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.

R is for Rewind...

I slept for forty five minutes earlier that day. Before that a friend of mine went up to the old stomping grounds with me to see my father and step-mother. Her mother had just passed away so they flew out from Texas for the occasion. Sitting around a dinner table talking about weddings, babies and funerals while everyone eats fried chicken is not as exciting as it sounds.

So we left.

We went to the old bar, the place that used to have most of my drinking memories, for a drink and to meet up with two friends. Our foursome retired to their house soon after. I went to bed on a couch for forty five minutes after the sun rose without my noticing and my nose was kind enough to not start bleeding on my shirt.

Work was a zombie adventure. The blood came at work, somewhere between the chip machine and the dish room. Coworkers with no experience were confused, others knew exactly what was happening.

I went home and tried to sleep. I think I took a nap for five or ten minutes, if I even slept at all. My body was exhausted but wanted that feeling back. I started drinking wine.

That is when you came over.

Sweatpants. No contacts. Hair in a tattered mess.

Beautiful.

We sat across from each other and drank hot chocolate. Mine definitely had baileys and schnapps in it, yours probably did too. We talked about our exes, or soon to be exes, and everything wrong with them. I retold parts of my nights, not to brag, and not to warn, but to shed light on the things that sometimes happen at all night garage parties. You weren't stunned, or shocked, or surprised. It was nice.

I realize now that I didn't know you very well then. And you didn't stay very long. But I can still see you sitting on the couch opposite me, me mugs of cocoa and booze and glasses of wine deep into my evening, you peeling back layers of yourself.

That was the first time I got lost in your eyes.

And I was miles away.

18/26

Hearts, Bones, Nooses, Promises and the other things I break or are broken

Valentines Day is first my mother's birthday. It is everything else second. I like making lists, so I have a list today and a story tomorrow, for Zane's birthday.

• Girls who may or may not have been my valentine during school: Miyoko, Lisa, Ashley, Raquel, Kimi, Christine, Tami and Jessica. I am wrong on some of those.
• Places I have spent Valentines day: Lancaster, Palmdale, Chicago, Riverside, Hume Lake, Northridge, Canoga Park, Maxdons, and Blarney Cove
• All Alkaline Trio songs are about today, especially when I listen to them on Valentines Day
• This list is shitty.
  

nothing feels as old

As I did last night. I sat on my bedroom floor drinking wine, eating fake buffalo wings and then drinking beer. When you meet someone who hasn't heard all of your stories, who wasn't there for all the heartbreak and happiness, who doesn't have all of the same friends, and spent their formative years in different parks/garages/clubs/driveways/backseats you get to learn more about yourself. Recounting losing your virginity is different when it is almost 10 years removed. Replaying soundtracks to your evenings leaves you with songs that don't carry the weight they used to. Trying to explain inside jokes, or why you can't get high, or name sections of deserts that are now empty shopping centers, or which girl it was that you last referred to as a girl, before you started dealing with women, really add the pages to the calender that had snuck on unnoticed up to this point. But being so far removed from these things and realizing that you don't have to defend those decisions anymore, that makes the transitions easy to take. It was a great night on my bedroom floor, like one I hadn't spent in almost a decade.

wine and propagandhi

I drank some wine last night. Bill's parents came over, Crystal cooked, I sat around and drank beer. I should really develop some sort of usefullness. The wine was served with dinner, it made me sleepy. So Bobb came over and we did some sake bombs. I love sake bombs. LOVE THEM. Then we did some Van Halen inspired acrobatics in the backyard. Video's to come.

After dinner and before sake bombs the house watched a Propagandhi DVD. It was glorious. Now, Propagandhi wasn't the first "political" punk band I listened to, that would be Bad Religion, but did it so good! Most of my exposure to radical politics, thinking and lifestyles came from the hours of sitting in my room, door locked, pouring over the lyric sheet with the cd screaming, trying to figure out what was going on. I owe alot to them for influencing the person I am today. So I'll give you a video of those wonderful fellows at the end of this.

I can feel my body starting to wear out. I've been doing a bunch of living, and by living I mean mixing alcohols and beer and vomiting and sweating and playing music and yelling and sulking and crying. This Oregon vacation is going to be nice.