(none)

I keep a foam cover around my beer. I don't want to feel it so cold against my hand. Or notice it gets warmer while I spend my time sending suggestive text messages to women who don't want to hear from me or who want me to propose. I'll rub my hands on my face, gouging my own eyes, not completely out though, coughing into my palms for something, a sort of relief. Six or seven gulps of beer that has been warmer but never less want to collapse into my chest. Everything is falling into bed around me. Branches are crashing to the ground. Roommates are fucking their girlfriends until they are both breathless and sweaty and trying to explain away a slip of a tongue, finger or thought. My phone beeps, chirps, cries; whatever. I walk over to where it sits and check it. I don't respond, I don't care. I'll spend my night listening to songs from men about the end of their lives, the worthlessness of their education, the hatred they have for where they are from and how they cry too many nights. I'll avoid their eyes and stare out the window through the cracks in the blinds at the light that shines on the yard full of the loudest dogs of my life. No. The loudest dogs on my street. This is life. Nothing before today matters. They just bark. I just stare. Someone will call, ask me to say something nice. I tell them I love them. Why not? When I love them the fuck other men, loan me money out of spite, drive me to counties I am not allowed to be in and want me to slow dance. I don't slow dance anymore. I don't cry. I don't miss the women who mattered most to me. I don't miss the women who meant shit. Everyone is part of a list, an entry into a phone book, a number, a regret, a promise or a chance. Some people collect plates, or cards, or pushpins in maps to show where they were. I collect heartbreak, lovers, hopes, dreams, words and pushpins in my skin. They show where I am. I am not calloused. I am not hardened. My heart still pounds for you, still bleeds for a different you, still pains for another you. I still smell you in grocery stores. I still feel your hand in mine on crowded streets in a haze of whatever the newest drug we felt would help keep us together. I still write about your curves. I still pray for you. But it all depends on the night. Sometimes I pray you die. Other times I pray you come home.

As soon as you are born, you start cheating death

(or how I stopped a world war only to start a civil war...)

Everything sat perfectly in the box. Pink and red tissue paper lined the bottom. A small box, with a hand painted yellow bird, sat in one corner. A second corner held two boxes of white wine, equal to three glasses, purchased at the liquor store of earliest convenience. A box of conversation hearts laid upside down in a third corner. The one way tickets sat in the forth.

Things don't often come together in such nice packages. The pieces hadn't fit so well lately. There had been corners, or edges, or a cluster of four or five right in the middle that just couldn't be found. But this one, this one had everything. The thought, the moment, the place, the joy and of course the heart. It was the type of scene that a printer company would use to illustrate the superior printing ability of their product versus another. It was rare.

Another pair of tissue paper found its way on top of the contents. The proper creases and wrinkles were added to imply age, forethought and importance. A small tear was added; the corner of the box of the conversation hearts poked through, a glimpse into the future.

Packing tape had been purchased on the way home that afternoon just for this occasion. It had to be sealed. It had to be safe. It had to be secure.

It had to suffocate.

The tape was too tight. It was too secure. It was too safe. There was too much thought. There was too much effort. Too much fucking heart. The water was rising. This was sinking. There were holes everywhere. Small. Fucking huge. Some in between. Some day there would be a sort of monument here, a stump, just past the fence, by the park, next to the stone that commemorated the tree, that gave shade in the past, before this was ever here; before the tree fell into the ocean.

It gave in. It gave up. It did it's version of walking away. No fight. No yell. No tears. No pain. No hope. No chance.

But it got a plaque.

And what did we get?

V is for Variables...

If we could go back, maybe to April, or, fuck it, March, and line up a group of friends, and past lovers, and acquaintances, and ask them, what would they say?

- Well, there's the age...
- You don't exactly know what you are doing...
- She seems nice, but...
- You know how it's going to end...
- How many times will this mistake be made...
- If you had your choice, is this how you would spend it...
or my personal favorite, revealed to me about 6 hours ago
- You pretend to be a bohemian artist type, who doesn't care, but you really just want to love these girls, and you smother them. It is a blessing and a curse.

Well, fuck.

It feels like I cant fall in love anymore. Or that none of my feelings are honest. My heart is beating, but maybe my mouth is full of lies? Maybe my heart isn't even beating. It's too strong, it cares too much, it is probably shit.

Let us talk about these variables. They have been attacking my mind lately.

There is distance: out of sight, out of mind.
There is situation: exes, dorms, family bedrooms, disease, or mental illness.
There is emotion: I am here, and I am something, but not enough.
There is everything else: What do you want here? Hair color? Music preference? Area Code?

Fuck it.

I could have been in love, forever, FOREVER!, sixteen times before. And maybe they never counted.

I don't fucking know what I am doing. I have no idea. But I know this, from the bottom of my shitty, failing, heart:

Two weeks ago, ten days ago, six days ago, two days ago, this thing, inside of my chest, was on the verge of pounding out of my body. I felt it in my fingers when I passed out coffee. It shook my steps around the cities I spent time in. It rattled up my spine, to my brain, where I couldn't form words, or thoughts, or emotions, that didn't involve you. The intensity was rare. The feeling was similar. I've been in love. I've wanted to die for things. I have been comfortable on quitting things for other things. But these days it bruised my chest from the inside out.

And now...

I'm a pawn in a scheme. I'm an alternate. I'm something you'd trade in a barter only society, for carpet cleaning or an orgasm or two. I am a monkey, and, yes, I am dancing, but I also have my cymbals, and they are crashing, and I am smiling, and someone, or everyone is taking advantage.

Change one of these variables, or eliminate them, and this entry is V is for Valuable.. or V is for Vanessa...

But with them, as they stand, I am trying to figure out a way to be and not look like an asshole, or at least a fool.

22/26

M is for Miles...

I stood on the roof of a venue last night. My pupils were big, my eyes were wider. I looked up at a building where friends and friends of friends do drugs different then the ones I was on right then. If it wasn't the breeze on my skin, or the cigarette smoke filling my lungs, then the chills had to be from some combination of her eyes, voice and hands. Sweet words were whispered into my ears about manifest destiny or the secret spots in our hearts that you need more than one map to find. Our hands were locked in a death grip, sweaty from the beating of hearts full of possible love and drugs, fingers rubbing together to keep the sense of security alive. The brown of her eyes was being over taken by the black of her pupil, and they said everything I knew. Past, present, and future laid end to end counting the steps to a heart.

I rub my hands sometimes to remind me of how it felt to be so close.

13/26

B is for Bending...

The idea is to bend, not to break. I will bend my morals. Wait. Do I have morals? Hmm. I will bend them if I do. I will bend a situation until it fits me exactly how I want it to. I will bend your words to fit what I think you should be saying. I will bend my plans to include you. I will bend my history to hide the bad parts. I will bend my walls to let you in. And I've figured all this out. I don't worry about hearts breaking, especially my own. I don't worry about habits breaking. I'll make new habits and just throw the other ones away. I'll bend for you, wherever you are, whoever you are.

2/26

Another Shirtless Entry

Today is the end of an era. This is is for one of my favorite houses ever. And a lot of other things too.

I don't remember exactly when it happened. It could have gradual, like a frog sitting in water getting hotter doesn't notice. Or it could have been instant, like a car crash or falling in love. I'm not really sure, and to be honest, it doesn't really matter. I just know this: one day the radio was fine and then it wasn't. One day it was cd's at the end of the aisle, or the "endcap" for us former retail slave, then it was blind grabs at bands on thank you lists. One day it was Dodger stadium for Genesis with my parents, and then it was driving through a snow storm alone for Against Me! and Alkaline Trio at a club in Reno.

Music has ALWAYS been a huge part of my life. One of my first memories was being at the first place I lived, 85 or 86, and dancing around to what was probably Bon Jovi. Thank god I grew out of that. But now it is no longer a spectator sport. I participate and it is wonderful. Its been a good thirteen or fourteen years of this, maybe more. I could only be happier if I had a mimosa dispenser next to my bed.

So it is with this, and a heavy heart, that I bid farewell to one of my favorite punk houses: shitHOUSEdrunk. I saw some of my favorite bands play there, in a living room. A fucking living room with this wall installation that made me feel like I was in a library or the set of a Sherlock Holmes play. I've played some of my favorite shows there, sometimes with Bobb balls naked. (there's pictures to prove it) There will be more houses, and more bands, and more drunken porches, but you, shitHOUSEdrunk will always have a special spot in my heart.

I'm going to scream out my sins in you later today. I'm gonna spill beer on my shirt and your floor. I might kiss a beautiful girl on your porch. And then I'll walk away and never see you again. A fitting end to our relationship.

I'll miss you.

An Incomplete List...

of things and situations and a couple of relationships that I might have left to die on an operating table or some sort of metaphor that has nothing to do with how things actually are.

(as a post-introduction preface I will give you this: I am moving into a house, parts of the apartment are gone, headed that direction. I spent the evening discussing the merits of short story writers around a beer pong table. It doesn't sound as bad as it seems.)

(as a second post-introduction preface I will let it be known that I am very often left defending my choices on life, liberty, and the pursuit of short story authors. I am also left petting the cat while other people are asleep. This could very easily turn into a rant about someone, but they are asleep, and it is not right, and it is not worth it, so I will pet the cat and move on.)

Tonight I have decided that bullet points are not cut out for me. This list will run long and deep and have an end at some point. It might be worth it, I will definitely feel better. Its 3:30 in the morning, so if it doesn't make sense I will explain it, just ask.

Every time I look at you your eyes are big and I know that if it were not for me you would not eat and you would shit on a pile of shit you shit days ago. You scratch and bite, and seem afraid, but you sit and sleep next to me. When I am not around, I don't know what you do, that is between you and whoever decided that you should be alive for my (and others) comfort. But when I am here, I know what you are doing.

We fight, a lot. About everything. And I try hard, harder than I have ever tried with anyone, over anything, to make it work. I feel wrong a lot of the times. It is because there is nothing thrown back. There are small meaningless jabs about things I can't control, and they hurt. But the things you don't say hurt as much as the things you specifically assign to me. I am always wrong, and I don't do enough, even though I try so hard. I cant talk about this anymore. It hurts.

You are this ideal, this ideal thing that doesn't exist. You ebb and flow. You drown me then make me drown in drought. Things get more complicated, because they are already complicated. I wish you didn't have a face, because sometimes your face makes me cry, and sometimes your face I don't even know.

Every time. Every Single Time. Everysingletime I have stood in front of you and not kissed you for how much you have saved my life, I deserve to suffer a hundred years. This list is long. Very long. Again, I am sorry.

There are stacks of money that I owe people. Some of them are real people I have known since seventh grade, some of them are faceless corporations. But I owe them, and it makes it hard to get up in the morning, because I know that I will make some money that day, and it is never enough.

60640. I owe you. I didn't try. I failed you, and me, and my friends. I took advantage, I am sorry. I'll be back, to see you, for real this time, I promise. will you hold me to it?

My passion. I don't know if you are too much. I know I mean it, that is for sure, but I don't like explaining you. My heart has all these things running around in it, all these people that it cares for, all these things that make it smile. But it is intense...

And I get sick of apologizing for it being intense.
I am sick of apologizing for things that I mean, even if someone thinks they are wrong.
Because sometimes I am wrong, but I mean it, and that is something.

I don't like not being taken serious. I don't like being ignored. I don't like being made to felt dumb. I don't like doing all the work, in anything. I don't like the way I have been being made to feel. I don't like supporting with no support. I don't like not being creative. I don't like how things have been.


But this is all I will do.

I am sorry to you, and more sorry to me.


So the apartment turns to ice and I will sleep in the common area. Will life be fine in the morning? Yeah, it always seems to be. Will I be? No, not so much, not at all. I'm good at hiding things. It seems to be a trait of my parents, both sides. Do I want to be rescued? From the bed I have made myself?

Yes?

Will I get out of it?

Probably not. I hear it is pretty cozy, I think I'll check it out again soon.

In here (the place I am pointing at, in the middle of my chest) it makes sense.
I hope no one got left behind.

What a glorious Monday, yeah?

The rapid onset of age and what I know about it

In a day or so a friend of mine starts his last year before 30. Another friend just started 30. I know a kid who is going to be 6 in a month. I think it is 6, I'm not sure. I can think of someone's birthday for every month except for October. There is this one guy, but I haven't seen him in years, he doesn't count. Age seems to be catching up fast. I still feel about 22. I know a lot more than I did at 22, about everything, but, inside, I'm still 22. Just to catch you up, here's 22 for me:

• November 16th, 2004 to November 15th, 2005.
• I was finishing my time at Bed Bath and Beyond, and starting my time at Pepper's.
• I was not single, then I was, then I wasn't.
• I lived in 2 different houses.
• I opened a savings account.

There is other stuff that happened, but that is what comes of the top of my head now. What is it that "they" say sometimes? The more things change, the more they stay the same? I can see that. I rememer having a conversation with my dad on his couch, telling him I was going to get married, I was going back to school, and I was moving.

See?

Details are not important. But it happened. The conversation, at least.

Oh yeah, age. My body makes funny noises now when I move at night. I don't rebound as fast as I used to. I know more things, but am forgetting how to interact with people, especially people I love. I give up sooner, even without giving up. I worry about things I didn't used to, but none of those things are houses, kids, careers or success. I have less friends, but they mean more.

So where am I? Canoga Park? Yea. In love? Yes. Sleeping on the couch? Sometimes. Lonely? Sad? Bored? Cold? Excited? Lost? Emotional? Old? Happy? Check, check and check, infinity!

There is no impending doom. There are bad days, but more good days. There are lost nights, but more found days. I like to think I have it figured out, a least part of it, but I say the worng thing, or let the wrong thing hurt me, or let the right thing keep me occupied, and then I realize it is all gone.

It is hard, most days, but it is worth it, and it feels good.

Too happy? Too sad? I don't know.

I've been thinking of friends I've lost, and what my friends have lost, and what I need, and what I miss, and the holes aren't as big as they used to be, but I don't know how to tell anyone.

So, here's this: Thank you. For the snowy walks, for the glimmer you gave to a friends eye, for the tears we had, for the laughs we will have, and for every day to come.

We will get it right, I promise.

In 13 minutes and 45 seconds: PIZZA

Spring break has started. I worked a little and left early. I spent some time with Stephanie, and made a great burrito. (Yes, you can put fake chicken nuggets, boiled potatoes, nacho cheese, black beans, jalapenos and hot sauce in a huge tortilla and not be disappointed.) Rode my bike, walked to the store and now am drinking a 40 and waiting for pizza.

I've got a bunch of exciting things running through my head. There is a definite short story, a couple more songs, maybe a picture idea or two. I am definitely excited for this new, fresh bout of creativity.

Even if I am starting to swim in a sea of self doubt. I'm getting closer to thirty faster than I feel is necessary. I don't see the people I care about enough if at all (that's you, Whit, and parents). I'm feeling more lonely in the city. I'm doubting the possibility of creating a family, including my desire to. School is kicking my ass, but only because I don't care. Things are getting rough.

But my good friends are getting married, my cat sit next to me when I blog (and wakes me up at 6:45 for food, which is ok lately), I have my health, I have music, and I am getting more comfortable with the fact that that things like family, my future, my friends and my own marriage don't have to happen or work out the way I thought they would for them to still work out.

This is post 299. Post 300 will be a picture from the early stages of my road trip to San Francisco. I would give you more, but, sometimes, that is all I have.