Wednesday, February 24, 2010


Right now I have three steps in the rest of my life. The first step. The step of certainty. I take it knowing exactly what I want and what I want to come of it. I know that two more steps after this that my life will come to an end. I know that all the torture, the agony, the paralyzing guilt, the dreadful regret will all cease to exist after two more steps. This thought is unbearably comforting as I'm so weary from hating myself that the notion of no longer being able to scream at myself for the things I've done, mentally, sounds like a great relief.

The second step is the step of uncertainty. At this step I know that there is only one left in my life. I am one pace away from nonexistence. This makes me question existence in itself. Has it been worth it? Sure there have been unsavory times, horrible even. But it hasn't really been TOO awful. Sure there were the break ups, the failures, the utter shame, but in addition there were the moments of glory, the first hook ups, the drunken friendships, the adventures that bonded entire groups of people together. That wasn't so bad. In fact it was so much fun that sometimes I'd lie awake at night and just recall the ridiculously hilarious comments my friends had made.

The third step is the step of regret. This is the step that causes gravity to firmly grasp at my torn pant legs and pull me towards the ground that's thousands of feet below. This is the step that makes me think of every first kiss, every hug my mom every gave me, every pat on the back my dad reluctantly placed, and every inside joke my friends and I ever shared. This is the step that will eventually seperate my head from the rest of my body, and will place my organs and bodily fluids outside of my skin.

Right now the Earth's gravitational force is pulling me down. Soon I will be a beautiful collection of human paste, no longer able to feel anything. All the deep introspective thoughts I've had erased in less that one second. All this is hitting me right now as I'm about to die and the only thing on my mind is...


Wednesday, August 26, 2009

Great Great Great Grandson

There was a tempest blowing. Waves crashed percussion beats upon the sandy shores, and the few grains that weren't soaked by the ocean were saturated by the pelting rain. The churning navy blue water was frosted with white tips as it sloshed against the land and itself.

Nathan Ahab watched this all in silence from his perch. He stood there marveling at it all, the pure ferocity that was the sea.

"The deep. It is where I belong" he thought, a slow smile curling up the corners of his mouth. His face a history book of scars, each one telling a different story. His hair a mane as thick as a horse's while as silver as a sterling spoon.

He pictured all his adventures. Chasing his prey across the great seas, fighting to survive the elements, swearing revenge on those that wronged him, and wreaking havoc on those that deserved it.

The storm continued to rage, drops of rain collided against the large glass window with a thud, and Nathan sighed heavily. It had been years since he felt truly alive and this downpour had lit a spark that had long been extinguished. Something that had been within his family for generations and generations. The spark inside his chest swelled like the waters of the deep and he knew that he would again return to his passion: the sea.

Nathan stood up, climbed down the ladder, and readied himself to leave. He grabbed his coat, a sturdy article that had weathered many storms more fierce than this one. The doors flung open at his presence, letting the rain wash over his face. Nathan was about to leave and never come back when a harsh voiced called out from the abyss behind him.

"Where do you think YOU'RE going?"

Nathan Ahab spun around and met his challenger eye to eye. He knew he had little hope of leaving with out some confrontation.


"I'm leaving, Stephen, and never coming back" his voice as cold as ice and stern as steel with determination.

"I don't think so. Your shift doesn't end for an hour and fifteen minutes! Get back to work." With that Nathan's manager stamped off, his black oxfords leaving scuffs on the pristine floor.

Filled with a furious frustration that even Poseidon would tremble before, Nathan threw his coat upon the floor and returned to stocking the shelves with printer ink.

Outside of the walls of Nathan's prison, outside the walls of the Office Max where he worked, the storm raged on.

Sunday, July 5, 2009

Room Mating

Walking back to my apartment after going for a run my mind starts to wander. My roommate, Ben has been gone for around three days and gave no warning about his disappearance. He's done this a couple times before and usually just returns randomly and we never discuss where or why he went. I chalk this up to us just being guys and because I don't care enough to ask.

I'm nearing the large wrought-iron gate that is the entrance to my apartment complex and I start wondering what Ben does during these little covert escapades. Since I've been generally apathetic about the on-goings of his life I hadn't really considered what the trips might consist of. Maybe a member of his family is sick and he's visiting for a few days at a time? Probably not, I know his immediate family and a few extended relatives and they're fine. Maybe he's a model and he's going on gigs? Doubt that, though he has been working out pretty intensely for the past few months. I go through a couple more inane possibilities (shooting an adult film or competing in a body building competition) before I land on one that makes me uncomfortable.

Ben's always been a quiet guy and never really talks about what he does in his spare time. When I actually do care enough to ask what he's been up to I usually get a vague "You know. Stuff". Upon prying further he'll either change the subject or just say he doesn't want to talk about it. This matters because I've been watching a lot of horror movies lately and this leads me to believe one thing: I'm living with a serial killer. Or at least a murderer of some sort.

I realize that being a killer of serial status takes a lot of work and repetition. You have to have some sort of recurring theme in your targets. A few examples could be: only killing call girls, obese people, or individuals that love animals more than humans. With this in mind my brain races back and forth as I try to think of things that Ben has shown distaste for. You know his serial thing. I'm dusting out the corners of my head but the best I can come up with is hatred for when people mix up "affect" and "effect" or spell definitely "definately". If he wanted to murder people that did that he'd have to take out the majority of internet users.

With how mysterious he's been, there's no way I could know what kind of victims he daydreams about well, victimizing. And it hits me. Maybe he's been quiet around me because he doesn't like me. And if he doesn't like me why wouldn't I be one of his targets? What if he was just making me think he was gone to throw me off my guard? Great. I'm screwed. Probably. I think.

I get to my apartment and as I'm reaching for the door knob I'm desperately trying to quash thoughts of my finding the severed heads of my family and girlfriend in our refrigerator. Firstly because I'd be horrified. Secondly because I'd probably vomit everywhere, and let's face it, the guy who'd kill someone over mispelling "definitely" is probably the same guy who would make me clean up my own puke before dismembering me.

Pulling open the door into my living room I get an eyeful of two tangled naked bodies and start to panic before I realize that it's just Ben having sex with my girlfriend, Rachel. Wait. What?!

I almost tell him to get off of her but am somewhere inbetween being so angry and relieved that he's not a serial killer that I just kind of stand there in awkward silence. And let me tell you, it is awkward. Normal people just don't look appealing when they're getting it on. Or at least these two don't.

It's nearing the one minute mark and Ben and my now whore ex-girlfriend are still going at it. Either they're really into doing each other or they just don't care that I'm here. I don't really want to find out which of the two it is so I throw the nearest thing that I can find at them. Incidentally my couch is now covered in Mr. Pibb.

Apparently getting a Dr. Pepper knock off all over the two of them is the key to getting their attention. It takes a few more seconds before they manage to untangle themselves from each other and a few more before they actually address me.

I've decided that in this situation it's probably best to let one of them talk first. Ben, sitting up on the couch stares at me blankly for a moment and says matter-of-factly "Oh hey, I've been meaning to tell you. I've been banging your girlfriend".

"Oh" is the only word that really comes mind so that's all I say.

"This isn't the way I wanted you to find out, but I suppose it works" Ben muses whilst scratching himself.

Rachel, my ex, keeps glancing back and forth between Ben and I. She looks stupid.

"You seem kind of angry Jesse, you're not going to try and smother me in my sleep are you?" Ben jokes, but the irony isn't lost on me.

"Ben, shut up", apparently Rachel remembered how to talk.

About this time I remember that the two of them are still naked, and that while Ben has made no effort to cover himself, Rachel it seems is frantically searching the room for anything to cover her shame. Ben and I have a pretty simple life style so she eventually settles for covering her top with an Esquire featuring a grinning Lil' Wayne on the cover and a GQ displaying a screaming Christian Bale to go over her crotch. The face on the magazine resting on her lap and I have much more in common than the one pressed against her chest.

I still haven't said anything else.

With the issues of GQ and Esquire held tightly against her body Rachel starts getting up of the couch and edging towards the exit, "Jess, look. I didn't want to hurt you..." By now she's pretty close to the door which I neglected to shut and I can see where this is headed. Turning around, leaning forward, and putting her head down she sprints out of the apartment at break-neck speed.

She calls out "We'll talk about this later!" mid-stride from down the hall.

At this point I don't really feel like ever speaking to her again so I figure yelling "No We Won't!" down the empty hallway is a good decision.

Turning back to Ben, I contemplate punching his face but I just end up telling him that she has chlamydia and that I'm saving it for marriage. Also that I'm glad he's not a serial killer.

He doesn't get it. Sometimes I forget everyone can't hear my thoughts.

Saturday, February 14, 2009


Jeremy felt awkward.

He'd been making out with Blair for a good thirty minutes or so and things had taken a turn he wasn't prepared for. It was all going smoothly, very smoothly when Jeremy had finally worked up the guts to work his right hand slowly up Blair's shirt. After going on seven dates with Blair and being her boyfriend for a month and a half, Jeremy had finally worked up the courage to go for the gold. The thing is, Jeremy hadn't thought of the reaction his action might cause. This is what caught him off guard.

Upon finally resting his hand on the desired area Jeremy braced himself for some type of retribution that involved quickly removing it. Instead of this Blair swiftly plunged her hand southward of Jeremy's belt line. Jeremy had no idea what to do.

Being sixteen and a half Jeremy had been teased by his friends for several years about not getting any "action" of sorts. Sure he'd kissed a few girls here and there but nothing even remotely close to what was happening now. This was not quite what he was expecting.

Being new to the area of third base Jeremy had hoped to ease into it. It seemed however that Blair being more experienced (Jeremy was her fifth boyfriend and ninth kiss) had no intention of going anywhere near slow. Her hand now enthusiastically running up and down his boxer region, Jeremy slipped into panic.

Hating himself for not wanting to go forward with what seemed like something his friends would kill for, Jeremy started to wrack his brain for ways out of the predicament with minimal damage. He ruled out telling her the truth, that would make him seem wierd. Who didn't want a rough, through-the-pants hand job in the back seat of a 1987 Corolla? No one Jeremy, no one. He thought maybe if he kissed her harder or put more attention on her she might lose focus. He tried this but quickly found that it only intensifed the already vigorous hand movement being performed by Blair. Jeremy's panic increased correspondingly.

Realizing he had no choice but to physically stop her Jeremy tried to muster the moxie to do so. As he desperately tried to, the poor guy had another realization; he was running out of time. Breathing hard he readied himself to pull her hand away when it happened. And when it did he couldn't believe that it had.

He vomited, and he vomited hard. Blair screamed in horror as her brand new top that she had purchased just to look good for Jeremy, was soaked in his puke. Simultaneously filled with shame and relief Jeremy quickly pulled away and climbed into the driver's seat of his car. He didn't even wait for Blair to follow before he put the keys into the ignition and squealed out of the parking lot where they had been making out.

The fifteen minute ride to his date's house was possibly the most excruciating time in Jeremy's life. Blair, being the sweetheart she was, tried to talk about what happened, but everything she said was returned with only a stony cold silence from Jeremy's side of the car.

Arriving at her home Blair stepped out of the car and turned to her boyfriend one last time to try and say something calming. Their eyes met but before she could open her mouth, Jeremy reached over, slammed the door shut, and sped off. Leaving Blair mouth agape alone on the sidewalk.

They dated five more weeks before Blair broke up with Jeremy because he said My Chemical Romance was better than A.F.I.

Wednesday, January 14, 2009


It was when I actually saw the large man in front of me holding the gun that I knew there was a problem.

I had heard him talking on the phone earlier about how he had managed to sneak on the plane this new fangled plastic gun with new fangled plastic bullets. I didn't really think much of it until too late for a few reasons. First of all that just sounds retarded. A plastic gun with plastic bullets? That's Con Air type stuff. Another thing was that he was a burly bald man in a wife-beater with a large handlebar mustache. How can you take anyone seriously with those characteristics? You can't. Thirdly was his pronounced Russian accent. Every other sentence it was "Comrade" this, "comrade" that. Again, how do you take someone like that seriously? And again, you just don't.

Course now I wish I had. I imagine it would be pretty easy to have inconspicuously mentioned what I had overheard to a stewardess. The pilots could have been alerted and locked the cabin doors, effectively preventing this whole debacle from happening. But I didn't and I paid for it. Literally. The grizzly Soviet made me give him my wallet. But whatever. There was only twenty-two dollars in there anyway.

By the time I did see the gun pretty much all the damage that was going to happen, already had. He'd gotten up to use the restroom near the cockpit and I was too absorbed in the in-flight movie to notice him enter it. It was Maid of Honor. A mediocre chick flick about a man trying to woo a long time friend after realizing she was the "one". The plot was just riveting.

There were a few shouts, thuds, and one yelp before the Comrade came out of the cockpit holding in his hand the plastic gun. He looked distressed.

Apparently Mr. Russia had been confused about the lethal nature of the gun. Meaning, it wasn't actually lethal at all. The pistol he planned to hijack the plane with only shot bullets that had similar effects to those of rubber ones. Painful, but not fatal. However being the creative thinker he was, the Ruskie proceeded to plant two shots right into each of Pilot One's eyes. Not mortally wounding him, but still making him useless as navigator of our particular aircraft. It's cool though right? There is always a copilot.

Unfortunately, seeing the fate that befell Pilot One, Pilot Two decided he would valiantly attack his coworker's assailant. This resulted in a swift elbow to his temple, courtesy of senor Comrade. The big bad Russian immediately regretted that course of action because both pilots were now out of commission.

This was obviously not part of his grand scheme because upon re-entering the main cabin of the plane he made an announcement in his thick Russian accent.

"I shot the pilot" He boomed. He then proceeded to go about row by row asking people if they knew how to fly a plane. I of course did. For dramatic effect I waited until he got to me individually before I admitted it.

Upon discovery of my talent the mustachioed muscle man blurted "I'm begging you to fly this for me. I do not want to die just yet." I agreed to accept the task, but only because I enthusiastically shared the same sentiment.

He escorted me to the cockpit where he quickly freed both pilot chairs of their bloody occupants. One seat for me. One seat for him. Goody.

I sat down in the chair and noticed the plane was on autopilot. This was because we were only a little over half way through with our journey. I contemplated finishing out our flight to Denver which would save myself and the other passengers the trouble of booking another flight. But then I remembered that this would greatly increase the face time I would have with the now very peevish looking Russian next to me.

I took care of all the necessary things: radio-ing the nearest airport, filling them in, and etc. etc. We landed a little roughly but other than that I was pretty impressed with myself. I had only flown crop dusters.

After we touched down we had to wait fifteen or so minutes before we could get to a terminal where everyone could be unloaded. During this time the husky Ruskie informed me of his plan to escape. He requested my wallet, and after I gave it to him he opened it and gazed intently at my I.D. As soon as I was about to become uncomfortable with him looking at my picture for so long he disappeared from the cockpit and returned with his carry on bag.

He looked again at my driver's license and then dug around awhile in his newly retrieved bag before pulling out a shaggy wig that slightly resembled my hair. He placed the wig on his head and told me that he would be stealing my identity as a means of avoiding the law. Being five foot ten and weighing a measly one hundred fifty pounds, I was what can only be described as "stupefied". At this a stair car pulled up to the plane and the passengers began to unload, including the hijacker.

He was tackled brutally by security guards the moment his foot hit the pavement.

And that was pretty much my Saturday.

Tuesday, December 23, 2008

Bar Scene

As I pull my lips from the bottle I'm drinking I notice something I hadn't in the previous four or five sips; it's saltier than usual. Of course this isn't hard because beer isn't usually salty. This really doesn't mean anything to me. I'm drinking a Corona, a relatively cheap beer that's served with a lime. Limes are often drunk with tequila which is often drunk with salt. It would make sense if a lime had somehow come in contact with some salt from a margarita and ended up in my beer; this isn't that fancy of a bar. I piece this all together in my head and justify the brackish taste. I smile to myself and think of asking the bartender why my beer tastes like it does just so he can tell me what I just figured. I don't.

I take another pull from the bottle and there's the salt again. No matter, it really doesn't taste that bad. I look to the left, empty bar stools. I look to the right, four chairs down there's a moderately attractive woman. I'm disappointed she's not a knock out but take solace in the thought that three to five more of these salty brews will make her so. In accordance with what's running through my head I gulp down the rest of the bottle. I steal another glance. Damn. Still a six point five at best. I return my focus to my beverage and suck the dregs of the beer down my throat. Huh, still salty. Whatever.

I ask for another Corona from the bartender who has a surprised look on his face when he sees how quickly I finished the previous one. He turns his back to grab a bottle and lingers for a second. I reassure him I'm not that drunk and that he shouldn't be thinking about whether or not to give me another. I don't think that was what HE was thinking cause he gave me one before I had finished my statement. Honestly I don't really care what he's thinking.

I turn my attention to the slightly-better-than-okay female a few seats down. She's kinda despondent looking, I like that. Course I can't blame her for being blue in a place like this. I swallow hard a few times and down a little more than half the bottle of beer. Man that's salty. I take another look and she's gotten a bit cuter. That's faster than normal, but whatever, I'm not going to argue with the results. I down the rest of the Corona and another before I work up the nerve to talk to her.

The conversation doesn't last long before things start to go wrong. Right after I weasel her name out of her my head starts to spin. God this doesn't feel normal. The taste of salt is strong in my mouth as I collapse to the floor. My heart's beating faster than all the horse's combined at the Kentucky Derby, and I can barely make out the kind-of-cutie's concerned face as I drift in and out of consciousness.

The bartender's face looks relieved compared to bit-above-average's when I start to piece things together again. I'm not really drunk, I'm dying. That salty taste isn't from an accidental lime but rather it's most likely from the subtle amount of rat poison the bartender-who-isn't-really-a-bartender/hitman has been sneaking into each and every one of my beers. I guess this is what I get going to a sleazy bar a couple of hours before I testify in court against a mob boss.

The worst part is my dying sight is the visage of a six point niner calling an ambulance and a moldy roof that has a stain that resembles Bob Hope's profile. God I hope I make it to Heaven. The gin joints there probably have cuter barflies.

Wednesday, December 17, 2008

We're Still Best Friends Right?

Hey uh, we're still best friends, right? I mean you haven't returned any of my calls (and there have been plenty of opportunities man). Dude all these years we've been friends and you're going to let one chick ruin that...

Oh good, you picked up the phone!

You remember that time we got drunk in your basement sophomore year in high school? Who am I kidding? Of course you do! Anyway, we had just broken up with our current girlfriends at the time (God rest Katie's stupid whore soul) and you wrapped your arm around my shoulder and said I was all you ever needed 'cause we were best friends.

No dude, you totally said that.

No I swear you did.

Anyway man, you said that and I thought you actually meant it. I made "Friends Forever" wrist bands. You don't want yours? Really? I spent, like, THREE hours making them.

I really can't believe you're letting a girl come between us! No, no, let me talk. I remember a time when we could slap each other's asses and laugh it off, now you can't even look me in the eye. Well I bet you wouldn't if we were in person.

Look dude, I really didn't want this to happen. But seriously it was only one chick. Chill out. Dude. Ashley came on to ME, I swear. I mean I helped you out! You were going to marry that skank. You should be thanking me. But anyway....

You down for drinks later?