone come? Where is everybody?

Monday, September 16, 2013

I missed a day

And I don't care! I do what I want! I ain't gonna let anybody, not even myself, tell me what I have to do. So shut up me! I don't care what I say, I'm doing my own thing. Back off, myself.

Okay, now that that's settled.

They say the hardest thing about being a writer is coming up with a good story. That's bullshit. I'm overflowing with good stories. I say the hardest part about being a writer is finding the time and energy to write after another 10+ hour day makes you want to set your workplace on fire. I'm serious. When I talk to people about the stories I want to write, they get very excited. Somehow, my freaky brain is a master at that. I get so many ideas it hurts. All I want is to be able to set aside some time to write them. But alas, my motivation correlates directly to my mood. So when all I want to do is not exist, nothing gets done. That happens way more than it should.

Last night I was full of ideas and was working on a new mythology behind what will hopefully become my magnum opus.  I have plenty of other, smaller projects to get done first, but this particular story is the one I expect to launch me into a career as a writer. Basically, all my life I've wanted to make peace between people. I would always find the most agreeable compromises, or say things in such a way that satisfies everyone's ego. Whenever I hear of a problem, I just have this need to solve it amiably for all involved. It's a challenge. I love challenges, puzzles, and riddles. So, the day I founded an interesting theory that both atheists and religinuts could sink their teeth into, I absolutely had to use it in a story. It started small enough/ It has now grown to this massive facsimile of our world. A tale spanning epochs, using a mixture of science, faith, and mystery, I am weaving a story with something for everyone. Toss in some time-honored predicaments, like individual vs society, religion vs science, inspiration vs imagination, faith vs logic, and of course love in all its weirdness, and I'm coming up with one hell of a book. That scary part is when I've worked it all out and have to finally begin writing the first draft. I expect it to take years from my life and drive me mildly insane. There's always that to look forward to.

Until then MORE SHORT STORIES! I want to pump out some shorts that have been floating around my head too long and start making some waves in the literary world and get some money in my pocket so I can get down to this ridiculous novel. I guess I should include one now. Seems like the right time and place for that. Okay, hold on, let me take a look. Ooooo, here's a good one. It's not exactly finished. Still doesn't feel right, but whatever! Enjoy!

Snow Crunch

Morning light peeks into your room in splinters. Enveloped in the cozy warmth of a blanket cocoon, the surrounding air is painfully chilly. This part of the morning sucks. It always sucks and will always suck. All you can do is quit being a bitch and deal with it. You noticed a few flakes out the window last night before you dozed off, so that’s a plus. You even wore your pajamas inside out, just to make sure.

You crawl out of bed, do that stupid dance of dressing quickly while freezing to death, and jump back under the covers to soak up any remaining heat. You fall back asleep, of course.

Thirty seconds later you inhale so quickly it almost hurts. Throwing off the covers, jumping to your feet in sheer panic, you stumble around the bedroom not knowing what to do but knowing you need to do it right this second. It will be funny in a few hours.

Once your brain starts working again, you calm down and brew a pot of coffee. Ten minutes later you are standing at the front door bundled up like the little brother in A Christmas Story, gripping a giant steaming cup of coffee. You open the door to another icy winter morning. The sun reflects off the snow almost blinding you in its brilliance. “Yes, it stuck!”

You step outside and hear the familiar crunch of snow beneath your boots. It’s a sound that marks the start of a new season. It’s not officially Winter until you step out onto the fresh powder of the first snowfall of the year. Every time you hear that crunch, it reminds you of all the Winters past. Each year for as long as you can remember you've always noticed that sound at the start of the season. It's a sound that sort of ties all your life together.

Today is the last day of classes. After today you will be a college graduate. It's strange. All these endless years of studying and test-taking is finally coming to an end. The real world is awaiting you. Yet, you don't feel any different. You're the same as you've always been. Twenty-four years and finally life begins.
It's scary, but kind of exciting, too.

You walk down the driveway toward the mailbox. As you take out the letters, bills, and magazines a thought crosses your mind. “When will you finally leave your parents’ house and be on your own?” Even though you've finished classes, you haven't really gone anywhere. It's kind of a depressing thought.

After bringing in the mail you grab your keys and head out to your final class. The ride over is bitingly cold. With one hand on the steering wheel, the other clutching your travel mug for dear life, you try to think warm thoughts. Keeping the cup close to your face, you do your best to inhale steam and warmth with each breath. How can anyone respect you when you drive a piece of junk that doesn't even have heat? Whatever happens after graduation, it won't be easy.

You cross the lawn and see the smokers in the gazebos. They're huddled and shivering. “Not only is it bad enough they need to smoke every few hours, but why do they also have to be subjected to such degrading conditions?” You walk past the gopher holes and fluttering notebook pages and stroll down a small path cut through the trees. Even in the middle of the day the path is dark and winding. The tree cover almost blots out the sun. You make way along and daydream about the future.

At the end of the path is the arts building. It's a bit far-off and small so not many classes are held there. This where the school-board puts the “less important” classes. You come to this place for your acting class. You had already received enough credits in the sciences, maths, and English courses; but you still needed some general credits to get your degree. Acting seemed fun.

Once inside the two swinging doors you check your watch and notice that you're thirty minutes early. The teacher isn't even there yet. May as well explore the hallways and kill some time while you are here. It’s better than just waiting around. You continue your own personal introspection of life when you notice the path ahead of you isn't lit. “They must not even use this section.”, you think to yourself. You open an adjacent door and head inside. You flick on the light switch only to realize this section doesn't even have power. Pulling out a large metal lighter you continue deeper inside the forgotten hallway. The flickering orange light only reveals what's a few steps ahead of you. “This starting to get fun.”

You come across a small door awkwardly placed in the corner of the room. As it slowly creeps open you hear noises. You enter and the noise becomes louder. With each step you take it becomes clearer. As you come up to a turn you recognize the noise. It's someone struggling. Their mouth is being covered to mask the screams. You look around for a weapon. You noticed some tools not too far back a bit earlier. Running back down the hall you almost trip over the pile of metal. Quickly looking through them, you decide upon the big wrench at the bottom. You race back to the turn and peek around the corner.

A girl is being held down by two guys and a third is groping her. She must have been on her way to class when they grabbed her and dragged her back here. This is unforgivable. There's no way someone is getting raped if you have anything to say about it. Quietly you sneak up from behind and bash the third man over the head. He falls to the floor and doesn't move. After a brief struggle you smash the other two a few times, leaving them unconscious on the floor. You don’t know what came over you. It was like you were possessed. The sight of those three scumbags forcing themselves on a helpless girl set something off inside you. The girl gets up and thanks you with tears in her eyes. She says her name is Elizabeth.

You take her outside. She's wearing nothing but her torn dress. You offer her your coat and tell her you will take her to go file an incident report. Meekly she asks that you don't. Too much has happened. She just wants to go home. She pleads that you take her to her car. So back down the shadowed path you walk together. She says nothing. The only sound is that crunch beneath your boots. Even now the sound is the same. Not even something like this has the power to change that. It's just another Winter.

Back at her car she thanks you. She says she's alright to drive and you reluctantly let her go. It's a shame. Things like this don't need to happen. Yet they do anyway. Her car slowly pulls away into the white shroud of falling snow. Everything is as it was. Now that you're alone it feels almost as if nothing happened at all. It's kind of like a dream. You begin wondering if it really did happen. Maybe you've just fallen asleep in class and had a nightmare. Either way, you've been promised a passing grade already. You only came back to say good-bye to a great teacher. Oh well, you doubt he will hold it against you if you just go home now. It is only a small party to celebrate the end of your collegiate era, after all. You can skip out if you want to.

It's probably best to just go home anyway. Today was a shock. You don't even know what to think yet. Too much has happened. For now, you'll just go home and rest. The worries of an average college student can wait until tomorrow. Back through the woods you walk to the lot you parked in. You can see your car all the way on the other side. There were almost no empty spaces when you got here and you were forced to park on the far side. Now most of the cars are gone and the lot looks eerie and dead. Sluggishly you step towards your car. On the walk you let your mind roam. This experience has really made you appreciate your life and the others in it. You really have something special. Why didn't you see it before? Your worst problem is having to live with your parents. You've had a good life and have been surrounded by good people. When you get back, you'll make sure they understand that. You'll tell them all how much you love them. This could be a brand new start for you. You see that even at twenty-four, you can start again. Wow, a brand new start. It's going to be wonderful...

As swiftly as you came to that conclusion, your head hits the pavement. You pull yourself back up to face your attackers. Two of the men from earlier are standing there shouting at you. They're hysterical and furious. They're yelling that the knock on the head you gave their buddy earlier has killed him. He's dead and it's all your fault. Now they're going to make you pay. You don't stand a chance. They pummel you and kick your teeth in. Toothless and bloody you beg for mercy, but the hits keep coming. It goes on for what feels like an eternity. You can see your life passing in front of your eyes. Why now? You were just about to change everything. Life was going to be better. No one will ever know how much you care about them. All they will know is that you were quiet and polite. That you did your chores and always tested high. That one day you would be a doctor and help the world. You had it all but you were so cold. Now, it's over. You will die before telling anyone of your revelation. What's the point of it anyway?

This is cruel, but this is how it is. Life is unfair, why should death be any different? Eventually the beating ends. All you can hear is the panting of your attackers. As everything fades into darkness you hear their boots crunching on the snow. It's a familiar sound. A sound that remains unchanged no matter what happens to the people making it. No matter what happens to us, time passes and the world stays as it is. Each day flows into the next.

It's an icy Winter morning. The sun reflects off the snow but even that light has disappeared. All you know is the crunch of stepped on snow. It's a sound that marks the new season. Every time you hear that crunch, it reminds you of all the Winters past. Each year for as long as you can remember you've always heard that sound at the start of the season. It's a sound that sort of ties all your life together.

As you can tell, I'm nowhere near being ready for a first novel. There was some good in that story, but it's so green. Feel free to let me know what you thought about it, or how I could make it better. It's kind of old, too. Oh well, back to writing every day. (sort of)

Saturday, September 14, 2013

Sweet delicious mango juice

I usually do these before bed, not when I first wake up. I actually just started watching a pretty funny movie. I'm going to watch it, then I'll finish this.

While we're waiting, I have some other news. I'm a drummer, have been for over 13 years. I'm in a hardcore band that lots of people like. It's cool being liked by tons of strangers. We don't even promote ourselves or anything. People just sort of gravitate to us. It's nice. Joining the band has let me do a lot of things I've always wanted to do. Not long after joining, I got to sit inside the studio during a radio show, then play live on the radio for that show. William Berger is a great guy.

Next month, We'll be playing our second fest. The first was Punk Island. We got to ride in a tour bus with 96 (another band you should definitely check out.) And now we're on the bill for NJ Deathfest. I feel kind of special knowing that now, not just punk and hardcore fans like us, but now even metalheads are into us. It's a good feeling.

I don't feel like writing anymore, so I'm not going to.

Friday, September 13, 2013


Hi, it's me again. That guy you don't know... but you're starting to. If you're not sure whether this is a good thing or not, do not fear; this only proves that you are sane. For those who can't live without me: COME OVER HERE YOU CRAZY FUCKS AND GIMME SOME LOVE!

Strangely enough, it is ridiculously easy to find new things to write about every day. The weirdest part about it is that I pretty much haven't done anything at all but sleep and go to work, so where are all the ideas coming from? That was hypothetical. Please don't answer that. Whatever snarky response you had in mind, I want you to take it and flush it down the pooper with your dreams of being the first Martian.

Like all great people, inspiration comes from within. I wrote a poem on this once. I was at a writing course. As I sat there and listened to whatever stupid crap everybody was saying, I started to develop a deep hatred for them and, by association, everything they talked about. I knew I was being an asshole, but alas, I could not help myself. Of course, it wasn't like they could tell. I was just sitting in the back minding my own business, but inside... inside I was shooting laserbeams out from eyes and melting their heads.

At some point, we took a break to think about something or other and write down ideas for stuff maybe. I used this opportunity to write a beautiful little poem of hatred. Here it is!

Now presenting... bah bah bah baaaaaaaah! Untitled! It really is untitled. I didn't care enough to give it a name. Feel free to name it in the comments below, or don't.

I have no idea what these people are talking about.
They all look to each other and nod in unison.
I sit in the corner, only half-listening.

I stare at the ceiling, then I stare at the wall.
They speak of transitions, and senses, and Fall.
School, nostalgia, color, pumpkins, leaves, and all.

They are groping this world for a place to begin.
To write in this way should be considered a sin.

Because every real poet knows
the words come from within.

Well wasn't that just swell? I know I enjoyed it. It makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. That's it for today. I'm going to slice up some beets in the backyard with a chainsaw while screaming maniacally and hope someone sees me. Bye now!

Thursday, September 12, 2013

If I had time, I would cook a dinner fit for a king, then I would EAT THE KING!

You thought I was lying when I said I would post everyday. How could you have such little faith in me? I'm hurt. I really am. My heart, babe, my heart...

So as I'm sure none of you viewers know, I just came back from tour a little over a week ago. And as I'm sure you other musicians out there already know, coming home, I fell into a deep depression. After practically living in a van with my best friends, meeting and entertaining complete strangers, being in a new state everyday, fuck, this "normal" shit just isn't cutting it. I find that I have little to no patience for things and people I used to be able to tolerate. I hate living stationary. My every cell is screaming for the open road. I want to do everything I can to get back there.

This blog is part of that goal. I will produce new work daily. Someone, somewhere is going to be into it. As long I reach out and keep at it, i'm bound to get what I want. All of us (you included) only have so little time here on this earth. I want to spend my pitiful existence living the life I want to lead. That means more fiction, more poetry, more shows, more music, more modeling, more photography, more everything. The simple act of doing a specific thing increases the sections of your brain that correlate to that skill set. Basically, it means the more I write, the bigger the "writing" portions of my brain get. Simply writing anything at all helps to develop your own style, sound, and comfort with the process.

If you're reading this, then I'm sorry. This blog is more for me than it is for you. It's okay, I still love you. You have great... things. Yes! Your things are wondrous and you should be proud of them! Don't let anybody else tell you your things aren't good enough. Only you can say if your things aren't good enough. The only person you should ever be in competition with is yourself. Only strive to be better than you are now. Fuck the rest of them. You are following your own path. Their directions are meaningless. Only you decide how you will live and how you feel. If you are unhappy, it is because you have chosen to be unhappy. I suggest you take a good look at yourself and figure out why you don't want yourself to be happy. Personally, I think you're kind of awesome. Yes you. It's usually fear that holds one back. Lose the fear and the world can't hurt you. And yes, I know it sounds easier than it is. All I'm asking is that you try. Make a start, however small. You deserve better. I want you to want it. I want you to have it. This world could be a wonderful place. This life doesn't have to be shit. It's up to you to be the spark that incites the changes in your life.  

Wednesday, September 11, 2013

And now I'm drunk.

According to the clock, it is 10:49 AM; and I am absolutely shitfaced. I'm watching a movie about a man who, whenever he falls asleep, wakes up at a different age. It's not awful, so that's nice. I plan on doing a new post every day, no matter what! So I guess you'll just have suffer through this one, I'm not going anywhere... AND I WILL ATTACK YOU WITH POSTS UNTIL YOU RECOGNIZE THE GREATNESS THAT IS ME!. On a lighter note, I recorded a comedy thing and it's uploaded now. The link is at the bottom (unless I forget to do that by the end of this post.) I think I'll do it now so I don't forget. There! Now it's impossible to forget because it's already done. I'm proud of myself.

I realize time is frozen for you so that whole exchange was pretty pointless. Oh well, I did it anyway, and it stays! Don't question me!

I recently started looking for my nailclipper again. I always know it's time to cut my nails when typing becomes unbearably loud. My nails don't grow out like normal people. They grow out like a vampire's nails or something.

How scary is that?!

Although he loves it.

Even if he pretends not to care.

That face just makes me feel like I should be embarrassed. Now I feel embarrassed. I'm going to stop now. Goodbye!

Tuesday, September 10, 2013

I'm Hopeless

Hopelessly happy                heh

I decided I would actually start this blog now. I mean, it's already kind of started so I'll just run with it. I guess I should stop berating you. I'm sorry for before. You know I didn't mean it. I love you, really. If you were here right now I'd fondle your genitals. You are a beautiful flower. I just want to gather all of you up and put you in a pretty vase and keep you forever and ever! I'd keep you until you become nothing more than a jug of withered, dried up plant penises. That's how much I love you, you monster.

Monday, September 9, 2013

I was going to start a blog. I changed my mind.

There is nothing here. Why are you reading this? What are you even reading really? This blog is not a blog. This sentence not. Do not read this sentence. You son of a bitch! What did I just say?! You can't even follow simple orders. That must be why you're still reading this bunch of nothing, because that's all this is; a bunch of nothing! What's your deal anyway? Do you have nothing better to do than bother complete strangers on the internet all day? I came here for a purpose, and another website fulfilled that purpose. So, this blog has outlived its usefulness before it even begun. Honestly though, you must be a sick individual to have gotten this far. At this point, I'm just going to openly insult you. I don't care. I told you at the outset to stop reading and go away, but you decided, with whatever little brain is rotting in that cement block you call a head, that would sit and stalk a stranger's mind and inner thoughts all the way to the end. You're a butthead. Do you know that? I bet you don't. I bet you think you're great, but you sir/ma'am are a butthead. Pure and simple. I bet you eat farts, too.