Victims and Heroes

I’ve never been a victim of anything. I’ve had stuff done to me, like any other, but signs were there. Red flags and signals of the impending actions, but I refused to see. Blinded by love, lust, pride, you name it. Enough fog to rival a Sunday morning in San Francisco. I don’t blame myself for my mistakes of trust or character. Its a part of living and growing. Experiences that bring about a deeper, harder and stronger person. You can’t rightly survive without knowing the pain of betrayal or shortsightedness or impulse addiction. Its how it is.

Which brings me to the hard truths that so many people forget. It goes without mentioning in the Sphere that there’s a Western-wide idea that there are victims everywhere. The poor, racial minorities, sexual minorities, religious minorities, entire cultures, women, children, entire nations… everyone is a victim of everything. Not everything is criminal enough to warrant a harsh sentence, but the few acts they have cordoned off as so heinous that the law cannot apply as written. It must be re-written time and again until the very act is removed from thought through pain of a leering, liberal public.

It is these acts they froth at the mouth for that are usually the most preventable.

I see time and again from schoolmates and old friends, on Facebook feeds and Twitter timelines and from their mouths, the complete and total loss of their common sense when stories come along of a cop punching a unruly woman, shooting a threatening man or quelling a riot. I see fire and brimstone in their eyes over a media-fueled story on rape by teenagers at a party. When a politician lies, when a banker gets another bonus, when a nation is bombed by the U.S. (or isn’t, depending on the civil war). When a black kid doubled back to attack an armed wannabe cop who insulted him. When people are offended, hurt or killed by their own choices, they lose all peaceful facade and show you the reality underneath. The indignant growl that someone would scrape the thin, flaking paint off of civilized life and show the hard iron that is true humanity. They forget what it is to be human through the clouded thoughts of a “humane” viewpoint. It makes them forget a cold truth:

A victim, a real victim, is a person who has been wronged through no fault of their own.

I’ve known a few people truly harmed in their lives. Those who have pulled themselves together and and stood up, they are the most extraordinary, strong people I know. I’ve known people brutally beaten for no reason. I’ve known people molested as children. I’ve known people touched by the very worst of humanity simply because they existed. I’ve known people that took pain time and again waiting for the right time to vanish, and they did. Despite it all, despite the fists and violations they suffered, they put up and saved themselves. With knives to the throats of their kin. With vanishing acts from all they ever knew and loved. With the heaviest of hearts and no other choice. And those who I still talk to, I can’t help on occasion, or when they’re down, to remind them how strong they are and how I admire them. How much stronger than me that they’ve been.

So, when I hear this word pushed around, it doesn’t fall on sympathetic ears.

If you confront a cop, you’re going to get hit, beat or shot. Most so-called brutality is just some fucktard thinking they can convince or defeat what is essentially a solider for the city, not using their fucking head and telling the powers that be what is problem with his arrest is. Instead, he or she swing fists or spit and end up bloodied. Not a victim.

If you walk into a party as a teenager and get drunk with a bunch of strangers, or even a group of friends, guess what? You’ve put yourself at risk. Unless you trust a person with your life, you don’t drink yourself until you are motionless and vulnerable to everything an intoxicated person can do. Drunk people commit crimes. Drunk people rape. Drunk people kill. If you know the people you’re with, fine, but what fucking idiot walks into a party full of people they don’t know and basically draws a giant target on their chest, most of all a woman. Honey, you know the stories. You’ve heard the news. Had the talks with parents and teachers. Maybe even a lady officer came in and told the entire school that rape culture is not cool, and yet you STILL walk into the jaws of intoxicated chaos? What happens to you may be a crime, but you are not a victim.

I once ran into a friend of the First when I was in college. It was outside of an dying coffee house chain. This friend knew some sketchy people, but I sat down with her anyway. Within 15 minutes, I had a knife pulled on me. I knew the reputation of the people around me, but I stayed. Not a victim, just an idiot.

A victim is my friend who was beat time and again by a man 3 times her weight, a man who would pin her if she tried to run, until one night he passed out drunk and she vanished with just the clothes on her back, crossing an entire nation to find safety. A victim is another friend who had a blade to her own father’s jugular after he raised his fist to her; that knife and the piss running down his leg ended 15 years of abuse. A victim was my distant relative who while closing up his hard-earned, barely floating shop, was shot in the head by two ghetto scumbags and robbed of a few hundred dollars, if even that.

A victim is a person who has been wronged through no fault of their own. Everyone else that claims to be is just human cattle, willingly lined up and sacrificed for preachers, politicians and the 6 o’clock news. Their bodies piling up, with markers of red or blue for whatever sides profits most from their deaths. For every man who fights a cop, for every girl who walks blindly into a party of strangers to get hammered, for every single person that lets their mind cloud their instinct, there is an activist or Senator who silently smiles within when your corpse is put to ground.

Don’t be part of their blood coffers, brothers and sisters. Learn to survive like my friends have. Be smart and you won’t have to go through what they did and also have it on your own head. Learn to survive and you’ll feel more alive, and more human, than any idea or drug can give you. It won’t guarantee you won’t be someone’s target, but that’s the price of living. The price of being men and women instead of fodder.


I Dare You


No, you can tell ’em all now
I don’t back up, I don’t back down
I don’t fold up, and I don’t bow
I don’t roll over, don’t know how
I don’t care where the enemies are
Can’t be stopped, all I know; go hard
Won’t forget how I got this far


There’s a whole world out there that tells you you aren’t good enough.

It tells you that who you are is wrong. A moral stain on the goodness of a thousand bloody empires stacked on each other, bleeding down to the thirsty, meandering zombies asking for one more chance.

The voice of these priests of chivalry come in many costumes. They walk among you, pointing fingers, digging nails deep into you from the furthest stranger to current lover. You can feel it. The shadows crawl into your skin, under your muscles and into your very spirit. The smile you give is false. Beneath the teeth is shaking anxiety.

Am I good? Am I good enough? Why are these people looking at me? Did I say something wrong?

Who are these voices?

They are the universe showing you what not to do. Paths of folly, quantum physics made physical and given consciousness.

I had my voice. Ariel was that voice. A screeching, pathetic, ill speaker broken on delusion. Aside from the holidays and being sick, my last month has been wrought with dealing with what this stalker was saying to me. I let it in and it dug deep.

And it failed.

She called me names. Rapist. Abuser. Unwanted. Harassed me with text messages. Attacked my self-image and self-worth. The things I told her when I thought she was worthy of my life’s story were bullets in her manic depressive volley. Tired and weak, she struck, and I felt so angry, so lost, that this busted cunt was in my head. And she could get away with it. Already arrested and released. Already put away, let go and given no help by the grand mental health apparatus of Ontario. If I walked into a police station and show them text messages, what would they do they hadn’t already done?

“Change your number,” someone said to me when I told them the story. “Ignore her and she’ll go away.”

don’t come to Taps or youll get beat up lol, she sent to me last night.

Ignorance is not bliss, at least not to those still stuck in reality. The delusional ill… well…

The only thing left was to give up.

Give up caring. Give up doubting. Give up the very last vestiges of every stupid, childish, weak thought that stopped me from doing what I want. What is left after rock bottom? Nothing, but up. Every step until you see yourself in the oasis’s pond, drinking up sun.

This lost female soul in the crack of a modern nation dared me to change.

Much to her chagrin, I changed. And when her obsessive eyes reads this… who cares? Fuck her. Fuck any woman who thinks she can “make you better”, to put it simply

I dare you to change. I waited for a manic depressive stalker to force me in to the corner. Bad idea. I let myself destroy my gains. Don’t let that happen to you.

Don’t wait. Don’t stop. Aim for perfection. There isn’t any other choice.


On a side note, I’ll be making several improvements to the blog over the next few weeks. Look out for them.

On the Way Across the Border

You will always hit low points in your life. There is no question about that. Even the most perfect lives have bad days. It is how you handle them that will define you to yourself and to others.

I had a dream about the Ex last night. Not one where I could revel in a revenge fuck or some equal joy, but a reminder of the shit she pulled before we got married. Coupled with a lack of sleep and now, as I write this, driving to a family gathering in Western New York, this could be a shitty day.

But, I got up and soldiered on. I have shit to do. I have shit to do tomorrow and the day after. Everyday is about getting shit done, no matter pain or mood or lecherous cunts.

Back to the Plan

I come to Salt Lake to visit friends, to relax, to see if I can get some club play, but, as is my 2011, things don’t work out that way at all. Less eating, memories, or whatever the cause, I was in a major funk. Anger, depression, sadness; it felt like I had never left. Three months had never past and I was still hanging on. The birthday night didn’t help.

Yesterday, I talked to my folks. While I was feeling much better than the days before, I was still feeling lost. I had the thought that while married and working, I had a path and a stability. Now, without either, I was floating. I have gained a lot of psychological and emotional strength in California, dealing with the great personalities of Californian women, uselessness and other things. But its only one piece of a very large puzzle.

California is fucked economically. I have a long history of hard work with several companies, working for them for years, but I can’t get hired. I’m on unemployment. I’m not getting anywhere in California with girls or friends. Except for my relatives and the friends I talk to over the net and phone, I am alone. This cannot go on for much longer. There has to be some stability. An ability to find connection.

This is why, despite my attempts at not having to, I am going to go back to my parents place. The Canadian economy is doing much better. I have the support of them, of my other family, my friends in the area. There is a lot there that I need right now, despite my stubborn, independent personalty. Its a great benefit to have, but sometimes you’ve just got to recognize when you’ve got to go home again and start from a solid foundation.

It won’t be forever. It won’t mean I can’t see friends in Utah or family in California. Getting a job in a better economy, feeling better and having being on my own, truly, will allow for those last pieces of the puzzle to connect to make the whole.

I’m strong. I am not afraid. I am willing to move to my advantage and move again to follow my wants. That’s something I wouldn’t have done before the Ex left. Or when I first arrived in California.

Things are always getting better.

Thirteen Past Midnight’s Hollow

You don’t hold much in your hands. Usually, its nothing. Sometimes, its a drink, a fork with some food, a ball or a remote. Other times its a baby, or a woman, or a gun. Sometimes, what you have in your hands can change your entire life, and sometimes what you you have in your hands makes no difference to anyone at all.

It doesn’t take much to bring a man down. It takes a lot to bring him back up. Men are killing their families because of debt, of the economy, politics, failure and hurt. They walk from bedroom to bedroom, stabbing or shooting or asphyxiating their blood for no good goddamn reason. They are weak. They are washed out of the world.

Its way past the time normal people would be strolling the neighborhood. In one hand, a smoke, in the other, nothing. Not yet. The footfalls scrape against asphalt. I walk down the middle, looking left and right. I check out each car. Flashing red lights telling me to walk on, brother, walk on. At night, I feel like I own the town. There’s not a soul. A cat. A nest of coons. House after shiny home, cars lined up in driveways and garages, families tucked in deep. Doors locked and hearts at peace. Click, click of a old soul on the porch, lighting up. I walk on by, giving a silent nod though he can’t see me.

I wear the only pair of jeans I like. Ratty, tearing at some places, loose, used, historic. Sneakers on my feet. Cheap things. I think of being noticed. Then I remember none of these people think it’ll happen to them. A laser light of rage and anger sweeping into their eyes, burning the back of their skulls, just because it can. They’d second guess anyway. They’d wonder what was the right move. They’d take time, precious time, and work it out. They have things. Things to lose. Things to covet. Things to keep secret. I don’t. I’m not afraid. I don’t hide anymore.

I wear patches of pain upon a skin worn by a child. Ideas pass by and get stuck, damming up the river, creating choke points. I push and dig and obsesses over getting it done. I forget that water, nature, finds its way around everything. It created the mountains that tower over me. The riverbeds where the city gets its name. It created the trees I sit under. The fingers which fidgets with my pocketknife. The flow will go on, with or without my unwanted assistance. Its always been that way. It’ll always be that way.

There is nothing that can change the skin, the river or the eyes that prefer the dark to the light. That need to hunt and watch and climb above the back and forth of a life forced on everyone by uppers and betters and old dead men with old dead thoughts. We do what we have to do to survive. To live. To live beyond. I do this. I tap the items in my pocket hoping one night, something will come along. But I can wait. I have all the time in the world. There are more patches to sew on. More streets to walk.

One Step Back, Three Steps Forward

So the last half of this week has been pretty harsh. A lot, and I mean A LOT, of shit came down on me all at once. The pressure to find a job, the Ex bugging me about getting her off the car loan (something I can’t do without a job), the simmering beta stench of my actions around Maria. Things just went from bad to Hell.

It culminated in an act that I can say is both beta, omega and stalkerish. I was feeling like hell already from a few days of drinking at several different bars over Riverside, and from the pressure I’d been putting on myself. I was laying on the couch, watching TV and for the third day in a row tried to contact Maria. No answer, just voicemail. Pissed already from the Ex, I left a slightly irritated message asking what was up and if something is wrong, just tell me. Not a minute later, I get up, put my shoes on and tell myself “This is a fucking stupid idea.” A few minutes later I’m at her door, knocking, wanting answers. No response. I ring the doorbell. No response. I try the knob. Its open. FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK! Something is very wrong. My stumbling backwards…

As I said in my last video blog, this is what anxiety can drive you to do. I’ve done many a stupid things based on the thoughts in my head driven by the screaming woman behind the wheel. It hears things that aren’t real. It sees things that aren’t there. Its not literally thing that aren’t there (voices, images), but when I heard a sound when the Ex and her friend we went to see in Arkansas disappeared for a sec, it sounded like a kiss to me. I was already on the edge of the edge, and that drove me over. Turns out, it was him snapping at her because she left the bathroom door open with kids in the house (yeah, I was married to a guy with a pussy, pretty much). I attacked myself over and over for fucking it up, when I had no control of what happened. She had turned towards divorce a year before any of the shit went down. The argument we had before the trip to see her folks wasn’t the beginning, it was the climax of the movie.

Maria was just sick. We hung out later that afternoon. I was still under attack, but I kept it at bay as best I could. We made plans for a real date later in the week. I talked her into a kiss, even though she was sick. I made it half way to my car, then realized I needed help with the paranoia, the other half of the walk was calling up someone who I could talk to. Something good could of died if I followed the paranoia instead of stepping back. Step one forward achieved.

The next day, on the advice of my mother, I worked my day one hour at a time. I watched movies, I finished another song, I wrote, I read, I drove around for a bit. I kept my mind out of the darkness and kept it working. With that, I could feel it want to return. Thoughts of “what ifs” came at me left and right, but I kept them away. The urge to hit up Maria was there, but it was easily swatted away. Yesterday was the same. I drove to Burbank to grab my relatives who were back from their trip to the South. I watched movies. I napped. I wrote. I went out for a drink or two at the Sire. I also picked several places I could take Maria and gave them a section of numbers between one and thirty. I used to do this with the Ex because she was indecisive, but now I’ll use it on my girls (sparingly of course, never over do it). They pick the number and that’s where we’ll go, so its their choice, even though they’ll have no idea where we’re going until we get there. I threw in a super-date plan as well, but its been assigned only one number. If she gets it, props to her ESP or whatever. Step two.

The final step forward was letting go of the pressure, the massive weight I put on myself, to get a job and having the failure reflect on me badly. I’m a white 25 year old male in California. Its pretty much a given I’ll only get a job if its in my industry, if I know somebody or if God loves me. I can easily stretch out my money, and I have a single credit card, so none of that debt like it piled up with the Ex. I’ve run my gambit of self loathing outings, so my bar tab can easily be only $10 and last at least an hour. I’m not going out anymore because I feel like shit. I’m going out because I feel like going out. A drink, a smoke and just letting my mind calm itself down.

I’m getting there…

Book Writing #1

I had collected all of Change (In the House of Flies) into one word document, including The Resurrection sub-series, and it topped out at 10 000 words. While the first three parts were usually written under duress or influence of alcohol, the Resurrection series was written with sober eyes and crisp memory. I read the differences. I read how my style did not change, but the detail of the women, the club and everything else added to the style. I thought about it for a while. I talked to Kay. I thought about a short story. I tweeted the number of words I had, around 13 000, after adding in some other posts from SFTD. Around the same time Willy Wonka asked me if I was writing a book, I had made the choice. This wasn’t going to be Roosh’s A Dead Bat in Paraguay (READ IT). No memoir, no travel story, no six months of waiting and having to shit 24/7. I was going to take my story, with little adventure and a ton of introspection and hurt and hate and Hell, and make it something people can relate to. A statement of my will, if not a young generation of men. Not a book that could change the world. That’s up to the readers, and I frankly look at anybody to be the voice of the people with much skepticism. This will be a book that makes me happy I wrote it and makes me happy that someone read it.

To write this, I have to pound away day after day, which is easy since I don’t have a job yet. On Monday, I got in around 5000 words. I know writers who can barely get in a paragraph some days. Putting meat on the skeleton this Change. Adding true detail. Pondering what fictional, yet related events I could add to keep the story true. Tuesday, less so due to family obligations and just not burning myself out. I have other interesting coming to the surface after years of suppression: music and exercise mostly. Downloaded a few DJ demo programs, gave it a few minutes of testing before returning to other things. I will have to get a job soon. My steady television work isn’t until near the end of summer, that’s if they end up hiring me. My bills will kill me before then, even when I’m spending little to nothing.

The most important things I can do right now is just plug away at it as much as I can, but not obsessing over every word or every moment. Just let it flow out. When I write of moments, I’m feeling the pain of the fights and the sense of loss. When I lose that. When I’m writing to fluff, I’ll have to stop. But, that’s a long time away. The last 5 months have been a hell of a ride.

Change (In The House of Flies), Part 4: The Resurrection, Part 5

The first full day there was rest. Organization and rest. I repacked my bags so to make it easier for the long drives. Electronics here, clothes there, food there, and so on. It took me most of the day. I wrote, I read, I kept busy, but not too busy. It was relaxation after all. I had contacted Becky, a friend and former co-worker, and we set up a time to meet. I hadn’t seen her in three years. Her husband, Rick, was a good friend too, even our time working together was cut short by his unjustified firing. Such is the business of entertainment. She wanted to meet in West Hollywood. Left around eleven, missing the traffic from the Inland Empire streaming into LA.

I arrived early and had a smoke sitting on the edge of one of the flowerbeds, remembering all the times I had driven or walked to this place to pick up the Ex. She worked at the Best Buy. Sometimes I’d get mixed up and walk to it when I was supposed to be at the Bed, Bath and Beyond Store far down Sunset. I was fine with it. I liked walking. I began to miss Los Angeles.

It took them a while, but they arrived with their dog Debbie. I was surprised when both Becky and Rick both gave me hugs. I hadn’t known them that closely, or so I had thought. They looked excited, like I was a long lost friend. I felt close, like I felt with Adrian and Lana. I told them the story. I explained the money problems and even went into my changes from the two days previous. “I changed between ten pm and meeting a drunk girl,” I said, smiling. Becky smiled and slightly jolted in her seat. They knew me as timid and clingy. As a hard working kid, not as an adult. We talked for nearly two hours, grabbing drinks at Jamba Juice. They told me of their freelancing in television and film. Rick getting enough work for them to stay solvent. Becky pursuing writing and acting. They both had been part of the machine I was a cog in. When I got tired, when my kid brain had enough, I went to a new machine. They broke the cycle. I admired them greatly.

I was riding a high from the night at Area 51. I was riding high from being in the sun, the clear blue sky, the swagger in my walk and the confidence of my talk. I felt the third eye scan the world around me, judging, watching and targeting. I tingled all over, underneath, vibrations so slight I had to stop to feel them. Everything had gone right. Everything was good. What felt right was right and what felt wrong was wrong. There was no questioning. No choices. No debating. There was just what I wanted and that was it. I called my dad and told him I’d be staying in California, not coming back to Canada. I’d be staying with my uncle. I’d get work, pay off my debts and make my life, alone but not lonely, out West, as I always said I would. I was home and I was being told it was by the little motions of the universe. I imagined real cowboys, gunfights, world saving and honor and nations for years. Politics and history and morality. It was all bullshit. The West called me out to do this, to write, to have fun, to be big and be bigger. I called my mom that evening and I cried to her. I cried simple tears. Real tears. No anxiety. No shaking or fear or Hell. These were the tears of five months of suppression crashing down around me. The realization I’d spent half a year dealing with the end of my marriage. The midway of 2011. The peak of the hill is coming up. I was scared shitless of what I had done, but I was also supremely excited. Deep down, I felt as I feel right now, like the certainty my uncle and his family have of God’s will in their lives, I have the certainty my life will blossom here. That alone, with each step taken and without looking back, I can walk down the street, the pier or into a room and I am the motherfucking man. No bitch, no boy, no chav, no cunt… no one can tell me any different.

God likes playing tricks. He found me the perfect woman and made her fat, stubborn and impulsive. He made her barren. He made her annoying. He made her mine and then he made her leave. He made me cry. He made me timid. He made me question myself and bring me to edge a dozen times. He made a sure thing into a throwback. He taunted me with rabbits, pussy and the loving arms of family thousands of miles away. No more. No rules. No ways. No fear.

God’s not going to like what I have in store.

My sins are just the beginning…

Change (In The House of Flies), Part 4: The Resurrection, Part 4

He drove us back to Lana’s place, and his place now that he had asked for Lana’s hand. My opportunity to actually feel the alcohol I consumed instead of slight blips of taste. My chance to brag and regale and unwind from unwinding. My chance to slow down. My expectations were delusional. When we arrived, Paul was seated in the single seat couch, otherwise known as a chair and ottoman, playing Mass Effect 2. Paul was a glorious nerd of massive wit and eternal kindness. He could cuddle his son one minute, work his ass off another and bust a very gross joke the next, all while getting all 95 achievements in Red Dead Redemption. Paul was a giant kid. A thirty-something bic-ed loveable kid. Immediately, Adrian gives me a Hops Rising beer. Bitter, dark but 9% alcohol and locally brewed. A good start.

We watch Paul bust through the plethora of talking in the game, waiting for Lana to return. Soon, Orange and Rex came in. I had met both of them once or twice. I never met any of these brothers-in-arms much. I was happy to see them. Orange was a DJ and had just come back from a birthday party. A great looking woman, her friends and her daughters. He was dressed in a crisp white shirt, black suit jacket, black tie; the formal ten. Always with a smile, he recounts the story of his night. The woman is pointing out everyone there. Orange saw two drop dead, boner inducing women, mouth slightly opened. The birthday girls leans over to him and says “And those two are my daughters. They’re off limits.” My first thought was he should of went for them anyway, but a good man knows that pay trumps women, especially the disposable kind. A lightweight redhead became extremely enamored with him during the night. She “guns” were used, over and over and over, until she tipped over. An ex even shows and he has to escort her out. “I’m working,” he said. I listen closely.

It became my turn to tell my story. I should of felt overwhelmed. I should have been overshadowed by Orange. I’d heard several of his stories, but I was still high off the simple things I had done. It was basic game. It was below basic. The men I read on the net – Dagonet, Willy Wonka, Roosh, Roissy – that was their light breakfast, if they felt like it. But, for me, it was the start. It was winning the playoffs, even if it was the pee wee leagues. I was happy. That’s all that mattered. I went into the story. Lana returned, hands full of bags and clothes. Quickly, after hearing the conversation, she backed me up. “She had great tits.” We went into the kitchen. Paul broke out his smooth, licorice tasting Columbian liquor. We all shot and talked. We all told stories. Rex about the gray-haired hippie lady he drunkenly hit on. His band mates watched from a distance and laughed as she tried to pick him as he desperately tried to find a polite out. Orange talked about giant clits. I told a very short version of a girl I worked with at Denny’s and fucked twice after I quit, both times in public parks. Without the shots, the laughs and the barbs between us all, I may have remembered how half the time her dog cockblocked me. It didn’t matter. It was the best time I’d had in a very, very long time.

It rolled around five and Orange had already went home. I was pretty drunk and I had to get up early enough to make it to my relatives in California at a decent hour. We all had a last smoke and went to sleep. Only Orange was sober enough to drive home. The rest of us scattered around the condo. I got about five hours of rest before Paul woke me up as he promised, the sound of coffee being made and I enthusiastically took a cup. I could feel the Columbian devil water still in me, but I had no choice. All my shit was in the car. All the shit I thought I needed. All the shit I thought I didn’t have the balls to throw away. Things I may do or may want. It was all things. The Exs storage closet held enough require five of my cars, if you packed it tight. I gave a handshake to Paul and we said our goodbyes as he went off to work. Then, as requested, I knocked on Lana and Adrian’s door. They came down and Lana gave me a giant hug, wishing me the best and headed back up to sleep. Graveyard shifts. Adrian went outside for a smoke and I joined. We talked for a bit about the trip and smaller things. I only had half my cigarette. I needed to space them out if I was going to make this habit last an entire carton. We shook and I left. Some Marylin Manson on the stereo.

I felt excited. I felt ready. I hit the road and realized I was still drunk. The intoxication fell off around southern Utah where I stopped for Gatorade and a smoke. I pondered on what Kay had told me about an hour earlier. The Red Cross in Tuscaloosa was slow and inefficient with the tens of thousands of volunteers helping. I had taken over the conversation. I wanted to expose it. I know people. Benefit of big family. I went on and on and on. Then, when I gave her a word, she reminded me that the problems happened days ago, not currently. All she wanted to do was vent about the past problems. I jumped on it like I jump on a lot of things. Like ideas. Like feelings. Like my marriage. It was a kick to the ego. One needed. The humbling ying to the alpha yang.

At the station, after pondering, surrounded by new condos in the middle of the parches desert, a jackrabbit burst out of the brush and stopped dead in the middle of a clearing no more than 20 feet away from me. I stared at it for several moments. It didn’t move. For years, I had tried to hunt jackrabbit in Utah, the only animal you can kill without a permit due to its massive population. I was told they were everywhere. I had even seen them on hikes. Yet, every time I took my .22 with me to hunt, they were never there. Any rabbit I did see either was too far, ran at an insane speed directly left or right, or popped up when I was out of ammo. Now, for whatever reason, God or whomever had decided to taunt me a dumbass rabbit, as he did with a drunk girl. It was at this time I concluded that it was God’s plan to prank me as much as he could, and that I needed to start pranking his ass back in whatever way I could.

It took 11 hours to get to southern California from northern Utah. Traffic jams from Vegas straight into the Valley. Agriculture checkpoints 100 miles in the California border. Dumbasses galore. I was home, again. God pulled another prank on me while I was stuck on I-15 with thousands of others: Osama bin Laden got capped. I had thought about that moment for many, many years. I wanted to be at a bar, or at home with family and friends, or be able to be able to join in the celebration. Fucker died while I was squinting into the brake lights of some soccer mom’s minivan, waiting for my turn to look at a pulled over sports car. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Why couldn’t it have been yesterday? Why couldn’t it have been with Seasons’ tits in my hand? If anything would of pushed me to take her into the bathroom that night and carve my name into her thighs with my dick, it would have been that. Even goths hate terrorists. I called my mom about it, she being a political person. Her reaction was, as I used to be, as Spike was, a downer. It didn’t matter. Who cares if he’s dead? I cared. I was happy. Some people need to die, no matter what. Its in male genetics to murder our enemies. The yang returned. Embrace the animal. The nature of man. Quit fucking downing yourself. I turned on Queen and belted my cracking voice.

When I got to my uncle’s place I was drunk on fatigue. It took me three hours to fall asleep. Something still wasn’t right. My mind still having insane thoughts at insane speeds like it did in Utah. I popped a Xanax, knowing it was the second to last one, knowing that if I was addicted it would be a very bad thing to run out. I didn’t want to be. This was supposed to be a rest. Something still wasn’t kosher, but I pushed it away. I just wanted to sleep. Sleep was short. Sleep was restless. The only thing that still ran well was the ego.


The finale, tomorrow.

Change (In The House of Flies), Part 4: The Resurrection, Part 3

Part 1Part 2Part 3Part 4:1Part 4:2


The next hour was a blur of moments stuck together with ego and cock. There was much talking, much grinding, much wondering and a lot of smiling. A spate of kisses on lips and neck. The smell of her hair. The looks she gave. The smile. If I was younger, I’d be in love. I would be all over her like static-charged plastic. If she tried to shake me, I wouldn’t fall off. But that was years ago. That was weeks ago. That was hours ago. The now said I was in command. I was the center, not her. I was being leaned in to. I was being returned to. I was the Earth and she the little specks of nothing that fall into orbit, fated to get burned up.

Spike still wasn’t having a good time due to her overwhelming moral requirement to watch Seasons. My words of safety did not ring with her, apparently. I didn’t blame her. From what the tits with a mouth said to me, truth or lies, the girl was at very minimum a mental slut. With alcohol, she’d lay down for the Pope. Even with the honorable code of not-letting-your-friend-fuck-everything, Spike’s hovering act annoyed me. I had encouraged her to go do the electric play. I left Seasons’ bouncing ass so she could hang and make her friend happier, hoping it would pay dividends. The guy who smelled like a store’s absence didn’t help either. Luckily, Spike usually just kept an eye, which at least gave room to have her friend’s ample affection focused on me. But I couldn’t ever really get really aggressive or risk Spike getting the wrong idea.

“I like to be a girl,” Seasons told me. “I don’t get why girls try to be guys.” I inferred that she was talking about Spike.

I set my face slightly against her hair. “I don’t either. Girls and girls and guys are guys. I like feminine girls.”

“Its just not sexy.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“They called me sexy,” she turned against me to point at cowboy and cat. “When people call me sexy, I just can’t help myself.” Her eyes were ablaze. Head pointed down slightly, eyes pointed up. Lips parted. Her tongue hidden from view.

I looked back at her and paused for a moment. I didn’t even have to think of what to say. It was on the way to my vocal cords before the process that used to be my way of thinking even could conceive of the event. Straight game. Straight player. Pure fun. I extended the pause for dramatic effect, then: “Let’s hold off on that.”

She huffed and puffed, but she smiled like I had found her verbal clitoris and got even closer. I kissed her hair again, locking my hands on to her ass.

Closing in on 1am, she wanted to go back to the floor and dance. I was talking with M and C, they sighed, rolled eyes and smiled at the same time. As I was being dragged, I told C that after this I’d lose her. C looked happy. I wanted to hang with them more before we had to leave, before I left Salt Lake City for God knows how long. C had a warning signal for when Seasons came around, “Boots! Boots! Boots!” Before, I’d be offended by such things. Instead, I laughed. Her hand hooked in mine, the club bunny pulled me into the crowd. Spike began her awkward dance, again, while my girl returned to growing cock between her ass cheeks. I thought I’d have to bail like I did before when Spike kept checking her phone every thirty seconds. I focused on Seasons, hoping for something good to happen. And, like the landing of an angel upon the three spires of a Orthodox Church, Spike’s man showed up, in style. BAM! The sour, dour and partypooping bisexual punk who was “into girls at the moment” lit up. Fireworks in her eyes. The first real smile I’d seen all night. The energy exploded from Seasons. Gyrations increased their frequency. She intertwined her fingers into mine, bringing them up upon her tits, both the underside bra and the naked skin above. She moved her hair and I obliged over and over. When she leaned her head back against my shoulder I kissed her. I looked over and saw Spike and her boy do it as well. Few minutes later, Seasons leaned back again and I gave another kiss, this time I invaded her mouth. When she pulled back, the spark and the smile said it all.

This was a girl who must of gotten constant attention for her breasts and her outgoing personality. Twenty-one, single, open to fucking and able to get drunk in minutes, there must have been a line to fuck her (or realistically, a line that already had), but apparently her hamster was rolling ’round and ’round in circles unable to get off its ride from Hell. First, it was my straight forward kiss that set it on a healthy trot. Then, my leaving her, then wanting her to come back. The lack of clinginess. The lack of compliments. The agreement with her bad ways. The cockiness. The (slight in my view) aggressiveness (fucking Spike!). And what topped it all off was, about thirty minutes before she took me to the dance floor for that last long and lip-locked session, Spike had told her I was from out of town, taking my attempt to calm her nerves as an admittance of outsider. In a conversation about where we live, she got confused that I told her I lived in Sandy, a city near where I had a place only 11 hours before.

“No, I’m moving,” I corrected her.

“Where are you moving?”

“To New York,” I said. I hated getting conversations railroaded by the Canadian excitement. Oh Canadian EH? How is Canada? Is it cold? Fuck that. Wasn’t going to let it break the perfect momentum of alcohol, sadness and wet panties.

M was sitting right beside us and turned to me, “What’s she asking?”

“Where I’m going,” I told him.

“To Canada,” he belted, before I had a chance to inform him of my sly location misinformation.

The look on Seasons face was priceless. I leaned back to M and told him of my fib, then turned back to the poor girl and used my hands and the invisible map of the United States to show her where New York was. “Here’s California and the West Coast,” I said, pointing to my left. “here’s Utah,” pointing slightly inland, “and here New York.” My finger flew pretty far to the east. “And here’s Canada” Pointing above the imaginary Empire State. “Its close to Canada.” She was still blinking. I had a city all set out and everything. Albany. Nobody knows or wants to know about Albany, New York. But, she got the gist. Then she came close and laid on me, telling me that I’m losing out on a great fuck buddy. She regaled me with stories of future threesomes, booty calls, hot fucks and sweat-soaked bodies. My cock barely budged at the talk. My mind was calm. My sights clear. I nodded and agreed, giving sympathetic words to her about what she’d be missing. The sadness was supposed to be mine, not hers. Alas, that’s not how the game is played.

After about twenty minutes of dancing and kissing, I looked at my phone for the time. I needed to go hang with my former co-workers. Hands on her smooth tits, squeezing gently, I told her I need to go and she needed to come see me before she leaves. She nodded, we kissed and I walked back to M and C, telling them of Spike’s good fortune. We finally got C to go pursue her furry fantasy that she’d be spying on all night She rushed to the stage to check him out. According to her, he was a decent looking guy. I would of lost a bet if the bar hadn’t closed at 1am. I had hoped there was a girl under all that costume. We talked of the rock-hard abs of a chick who had the energy of pure speed. C said she had stretch marks, which lead me to believe she was formerly obese. Her lack of body fat, her bouncing fake tits and the way she danced forced us to name her Jazzercise. By the time the costume judging had began, I got a text from Lana asking if I was staying longer or if I’d leave with Adrian. At that moment I saw Seasons and Spike walking back to the corner to say goodbye. I quickly typed and sent Adrian back to Lana as Seasons, looking truly sad, told me again of what I’d miss and that she wished me a safe journey. Using the motion I had all night, I beckoned her with my index finger and gave her a long kiss. Then, as she turned around I put all the held back aggression into my hand. All the times I didn’t pin her against the wall. All the times I didn’t bite her neck. All the times I couldn’t guide her hand to my crotch. All the times I couldn’t fuck her on my couch, my bed or my recliner. All the shit I had gone through for months for a cunt of a wife that left me with debt, hurt and my longest dry spell since high school. All that went into my hand, which slapped against her ass with a satisfying compression of air, pleather and buttocks. “Now get going,” I said and turned around, not giving her a second look. I looked to M and C, who were smiling. I was smiling, too. We hugged and said our goodbyes. I felt a pang that we didn’t have more time to spend together. I was just getting to know everyone on my own, with my own Spike watching every move, recording every moment.

As Adrian and I walked out of the club into the chilly air, it took a few seconds to light my American Spirit. Without the additives, the thing takes as long as a cigar. In that time, M and C had passed us walking out to M’s car so he could take C home. I looked to the tall, lanky and great friend Adrian, a man I had not liked all that much when married, but had stepped up and was there for me when the shit hit the fan. I took a long drag. As I exhaled, I pointed out my friends and said, “I really hope they get together. That man needs a good woman.” Adrian laughed. We walked down a block, crossed the street and got in Adrian’s modified two-door racer. Of we went to the after party at their place.