Just go with it

It's just so easy to say later. What are we going to do after I strip you down? Later on. What can I do for you tomorrow morning? Later, bye. And now that it's later? Fuck- Every unprotected thrust last night is chewed on the fat of this morning's break fest steak. There is a confliction of what need be worried most about: the cleanliness of your dick- riding that hedonistic roman whore- or the cleanliness of your sole- going along with that heathen slut.

Whatever it is, one thing is for certain: those gold bands and bracelets she wears are the only thing about her staying pretty. Those tracked up arms will soon turn to blown out tree branches. Dried up and tanned like leather. Christ, her ass has already fallen. You could already be the winner of this auction, sir, you bid SO hard for it.

Time to pay the piper, motherfucker.

When the needle is on the E line, every pop and fall of the engine is a sudtle dusting of worry. You know what I mean? These are the things we did and these are the things we got our selves into. What was said last night, rolling off the tongue, what was done last night, a kitana slit in the air, we do these things all so naturally. A primal urge that, when acted on, leaves us exposed to the most harshness of mother nature's domain. We make those calls on the assumption that it will be dealt with later. We assume later we will be more capable people. Better people.

We assume that those over draft fees at the bank will be taken care of easily on payday, when we're rich. But I don't even need to ask because you already know you're gonna need every cent you can get on payday.

Case in point. Here I am now, when I was gonna take care of all that shit. I am shit faced. Around me is a dull wrap of cotton and in me is only the knowledge that i need to be concerned with where I'm going. I'm so shitty. My plate has been expired months and months now. It only takes some asshole rookie to pull me over or it only takes one more knock of bad gas, and I'm done. I'm late. Is this the last knock before stall out? This is what I'm dealing with now.

Sure. no matter how young you are you were at one time younger. At some point in your life the lines of rule were more grey and fuzzy than they are now. Like the time I let a room go to a supposed member of the Dayton Family. I mean, he said he was Bootleg. And in retrospect the real Bootleg might as well have stiffed me on a room so that he could get his fuck on. Also, he, who ever he really was, had also stolen my pen.
I did not fear repercussions from my boss due to his express emphasis on negligence. Instead it was a feeling of short coming. The grimy feeling of the actuality of life. No fear, it is a third shift. So I watch the sun come up on third shifts. Some people see the rising sun as a nuisance, something that they unwillingly wake up to.

Did I get pulled over? No. Did I run out of gas? no. But the guy at the clinic told me I was too drunk to take a blood sample from. That fag-prick told me he would call the cops if I left in my car. Cocksucker. So now I'm dealing with it. Now I'm taking care of it the way I didn't want to but should have known I would.

Baby, I won't be there for a while. No. No. Yeah, I'm fine. I'm just gonna take a walk. Pick up some empties, get some gas. Yeah, i'm sure, everything is fine.

Sugar and Garlic

We are walking by an array of check out isles. It's a mission to the customer service desk. The head of each isle is petaled with an assortment of impulse buying items but the salivating allure of jerky and candy bars and the eye catching red and yellow font shouting A list celebrity's infidelities are no match for what captures our attention and subliminal thoughts. We're on a mission.

Of course there are always hitches during a mission and this would be a very minor one- An over weight toad of a brunet cuts her shopping cart, filled to the brim with frozen pizzas and Doritos complete with a little brat hanging off it like a monkey cut left in front of us, queuing her self in line. At lest for a moment we had to stop. Our big ticket item slid forward a bit in our own cart.

People in NA or AA talk about having a moment of sobriety. A moment in which during one of your most fucked up desperate points providence gives you a fresh objective view to see how silly and messed up you are. I'm just saying is all, so we're thinking along the same lines. And so for that brief moment, only by accident, our eyes get caught on this bud of consumerism. With a smirk Fat Eddie says "you should yank one" referring to a package of Bic pens hanging by the horoscope scrolls above the gum.

We've been doing this take back scam off and on for a while now. What you do is counterfeit a receipt for a big ticket item like a flat panel HD tv, go to the store, find it, then "take it back" for cash. One of the first times doing this I happened to notice a set of fancy fountain pens with ink cartridges. I thought it was really cool and classy, something those old proper bohemian opium den dudes would have been using back in the day. I was still on a rush from the initial time we pulled the scam so I strait up shop lifted 'em. It was one of those jokes where you had have been there for it to be funny but Fat Fucking Eddie roasted me about it. So after that I would steal markers and pens as a way to continue the inside joke. But by now it wasn't so much funny as it was course of habit.

We used to called Eddie "Fat Eddie" ironically. In high school he was skinny, lanky dude. After the second time he got outta jail he started to get fat. For any one that partakes in the fast-living excesses of smack and coke derivatives that a grand theft like this is about to bankroll, well it's remarkable to not loose weight let alone to gain it.

I've only been to jail once. A little doughier on the gut, still thin in the face but the most significant change was a bad (as opposed to bad ass) prison tat. John, or J, he's the other guy I'm with, has been to jail three times and besides his haggardness, he still looks the same but mentally he is more off the hook than any of us. Anyhow, ironically, Fat Eddie (or Fat Fucking Eddie or Fucking Fat Eddie when he wasn't around) is a fat junkie.

"I've already got those". I look at my bad tat of a feather on my fore arm. I forget the reason why I decided on a feather but now that I look at it it could easily be a fountain pen feather that those old school wig wearing motherfuckers would have used to sign parchment documents and shit. We sway the cart around the toad woman and proceed to walk to the costumer service desk. Our big ticket item this time is a quadraphonic wood burning toaster complete with a butter warmer and NevrBurn technology. I feel bad that we are even making it look like people buy this crap. This is stupid. Fat fucking Eddie is fucking fat, I have a dumb tattoo and J is a god damn psycho. This is such a stupid life.

"Can I help who's next?" the girl at the desk could be toad women's daughter. "Can I help who's next?" She repeats her self with apathy as she scratches her ass. Well, we might as well do it one last time. We've already come this far. Anyways.

coffee with ambre

I tell Ambre that her handicap is that she's a woman. She wants to be mad, but it's me so how could you be? Besides, it's all a joke. After all she's only a girl. And so that's exactly what I tell her- that she's a kid.

She slaps me and begins to walk out. She's all red about it but she's not actually going to leave. She sits back down. "you're an ijiot" (yes, with a 'j'). It's funny because she can't even tell me off with out being juvenile.


But, you know it is all just a joke. A fine joke.

Most women lie about themselves and to them selves. That's what women do, that's their handicap. So I would just love it to be true for her but it's really not. I get the feeling that she's strait forward with her self and unfortunately I like that. There is nothing more I would love than to believe that she's just another plastic facade over a dumb pile of rocks.

What makes it funny is that I couldn't just say something nice. What makes it funny is that I'm a jerk and the only way I can give her a compliment is via insult. It's fucking hilarious that the only straw I have to grasp is her youthful demeanor, as if that's such a bad thing.

So what was my point? I can't think of a way to say it now, but now she's reading and I'm sitting here writing. And that's fine.

Bumper Sticker

Bumper stickers do one of two things: express a point of view held by the owner of the vehicle or tell you, the reader, to do something. Most of the time we are informed about the persuasion towards jesus/gun control the driver has or are told to recycle or something earth friendly. But today while sitting behind an F150 I was struck with something a bit more profound. A quarter of the cab windows simple read "Get Over It". To the best of my recollection never has a bumper sticker dumbfounded me with such zen like awe. This was perhaps the most provocative bumper sticker sense "go balls deep".

The ambiguity of what exactly "it" is is the key term that sprung me into a battery of self questioning and self discovery. Good christ, why not just let go?
You're in love with one girl and sleeping with another. Get over it.
Writers block has made your shitty writings come less frequent.
Drinking too much, popping too many damn pills.
No motivation to become financial successful.
Shoes are broken, pants full of holes.
Get over it.

I was excited. I was moving on. I was getting over all the things that have been hanging me up. By the time I pulled up to the parking lot of my destination I was tingly with anxious excitement- I'm free, I'm over it, what next?! What next indeed. My grapes turn sour. What are you suppose to do after getting over it? Really I'm no better off, just numb to what ails me. Get over it. That bumper sticker was just a proactive suggestion for cutting me off with out using a blinker.

getting nailed in a Geo hatch-back

Most kids can't even walk to school nowadays. I purposefully used the word can't because I don't even think schools allow it. It's probably due to prime time tv airing too many shocking 'to catch a predator' shows and it's probably a cause of the child obesity problem in this country. When I was a kid I used to walk to and from school, I loved. It was nice cause you had your options; If I wanted to, I could rush home in time for Chip n Dale's Rescue Rangers or I could just hang out with some other kid that was walking home and do whatev. And I never even once got abducted into a windowless van.

But there was this one sexy thing that happend walking back from school about once a week.

Down the hill from my elementary was another, smaller elementary building that had fallen into disuse. The building was only used to store lunch trays- we knew this because we were able to slip in threw a chained shut door once. The land around it was occupied by an unmaintained baseball diamond over grown with grass. The decaying bleachers were riddled with spent condoms. The barren parking lot also had a collection of used condoms, in this one certain area, and about once a week a little blue Geo hatch-back would be parked there, smack dab in the middle of the parking lot.

At first we avoided the car. But as the weeks went by curiosity overcame caution. Of cource the first thing our young adolescent minds jumped to is how people must be screwing in there but after a while we had to know what truly was going on. This was a task for William.

William was this scrawny weird kid that was easy to push around. One time Joey took a beer from William's frig, this was one of the few times William put his foot down. "My dad will kill me!" he screamed. So what did Joey do? He made William open the beer for him. Then he drank it.

So it was a no brainer that William was the one to go peak in side the car. He did. And as soon as his eyes were able to distinguish what was going on inside Williams face lit up and he ran back to the group. "It was some black guy with a big dick and then some girl underneath him!". Ofcource William received extra razzing for his initial comment being a description of the male's genitalia.

But now that it is years later I think back to this and realize it wasn't what William said that was fucked up. Well, ok, it was, but what was even more fucked up was that there was a girl that was willing to get nailed in the back of an itty bitty Geo on a weekly basis. Perhaps she was also getting nailed outside on some rotten bleachers- someone was. I understand that circumstances arise and you gotta do what you gotta do and all that, but where dose it end?

I guess what I'm trying to say here is that sure, it happens. We all get fucked in the back of a Geo once in a while but that doesn't mean you have to get fucked in the back of a Geo all the time! Barrow your friend's Buick. Get a room a room for the love of Christ. And would it kills you to properly dispose of your slimy old scumbags? There's school kids around for cryin out loud.

Do they even make Geos anymore?

BUBBLE TEA PT.2, PAGE 1

"Do you remember the matchstick man?" She often speaks her mind in the form of a rhetorical question. "Don't you think Italian sounds better?" or "Dose this seem unsafe?" It's annoying to find out a woman's catches and it's definitely a burden when you grow tired of them. Really, she is asking me to join in her nostalgia. I, however, would like to continue to loose myself in the nights mitigation of this uncomfortable chair.


I like sitting out here on the porch at night. Up here I can still see the lights and hear the sounds, like the looping note from below right now. Coming from all the way down there, in the heart of the city. It's a car honking. A troubling sound probably due to a traffic incident. Frantic and frequent. It's so loud, he must be pressing the wheel very hard. Makes me wonder what it is, if it's an emergency. But it doesn't matter- it stops. Crisis handled.

You know, looking down at the city at night is kinda like looking at an ant farm or something... It appears complex but still maintains the aesthetics of simplicity. I think she is more interested in the fancy candles we lit. Damn it. These apartment buildings are so boring, almost as much as the suburbs. At least we are near the top, with a nice view. I'd hate to live in an apartment in the suburbs with nothing to look at but assholes with nothing to look at, sitting on their plot of urban sprawl. I would hate it, but what she thinks is ideal... well.

But what could you be thinking? I watch her reach one finger to caress the glass rim around the candle. We make eye contact. It's like poking a sleeping arm. I know she is still as attractive as day one, she hasn't changed, but I've been with her for five years. I know it... I just can't feel it anymore. I don't know when I stopped seeing her the way I used to but it came to my attention a short time after we had moved here. How can someone be different by staying the same? It must be funny because it's a joke we all know.

With a hum she resubmits her question. You have got to be kidding me. What's the point in combing over the past night after night? Why not just sit here in piece, feel the nice breeze roll by. What's you're angle anyway? Of course I remember the Matchstick man. I resent even thinking about him now. It's all so stupid. Might as well sit around and talk about ponies or teddy bears or ice cream...

This guy, the matchstick man, he was a personified combination of street performance and folk art. He had a little portable stand that probably once vended ice cream. Inside it played the begining of "Once In A Life Time" by Talking Heads in an infinite loop. He was a born performer. At first he would stand there lifeless, looking at the ground. The music switched on and every repetition of the looped beat would bring him more and more into life until was doing what could only be described as interpretive breakdacing. His Finale was a flip backward on to his hands. Then he hand walked over to the stand and, with his feet, picked up at straw hat. He'd hand walk around the perimeter of spectators and collect donations. After that he would carefully place the hat back on the stand and foot-pick-up a small cardboard box. Of course he didn't know who was giving what, but if you were lucky he'd hand walk right to you and present the box, full of matchstick figurines held together with glue. She was one of the lucky ones.

Friggin squirrels...

In this neighborhood I am cautious when I see squirrels. Perhaps in your neighborhood they act how they are suppose to, as I remember them to. They are shadow dwellers that prefer to be as unseen as possible. They are like automatic doors, they move out of your way before you even think of it as an obstacle. Scared, jumpy creatures that are overly aware of their surroundings and that scurry up a trees at a moments notice. Human contact?- they are unscathed. They are collectors of small nutty things that you or I never notice laying the the grass or gutter.

That's the way squires are, as I remember, suppose to act. Perhaps these are college squirrels. I have concidered this severel times on the grounds that like most college dude douche-bags, they walk a fuzzy line between ignorance and cockiness, like that guy that crossing the street in front of you even tho you have the green, and it's like he knows he's walking right in front of you and he knows you gotta wait for him... Dosent even do some half assed jog for the sake of basic humane politeness. The squirrels here are impolite like that. They also wear hemp accessories and listen to Dave Mathews Band and really bad commercial rap.

Yeah, the squirrels here, will sit in the middle of the sidewalk. And just sit there. I damn near tripped over one the other day. Right as I was about to step on it it trotted away with the casual and comfortable swagger of a family dog walk it's property lines. What stuck me as the oddest was that it was dragging along with it a Pacific Sun shirt but then, after a moment of consideration, it was all quit nominal.

It wouldn't be so bad if they simply left it at ignoring your existence. But no, they watch you as you awkwardly get around them. The worse is when they are in the trees. Often times when they are climbing a tree they will stop so they are right at eye level. They will watch you as you pass. I can't help but think this is something similar to how a black man would feel walking by a bunch of white folks on their porch in the old South. Only this is more alarming for me because this isn't the old South, it's just about me and some dumb squirrels I even go as far as to think about possible scenarios involving the squirrels attacking me and the possible actions I would have. Like if one jumped on my shoulder from a tree I would have to grab it's tail with the opposite hand or if I came too close to stepping on one I would just step on it's tail anyway and have some baddass line like “Going somewhere?”. Sadist thing is that's the best line I can come up with. I start to worry if my reclusive lifestyle is taking a toll on me mentally.

That's why I was relieved to have Sabrina at my house. Sabrina is an old roommate of mine. We lived in a house together back in Flint. I guess we, along with a couple other people, lived together for a little over a year. And that is how fate had paired us together, she needed a place to stay and I had rooms to fill up. But fate was favorable in that we clicked together rather naturally. In the years sense we had scattered our separate ways from the Kennelworth house me and Sabrina had been able to keep in sporadic contact with one another and maintain friendly relations. I think it is due to the fact that nether one of us aspired to become overly successful in our young adulthood, something that distracts people from things like keeping it real, and also that we never had sex. I have determined, by a battery of very serious and scientifically isolated clinical trials, that sexual relations withers a co-ed relationship. Altho if we had sex it probably would have been spectacular, I'd imagine.

Sometimes, as the movies portray it, people that have long not seen each other embrace one another with a concentrated joy that could only have accumulated from 10 years of absence. This is not the case with Flint town homefries. And that's what I love. I've always hated good-byes, I'm that kinda guy. I also hate overly passionate hellos. Saying goodbye seems like such a pessimistic thing, and later seems so alien and informal over someone you are suppose to have the utmost comfort with. It is in my opinion that your most intimate and meaningful moments with someone should be in the most mundane, everyday moments.

When a good friend is back around you can play it how it lays. I dropped the usual false alias in which I'd made millions in speculating on the bear market. I put my plastic monocle on the shelf. I'm just David, more or less. After all she had already lived with me, as a roommate, back in the day. She was hanging around at the worse. Pathetic and junky, twas, but despite this she was always keen to me. Perhaps it's that she was able to see me for what I aspire to be- not who I was- and/or maybe on top of that she also takes solice with the knowledge of her own short comings. Dosnt matter. Doesn't matter what the reason, it's a good reason for why-ever.

Yeah, some people fake being friends just because they were friends. Not Flintstones. They will say 'later' after you signed a four year contract with the army and when they see you again they say 'what's up'. No fakey sentimental bullshit here. Bump fists with Stoicism and suave. Flintstoners keep it real.

And real we kept it. Without even discussing it we both decided to forgo the touristy things in Kalamazoo (yes the entire plethora of touristy things to do). We watched mystery science theater 3000. We listened to a faded mix tape. We got high.

When I was at work I suspect she just walked around and smoked and stuff. And when I would return home we would walk and talk. When making breakfast I rediscovered that she didn't eat meat. Ooops. I bought three pounds of bacon for nothing. The only noble thing to do is eat a shit-ton of bacon.

Pleasantly, inner-dialog with myself had dropped totally. It was totally weird to get input from an external verbal source.

On a sunny Sunday afternoon we walked to the theater to see 'UP' (in 3D, so we ofcourse got high). At one point there came to be a fatty little squirrels in our path. “The squirrels around here are nuts” she says. I love you Sabrina, thanks. My sanity is now restored. And I realize that the break in solitude has lent me a fresh, new- or perhaps rediscovered- perspective on things. I charge at the rodent and kick it like a field goal. The tubby rodent arks high in the air and lands somewhere in the far distance. “Going somewhere?” I smugly remark.