This is the end part 2

“Call me old fashioned. But to some people, another woman sucking your man’s cock matters,” I attempted humor as a means of reassuring my friend as we stood on the balcony of her apartment.

Our conversation from break carried over into the night.

“Wait. Why did you say white trash Maury Povich?”

“I just assumed-“

“That I’m white, so I fuck white trash?”

“Well yeah.”

“He’s Puerto Rican you dick.”

Cyenna’s heart stretched over jagged agony for this little brown man. The tears of her love suprised me.

“I saw you got called into Sharon’s office. What was that about?”

“Don’t change the subject.”

“J, you have no idea, I feel like I lost the family I almost had,” her eyes were scatter brained and dim.

She kept gurgling about her almost family. I was bored and I inattentive.

“Didn’t he borrow your phone and merge your Facebook accounts while you were grilling him some ribs?”

The thought of someone scamming my phone from me and using my contacts to fuck people on my friendslist made me queasy.

I laughed like a hyena.

“Sorry for laughing, your pain made me feel uncomfortable.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” For a moment I couldn’t tell if she was going along with the joke.

“You know I’m going to lose it and punch you, right?”

“Yeah. Just not in the face.”

We both looked at our beers. A shiver woke me and I understood that my friend had went through some fucked up shit.

“So, yeah, Sharon called me into the office,” I broke the silence as I applied a mood changing anecdote.

“You better watch yourself, I’m telling you this because I think you’re a hard worker and I like you,” Sharon says to.

“She says it like she’s privving me to some classified shit.”

“If I know Tawney, she’s gonna be out to get you…”

“Cyenna, never in my entire life would I have guessed that one day a 70 year old woman would be out to do me in.”

“And I don’t mean “do me in” like she wants to get me in the break room and suck me off (which would be equally disturbing)…But a 70 year old woman wants to put a knife in my back.”

The end

Thank you for reading my work. The work on here will stay up but I have began another site(s) to display my content. Best of luck on all your endeavours.

“This is the end, my only friend the end.”

Part 1

Our cigarettes accentuate the agony of our afternoon. It was Friday. Our last break of the day.

“We’ve been together almost 3 years. On and off.”

“And he still hasn’t left his wife?” I asked.

Cyenna reveled months of social media harrassment.

“So, half a year and he still keeps bothering you?”

“Well I wouldn’t call it-“

“You remember the first time you went in an elementary school restroom and saw toilet paper dripping from the ceiling?”

“Yeah,” her eyes furled blankly, “and?”

“Some people just wanna throw shit on the wall and see what sticks.”

We sat a moment, our perspectives organizing their talking points.

“So, let me see if I got this straight,” I attempted to talk my friend down from her cliff, “he got another woman pregnant, was trying to get you back, and was still married to a woman he has kids with?”

“Yeah,” Cyenna responded modestly.

“That sounds like a trailer park Maury Povich, baby daddy episode.”

“All Maury’s episodes are like that.”

“HE’S A RERUN!”

“I don’t get it. Please stop talking in code,” her aggrivation bit through her teeth.

“The only reason he still emails you is because ruffling your feathers gets his dick hard.”

Her eyes simmered while the ringing from my aggressive message clung to the air.

Another silence

“The only way he feels valued is when he stirs up shit in order to force people to interact with him.”

“That’s not love,” I treaded carefully with my words.

“But I do love him.”

“I didn’t say you didn’t love him.”

(The video clip was taken from the movie Wonderland.)

“Do I look like the kinda’ clown who could start a movement?”

“We drove for an hour and a half through 4 inches of snow and ice. Drinking our faces off!”

“Wow” the couple feigined uniformly.

“It was worth it. We strolled in the place drunk and ready for Genesis! I even forgot that I had two joints on either side of my ears. Security padded us down and didn’t say nuttin!”

“You must really like Phil Collins,” I muttered sarcastically.

Kelly giggled as her husband Henry shot me a dirty look. ‘Easy there sport,’ I thought, ‘Your wife isn’t my type.’ Actually she was.

Up until very recently I had no idea what my type was but we leaned against the island, drinking beers in Patricia’s kitchen, I said, “she has to have a sense of humor, no high maintenance bitches either, and I really like that blonde hair that’s almost light brown.”

“Sandy blonde,” Patricia chimed in as she stirred the chilli.

Jenny was sweet in that syrupy, fairy tale, romantic comedy kind of way. Since day one of our friendship she was constantly looking to set me up with someone. It was borderline obsession. But still, it was nice.

“People tell me all the time. He is really good looking,” Jenny relayed to me in her childishly high pitched tone. I laughed it off (and just to set the record straight I don’t think I’m all that. Just part of the story so why leave it out.)

“And don’t tell anyone this but last week’s get together was so I could introduce you to Brenda,” her secret was out, “so what do you think?”

“Uhh she’s okay. She seemed friendly enough but I’m not really looking for anyone at the moment.” That was only part true and I caught the excuse as it sputtered between my lips.

I stopped.

“She’s not really my type, I mean don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t kick her out of bed, she’s got that huge ass-“

“Uhh! That’s all you guys want is a fat ass!” Jenny’s whining cut me off.

“Awww buck up Buttercup. There are plenty of men out there who like flat ass girls.”

“Asshole!”

“What? Besides, I said a huge ass isn’t everything. Personality goes along way. The way I sees it, if I’m going to spend my time with someone she better be able to tell some jokes, build pallet fences or something!”

“Pallet fences?”

“Nevermind.”

“So tell me about your type, J.”

I went on to describe Eve. We had met at a German restaurant, earlier that day, for a fellowship breakfast put together by the moderator of this recovery group that I go to sometimes.

“At first I thought she was in her 20’s because when she spoke at our meetings she often mentioned being in school.”

“Go on,” Jenny leaned in, grinning with little girl glee.

“We talked and got to know each other better. And I’ve been catching some extra long stares. I think she maybe into me but I don’t know…”

“What? What she doesn’t have a bubble butt???”

“No it’s not that. She’s working on her master’s degree and I’m…well I’m me.”

“You need to stop this,” Jenny’s voice screeched it’s way up to the ceiling.

“Just ask her for coffee,” she suggested.

“What you’re saying is making alot of sense. But I just don’t wanna hurt someone unintentionally because I can’t work through the garbage some other woman put me through.”

“Oh my God do you need to change your tampon?”

The weather was perfectly chilled, we had beer and Patricia had this strain of bud called pineapple something or other from Seattle.

Eve’s blue-gray eyes were working their witchy ways on me as mini bonfire flames bribed my attention.

“Take your assumptions” by Tara Caribou

The spirit of this particular piece really speaks to the mood I’ve been experiencing lately. Please take time and visit Tara’s site. She’s a great writer and I really like her work. After reading this I really feel as if it’s time for me to stop whining and just write. Please excuse the format of this post but I couldn’t get the reblog button to work.

https://taracaribou.com/2019/10/11/take-your-assumptions/

Mr. Chinaski’s children

The following is a work of fiction…Mostly.

“What’s the verdict?” Sienna asked as I put my seatbelt on.

“That guy? He’s queer as 3 dollar bill.”

“No way,” her deflated tone made me chuckle. I admired Sienna’s insanity about such things. We were always one conversation away from meeting someone new. Her boldness was inspiring. If the clerk at the liquor store had been straight, she would have gone inside and introduced herself.

“Believe me, you ain’t the first crazy white man I met.”

Sienna lit a cigarette and laughed in response. We drove to my parent’s house. It was still early and we had Tequila and German beer. Yum-a dum dum.

The intro to Iggy Pop’s Nightclubing runs a scrambled wave into my ear set. Into my delirium. And after watching the show Legion, everytime I listen to that song, I can’t help but think of the Shadow King.

Honestly, I can’t tell anymore, if what I’m doing would be considered art or just a junkie’s aversion to reality.

My 2nd story is just about dead in the water. I am close to finishing it but this process has been so God damn slow. The idea of writing witches and deranged entities who haunt tweakers as they floss the tile in their kitchen seemed fun, at first. It even seemed like something I could pull off after writing my first.

I have no idea what this is but I found it at ma’s house

It feels as if, most of this…whatever the fuck this is, has been just to keep the wolves at bay. And I’m starting to question the grotesqueness of my lackluster nature.

I was hyped about writing the next Twlight Zone. But with hand jobs. For some reason, grinding out another vowel has been…Hard? Yeah. That.

Life was okay. Inspite of it being another birthday.

Sienna and I spent the night yelling profanity from a park bench. It was nice. We smoked and just knocked off like a couple of misfits at a bullshit public school.

“Who are you waving at?”

“That woman by the river, down there. But I don’t think she can see me.”

“She’s not waving. She has the sun in her eyes. She’s using her hand as a visor.”

I turned to my right and set my beer down with care on the pavement. Sienna was up and walking toward the woman with sun in her eye.

“Where are you going?”

“She’s never gonna see me from way over there.”

I began to wonder if it was a mistake when Sienna stopped taking her Lithium.

It’s like E.T. but with handys

Cassie’s pale pink fingers, neatly packaged my meal. As she wrapped my food, I thought, ‘say something. Anything stupid!’

“Are you a supervisor?”

“Manager”

“Ah, that’s were the air of confidence is.”

Yeah I have no idea what that means either. When I finally decide to talk to a woman; that’s the horseshit I come up with?

My social skills have really taken a turn for the worse. It’s been a slow process recalibrating socially since my last break up. Also, it doesn’t help that I generally avoid most socializing situations like they were AIDS.

On a relatable subject I found this line in the book Hollywood by Charles Bukowski. The part about shutting off when people talk is a kick in the sack of reality.

The words in this pic belong to Charles Bukowski. Courtesy of his book Hollywood.

Cassie and I made small talk. Her placid green eyes lingered as I sat down for lunch. I noticed there were alot of guys at the restaurant.

I thought ‘how much of this sausage fest’ is on account of Cassie’s playful, attractive nature?

Sparkly bright shit has been used to sell crap since the beginning of time. That’s not my gripe.

Factually, I’m not even sure what I’m saying would be considered a gripe.

I worked as a bail bondsman for about 9 months and I remember the owner always hiring pretty girls. Mostly ex strippers. There’s alot of fuckery involved in being one of the only men working in all female environment. And not the good type of fuckery.

Writer’s block with my 2nd sci fi horror story was getting better. I have figured out a way to double my productivity. I hired an assistant to help submit my work while I write. I agree that sounds pretentious but hear me out first…I feel you judging me😙

I couldn’t stop thinking that I should be submitting work. Always. And at the same time, I also worried that I wasn’t writing enough. And nothing was getting done.

“Well, I think you should allow yourself to meet someone new,” my bff from work Fran said in her motherly tone.

“Francine, it’s just work…I don’t even…”

“But you never know J.” She was so optimistic and cheery. I couldn’t argue.

I think Francine was just tired of seeing me walk around with heartbreak on my shoulders. I knew better than to argue with a woman. Besides, Francine had a point. Walking around with misery in the lungs doesn’t do much good for anyone.

“Maybe you’re right Fran.”

I read some of Tim Ferriss’ book the 4hour work week and he suggested hiring someone to do the shit you don’t necessarily have the time or the skill for. To paraphrase, he said why waste time achieving mediocrity at a skill when you can achieve greatness with what you’re good at. So I hired a friend to do the shit that makes me yawn. It’s better than hiring a stranger from Craigslist.

The story I stopped working on, or as I call it, ‘the pain in my entire ass,’ has many themes. One of it’s themes comes from dating a feminist, who once indoctrinated me with the propaganda premise, “…if women ruled the world, there would be no wars.”

“You are so right.”

Someone get me a time machine so I can Michael J Fox the stupid out my ears.

For about a month I was worried about using the real name of Valerie Solanas. But my story’s main concept is based on an alternate version of Solanas and Warhol’s history.

The following is a quote from one of the more entertaining books I’ve read. The SCUM Manifesto by Valerie Solanas. It’s worth a read, regardless if you are a feminist or not.

“…the male is, nonetheless, obsessed with screwing; he’ll swim a river of snot, wade nostril-deep through a mile of vomit, if he thinks there’ll be a friendly pussy awaiting him. He’ll screw a woman he despises, any snaggle-toothed hag, and, further, pay for the opportunity.”

Mesicans

Labor day always makes me think of the term manual labor. And that makes me think of the name Manuel. Which is really just a vowel change away from Manual.

“…and you’re like, okay Hemingway, I see what you’re saying.”-Tom Segura

Tom Segura’s bit called, “Pregnant while Mexican ” is one of the funniest things I’ve heard.

I’ve only read 43 pages and the book “Three Women,” by Lisa Taddeo is already giving me nightmares.

My crush has soft brown hair, soft eyes, and pouty Germanic lips. Suckable. Her long slender frame reminds means I almost have to stand on my toes to kiss her. I pull her beside me. Her clothes are contagious to she.

I been watching alot of the series, “my crazy ex” on Tubi. I fucks with it heavy.

The reenactments are hysterical. This one episodes’ climax ended with this one gal being caught living on this dudes’ roof. She had been there for the entire month they dated.

The guy figures out she’s been up there when one day he stumbles across her tent on the roof of his apartment complex. She came out of the shadows lookin’ like a goblin. With leaves in her matted hair and soot poorly painted on her face. Man oh man that one had me fucked up! For real son.

“An uncle Juan.”

My buddy Kevin explained to me one day, “an Uncle Juan is a Mexican version of black folks’ Uncle Tom.”

It’s a phrase he coined for Mesicans who think they are white. Bleaching your hair doesn’t make you white cabrona.

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