The taller the can...

It's not every day I sit in a booth at my job and talk to a coworker about if you had a plan for suicide. Today was one of those days. I like that she asked if there was a plan. Like my house was on fire and I had to get out. Or everything finally caught up to me and I had to explain to everything to everyone. A plan. Well, there are plans. There are scenarios, situations, dance step charts, and assembled pieces of puzzles. But it is no big deal. I also have a plan for the money I'll win in the lottery. And a map of places I want to take the pills I've collected. There are a lot of push-pins in that map. I'm not one to waste. Sometimes. I've been most comfortable drinking in bed. It feels easier then drinking in an empty living room with no tv on. I keep waking up thinking I'm in my old house, the last one, the last day. The day I slept in the living room on couch cushions. The day I burned a bunch of things and cried because all that was left in that fucking house was me and the pots someone else bought for us. I keep looking at my hands and seeing the blood of that guy I punched in the face repeatedly. I was protecting a friend I just made. I was getting out the things I was going to pay a man one hundred dollars a week to listen to. Fighting in the street is free. And doesn't ease your soul. I keep putting money in a box next to my bed that I'm going to give to the county because they caught me drinking and driving. I also keep whatever drugs I am stockpiling in this box. It's a poor-man's version of the drawer I remember as a kid. My bed frame is wide enough hold all the bottles and cans I've been having. So I put them there. The stack of boxes in the corner of the room is slowly collapsing. It makes noise in the middle of everything. I could probably leave it there for years. I just might. There is never enough of anything on a daily basis. I run out of all of it. My skin is dry. My hands don't shake. My tears only show up in bars and booths talking about places and procedures to making things right, atonement, or a cure for boredom. I drive at night, and at day, and bite the insides of my mouth to keep me awake, alive, and interested. I spit blood into a cup from a sandwich shop in the valley. I smoke menthol cigarettes that aren't mine and ash onto a freeway that isn't either. I don't shower for days. I'm an experiment in the unexamined life that is documented. I scream and punch and pout and throw tantrums. I borrow money and spend it on snacks. I sit in the cabs of trucks testing drugs for quality and price, suddenly more knowledgeable then I ever thought I'd be. I sneak. I steal. I lie. I beg. I decide my own fate on minutes of sleep and liters of booze. I listen. I bleed. I write a bunch of self serving statements that may or may not be true. I exercise.

P is for Passion...

My skin was hot in the water. You used ice to try and cool it down or show me a different way of feeling. The bottles had long given up their contents and sat in the distance like the skyline of that city I go back to every few months to make sure it is still there; to make sure I am still alive. Friends of years of yours and minutes of mine slept soundly in the living room, a slight hum from another continent the only sound. If you were me you'd be lost in your eyes too. I keep my hands above the water, rubbing the tips of my fingers, the sensation recalls other nights with you and this is the closest I will get to ever crossing my fingers again. The sky is getting closer to bright blue by the second. You have to feel my heart pounding out of my chest. The shock waves bounce of the walls and crash back into me. Maybe you are immune to it. Maybe you don't notice it, constantly being bombarded with things like this. Maybe your heart beats just as hard and it cancels mine out. When I kiss you I taste copper, the blood from hours of trying to get the most out of life as we possibly can. I let you go and you curse the sun for taking away the night. I silently curse it for taking you away from me.

16/26

football and money

A year ago I was worried about where I was going to live and if I was about to loose my job.

One year later, today, I got a job working for the same company I thought was going to throw me out on my ass. And I live in Canoga Park.

Oh, how things change and how they stay the same.

Almost a whole bottle of Jack Daniels was consumed sitting on a nameless road tonight. We tried to figure out how we had even gotten things together enough in our lives to even meet. Chance encounter after chance encounter with so many people put us on that empty street.

I don't think I've ever been so amazed in my life, how things work out, come together.


You wonder where you change, or how you change. Places, people and things fall in and out of favor. Songs loose meanings, mountains don't scare you, valleys don't hold you, and you don't know why.

It feels good to do this again. The feelings are very different. But I love them.

I think if I ever were to be famous, or someone decided to document me and my life for the sake of prosperity, this last year will be the one. The one that sold the movie deal, the one that gets quoted on the sleeve, the one that people mine for ideas of how to not live their lives and how to create a character with no soul. This last year is the one that so easily folds me into a pretty little package with the ribbon and the shit-paper, my cliff note life.

But godamnit, it would be the best cliff-notes ever purchased.

Or not.

I got a lot of years left of fucking up ahead of me.