1225 or 7994

I used to fuck this guy. We met outside of this club a mutual friend was dancing at. He had an Altoids tin full of various pills. He told me to take what I wanted; I only took one. I was pretty fucked up on vodka sodas and key bumps. I remember I wouldn't shut up about how I wanted to be a writer. He just listened. At the end of the night we exchanged email address so I could send him some work. Two days later he made me breakfast in bed.

I had just gotten out of this pretty intense thing that I was way to conservative in expressing my opinions about and led to me just getting destroyed. In hindsight I probably overreacted, jumping from barstool to stall to cab to bed, but it was the only thing that felt right. Sometimes I would be floating out of my body, watching and trying to figure out what exactly was happening in these dark corners I was spending so much time. This guy tried his best to pull me out of it. And he did pretty well. I still had some intense self destructive tendencies that would come out. There was a night in his apartment when I cut my feet up pretty bad walking on some wine glasses I had broken in an argument. I bled and bled on his hardwood floor while he begged me to let him help me. I just kept drinking vodka.

He was no boy scout either. He always had pills. All sort of things. Some nights we would pick a color pill based on how well it matched what I was wearing and we'd snort as many of them as we could. Sometimes my entire face would go numb and we would fuck and take shots of irish whiskey till I blacked out or wasn't numb.

And I heard about some of the things he did when I wasn't around. There were always whispers about one of his exes and what they did together when he was supposed to be working. After the third or fourth time I heard this I took one of his friends home to show him that I wasn't waiting around, that I didn't need him.

But I did. I wouldn't hear from him for a day or two and be convinced he was finally gone. Someone else would get his breakfasts. Someone else would get his text messages. Someone else would get him. I would sit around my place with a couple bottles of wine and whatever sad bastard music I could find and just fucking cry.

In the morning he would always show up. Everything was fine. There was work. Or a friend needed him. Or he got to drunk at happy hour after work and took a cab home and left his phone at the bar. I believed him every time.

Until the last time.

He didn't come over.

He didn't give a reason.

He didn't call.

He was gone.

I spent two weeks stuck in my apartment. I would go out for fruit and wine. I had a friend drop off pills. I broke all my light bulbs. I threw out the shirts he had left over. I took bath after bath after bath. I watched war movies and cried the whole time.

Then one morning it hit me. He was just a fuck. He gave me drugs and booze. He bought me dinner. He'd say nice things. But I wasn't the only one. I knew that. So I stopped caring. I stopped giving two shits about running into him, hearing about him at bars or seeing him move on.

That night I went back out. I made out with some nameless stranger in a corner booth. I bought myself shots. I danced with some friends. And I went home alone.

Me vs Robert Smith vs Camus

I am covered in sand. The sun is bearing down on my flesh, slowly aging me. It is the only thing that can do it. My mind stays young and sharp. My heart is probably reverse aging. But the sun takes my days away from me; takes other things away too. I push my feet as hard as I could against the ground to make a spot more permanent then the ones I typically occupy. The good book says something about people who build houses on the sand. I am a professional beach carpenter. Clouds sneak past above me. I hear jets but see no evidence. I stare at the sun. If I burn a hole in my retina then when I look to my left she won't be there. It is preparation for the next day, for the rest of my life, so I don't notice her walking away.

Everything is noise. The buildings collapse as I walk unfamiliar streets. No one knows me here, no one hears my voice, reads my words, or breaks bread with me.

Trees fall into the sea. People form committees to prevent this tragedy again. A parade route is planned. Someone hires a poet to commemorate the day. They dedicate a rock to where the tree used to be and put up a fence so no one gets too close to the rock. Or the edge.

I sit next to the stone. Next to the edge. I fall into the sea. No one notices, no one stops their parade, no one give a second thought.

But the sky grows dark. Storms rage in the distance. The waves crash backwards. The ocean wants to roll back time. It doesn't want another body, it was filled to the brim. It builds a life boat of the lives it destroyed to keep me afloat. It curses the sun, it curses my heart, and it curses the sand.

Spit back out onto land, dry, but cold and hardened, no one noticed I left.

Or that I am never going back.

this time last year

Last year, this day, the 8th day of February, I was freaking out. Freezing on the inside and outside. I'm still freaking out, but in different ways. I want to write more, but I got wrapped up in archives and have to go to work. School starts tomorrow, its been raining.

Lately when I get upset (read: wanting to punch or cry) I clean. The kitchen gets it first, then the living room. I leave the bedroom alone. Strange.

tears on my headrest

I drove my good friend Gabe to work this morning. I was hungover. The sun was out, the air was still, it was beautiful. I listened to a band I've heard 1800 times again, and it felt new. I cried. When I got home I crawled back into bed. The day has been longer than I could have ever imagined.

our (almost)hero returns from abroad

I've been back in California a few days. Halloween came and went with much less then a mild yawn. Spending four days in a row seeing some of the best bands ever, drinking some of the best beer and singing and shouting with some of your best friends will make you forget about halloween.


So, about this announcement. Yes, I decided where I am moving to. I am very excited. Very. Excited. I'm looking forward to not driving and going to more shows and not slanging peppers' margaritas and hopefully sitting next to a fire place.

Chicago, here I come.

My expected departure date from California is December 23rd. Mark your calenders.

I am walking to the liquor store. We will speak again soon.

the loosing of friends (that's for you, bobb)

Last night was cosmo night. It was Girly Drink Night 2 (the first being mojito's, even though Whit thinks those are "dude beach drinks" or something silly like that). As with every night I ended up pretty drunk. The participants of Girly Drink Night 2 (read: my friends) sat around our new patio furniture drinking and talking and enjoying each others company. Which reads me to this:

Technology is killing honest interaction.

Yup. Myspace, Cell Phones, Email, Television, The Holy Trinity, Watermelon Pucker and Instant Messaging. They be slaying foo's.

Technology hasn't help me make any friends. Acquaintances at best. Actually, it has probably ruined more friendships than anything else. Sneaky text messaging, missed call logs, lost voice mail messages, "I'm away" status, purgatory, Kamikaze's and Tivo are making my interactions with people harder and harder.

I think I am not very demanding in social situations. Stiff drinks, good conversations and a place to sit. But all this technology seems to be getting in the way. We are creating these persona's that don't actually exist. We are slimmer, fatter, taller, shorter, sexier, more disgusting, smarter, dumber, and either more or less exciting.

And honestly, I don't really care. Two hours ago I was searching the Internet to try and find a girl I met last night so that I could hang out with her. WHY? Probably to try to get laid. But that's always the case. We are all really working towards sex, either with that person or one of that person's friends. Gabe and I came to the realization that a lot of the "ladies" we have been hanging out with (or in some cases trying to hang out with) have no actual interest in us. And to be completely truthful, we don't have much interest in them actual. It's all a stupid game. And technology is making that game easier and more complicated.

I guess that was my point all along.

Whenever I think of sex/dating/love/sweaty palms I think of my favorite scene from the Cameron Crowe film Singles. Thanks to IMDB we get an exact quote:

David Bailey: Tonight I'll be the super me.
Steve Dunne: What if the super you meets the super her and the super her rejects the super you?
David Bailey: Then it's no problem.
Steve Dunne: Uh-huh. Why?
David Bailey: Because it was never you, it was just an act. I live my life like a French movie, Steve.

So true.