Leif Erikson

is one of my favorites by Interpol

It was the second time Charlene threatened to kill herself. We had been dating a year. It was turbulent but I loved her. That night she said she took a handful of expired pills and asked me to feed her children the next day. I lay there. Angry at her. I thought, ‘how dare you try and put your kids’ tears on me. Puta Madre.’

I tried to hold the anger in but that only made things worse.

She was suspicious of me because I lied to her early in our relationship. The lie was a mistake, but at the time I didn’t see it that way. I didn’t consider how hard it must have been for her to trust me again.

To prove I was sincere about never lying again; I cut myself off from everyone, let her check my phone, spent all my time with her-or on the phone with her. Did that work? Nope.

The night of the pills, I just wanted to not fight. I knew jealousy, like a lot of people do. I was accustomed to being the jealous one in a relationship. But this was different.

Its as if she used my one mistake to excuse her fucked up behavior.

Bettie Paige in a suitcase

“if her life is such a big joke. Why should I care?…It’s like learning a new language
Helps me catch up on my mind(mime?)
If you don’t bring up those lonely parts
This could be a good time…
You come here to me
We’ll collect those lonely parts
And set them down
You come here to me”

I was innocent but my innocence clouded my understanding of what she believed. And that’s very important to understand. I wanted us to be right. I thought I found my wife.

After a certain point I just stopped taking her accusations seriously.

Some people talk of recycled arguments that never get set to sleep. Arguments wailing at night, like a witch colored copy of an old resentment. Something that both of you can’t kick.

I’ve been thinking about the movie, “Leaving Las Vegas.” But I can’t remember why Nicholas Cage is trying kill himself with booze.

I mostly remember “Leaving” for the gorgeous Elisabeth Shue. Her blonde, wavy hair makes me wanna not comb my hair. But fuck! There’s no way mine would look that hot. Shue and the lovely, Sheri Moon Zombie kinda look the same. It’s their jawline smile. They have a similar beauty I find irresistible.

Charlene viewed my unwillingness to talk as a sign of guilt. The constant arguing was draining the life from my smile. I just wanted to show her. Get her in bed and rub her clit all over my face. Flip her over and eat her from behind.

But none of what I did got us back that way again.

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The Cum Graveyard

Holy fuck stick! This piece makes me question if this is Gab’s reality or some dystopian future we will all soon face. I don’t know if I should feel frightened or turned on by the thought of a ghost load.

My wordpress skills need sharpening. I can’t seem to get the difference between reblog share and press. Visit Gab at the link below to read his post.

https://wp.me/p1iNPE-39H

Visit Gab

That Sunday night feeling before school

I’ve been working on writing my version of the song Melody Lee. But my version wouldn’t necessarily be a song. Maybe a poem or a short story. The lyrics, “a broken man and a broken dream… your life was cruel but they called it art. I like the concept of someone facing destitution.

I worked at this job once, I had this supervisor who’s last name was Frued. No one ever pronounced his name right. While I knew the guy I heard him called Froodo. Frodo. Fruoed. The face of this poor man. He died a little inside, every single time someone struggled horrifically to pronounce his name.

By coincidence, years later I worked with a gal who’s last name was Jung.

Self publishing poetry or any other writing-I would assume, is a time consuming process that is not always easy to grasp.

Amazon’s easy to use process isn’t atm very easy to use.

My friend Ian gave me the Roy Orbison box in the pic. It’s a bunch of comics he left my nephew (for my nephew when he got older). Ian was a tall, gaucky white guy with punk rock spikes and pants way too tight for any man.

We listened to similar music and drank similar beer. He was a crust punk and had this brilliant side gig. He went to thrift shops and bought cheap Jordache jean jackets from the 80’s. Ian and his girl cut them down to vests. Added metal spikes, leopard print, punk rock propaganda, and sold them to rich kids for 80 to 100 dollars a pop. Genius.

Eventually Ian got a job with me and we spent many summers laughing and talking trash to our up tight customers.

We once smoked this powder that made the present slow down until we shrunk to the size of our shoes. I still have no idea what that was. The effects were brief and lasted a few minutes but it really turned my shit upside down.

Right Now I am reading, “An Editor’s Advice to Writers-The Forest for the Trees, ” by Betsy Lerner. Betsy is a badass. She knows her shit.

She says,”(c)hances are you want to write because you are a haunted individual, or a bothered individual, because the world does not sit right with you…”

I went to the library, picked up Betsy, a bio on Merle Haggard, and the Dictionary of Classical Mythology by Jenny March.

I’m fucking with writer’s block again. I found this docuseries on Tubi-an app on the Roku stick in my room. It’s about Greek mythology and I’m about to watch the episode about Dionysus. The series is called, “Great Greek Myths. ”

I’ve been using Dionysus as the God who poisons earth in the short story I’m working on but after watching the show, Orpheus seems more fitting.

I’ve been listening to some great stand up by comedians like Chad Daniel’s and Tom Segura. Trying to develop things like pace, tone, voice and as many literary devices I can conjure to finish this story.

I’m looking forward to starting the next story about possession.

Spatan and Becks are two of my favorites. Drank with a few shots of Tequila and the summer heat is no longer an issue.

Wake me up at beer thirty part 3

Phyllis pointed “onto” my skull with her decrepit digit as she passed behind me and the quaffed hair I was sportin’ that Friday.

She said bye.

“I’ll be seeing you later.”

“Oh I see what you did there!” Sherrie laughed as she picked up the creepy undertaker vibe I was putting down.

Shortly after, Sherrie and I left for Mephistopheles.

We pulled our bar stools out and sat down to the lukewarm crowd. The bar was also a hotel with a reputation for being haunted. I favored its nonchalant environment and could sometimes be found there; half in the bag.

The pretzel bites and beer battered queso gave us the salt and bread we needed to pony up for the rest of the night.

I bought us a second round of Jameson and beers.

“You should stop by my place. I got a little smoke if you wanna get hi?”

“Sure.”

“Just don’t act weird.”

“I thought weird is why you found me charming.”

The bar manager Philip stopped by our table. I hadn’t seen him in a few weeks.

A bearded biker looking guy walked up to our table. He had left his cigarettes behind. As he walked away Sherrie made a joke about stealing them. He laughed it off and kept moving. As he reached for the door, Sherrie joked, “I licked them all.”

“That would be okay with me,” biker man shot her a grin.

The thought of jealousy creeped around me again. I laughed it off. Sex with coworkers can be fun. But often. Someone wants more than what the other has to offer. Then it gets real awkward.

We went back inside and the bar was jam packed. Standing room. Like sardines. Sherrie took the lead as she spoke with every middle aged woman who was in the direct line of sight to our stools. It was a birthday party for a 5o-ish bleach blonde woman. She seemed friendly.

We sat at the bar, about to take our last shot. Then a dark skinned Chicana sidled up to Sherrie’s right. I couldn’t hear the entire conversation but the Chicana mentioned my tattoos and offered to show us hers. She leaned against the bar and slid her white shorts down revealing a tattoo and a baby blue thong. Sherrie let out a cackle and slapped the woman on her ass with a playfulness that got me thinking, “keep your mouth shut dummy, you’re about to see something awesome. ”

Chicana slid between me and Sherrie while saying, “cheers ” as she raised her glass to my beer. She couldn’t take her eyes off my arms as Sherrie joined in for the salute.

Before I went to Sherrie’s place I went back to my parent’s for 2 shots of Tequila I had laying around since the week before.

By the time I got to her place she was already down to a t-shirt and a small pair of cotton shorts. Her ass unfurled. I played it cool.

We laughed and drank. Smoked and enjoyed each other’s company.

“I don’t know what your relationship is but I can help you with that.”

I had no idea what the fuck that meant. I lowered my voice as she whispered “yeah like that.”

We giggled then the subject changed. Then again. Then that awkward moment passed.

We said goodbye and I drove home.

Me and Sherrie grew closer. We were good friends. Many laughs and many adventures. Eventually I quit the job and she met her boyfriend.

Wake me up at beer thirty part 2

Before I continue the second part of wake me up at beer thirty, I want to tell you about the worst pitch for heroin use.

In my beer thirty post(part 1) I mentioned growing up in a German town. For a while, I also lived in North Texas.

I was renting a room at the house of a bartender I knew from a local bar I frequented. For the most part I was alone and Gary the bartender didn’t care if I smoked pot, drank excessively at odd times of the day, partied on white, or just had a bunch of random strangers at the house. Gary wasn’t really home that much.

He approached me one afternoon and said “hey J you like to smoke pot righ? Have you ever thought of trying heroin?”

I laughed at the absurdity of his delivery. He stood there in the shadow of silence. I walked into the kitchen thinking, I should probably consider moving.

Wake me up at beer thirty pt2

Jimmie nine fingers leaned against the picnic table, his elbow perched on his knee, palm to chin. He leered at the table to my right. A flock of geriatric drinkers sat conversing among themselves. Sherrie and I were ready to bounce when I noticed Jimmie had made his way over to the table. Embracing, hugging and laughing as he made his way around the table.

A man with a hat that seemed part fedora and part cowboy, grumbled from behind dirty sunglasses, “hey it’s Jimmie and he can’t even count to ten!”

A few minutes and some handshakes later Jimmie made his way over to a miniature Phyllis Diller looking geezer and he accidentally spilled her beer. It seemed coincidental.

She stood up as Jimmie wiped the table. He introduced us and mentioned that I worked at a local funeral home. The grey haired, jewel bespeckled woman turned her attention to me. She went on about how, “the funeral home must be busy with the population growth.”

Phyllis leaned closer and slurred, “I can’t believe the funeral home would let you work there with all those tattoos.” As she said that she took her boney, Crypt Keeper finger and ran it up and down my forearm.

“I wear a suit and tie,” I responded plainly.

I couldn’t figure out if she was just curious, bothered by my tattoos, being flirtatious or if someone had slipped LSD into my beer and I had somehow wandered into an episode of the Golden Girls.

“Do you know Roy?” German Mario asked.

“Roy?! You know Roy? He’s one of my homies,” I said. Me and Mario talked about our mutual friend.

“Yeah we call him Jew boy” Mario said as he smirked.

Roy was German, from New Jersey but his accent did make me think (before I got to know him) that he was an old Jewish guy from New York. Mario went on to say the same thing.

I thought about my friend Roy and the name Jew boy and I began to miss my ex. She used the slur to make a joke once and it became our own private joke. I started to feel sad. I looked at Sherrie and suggested we go to the next bar

To be continued

Wake me up at beer thirty

It’s been a rough week of work. I still can’t stand my butter face co worker. Found that most of the office (and probably most of the population) can’t stand her either. Arrogant CuCuy lookin’ twat. Having issues with writer’s block, again. Same ole same ole. Finished my first sci fi horror story last month. The Sophomore curse is in effect tho and I can’t seem to finish “the actor.”

I finally saw Spiderman and couldn’t help but think of the step-daughter I almost had. She resembles Mj. The movie was good. I saw it alone but it doesn’t matter even when I am in a room with someone, I feel alone.

The following is a work of non-fiction…Mostly.

It was Friday and I offered to buy my coworker a beer after work. She had a nice ass and after a few conversations we made plans to meet for a beer. We sipped our beers slowly at a bar, in the German town I grew up in; the watering hole was called the Toit. I liked the dive bar atmosphere and the place had this juke box with a selection of artists I really liked; such a George Jones, Johnny Cash, the Rolling Stones, Def Leppard, Sam Cooke, Otis Redding and George Straight. The music selection seemed to cut off somewhere around the 90’s. The beer was cheap and it was a good place to begin the night. Sherrie was older and lived in a college town 15 minutes from where we worked. I wasn’t certain that I wanted to sleep with her (I’ve had previous problems after screwing former coworkers who often got attached afterwards) but I was tired of moping over my ex so I figured ‘what the fuck?’

The company of a pretty woman was better than drinking at home alone.

We vented about work, swapping stories and laughing at our past; the ice between us broke, and Sherrie suggested we ‘smoke a ciggy outside on the patio, if there is one?’

Standing outside the front door of the Toit, our heads bounced back and forth as we noticed that all four picnic tables under the awning were full of people. Then an older man sitting at the table closest to us, waved us over and offered for Sherrie and I to join his table. We sat down and introductions were made. Jimmie, an alcohol swollen biker with glasses, mustache and cut off sleeves t-shirt, had wiry grey and white hair that puffed out comfortably under his Harley Davidson ball cap. Seated to his left was a bookish 30-40ish guy named Jeff. To Sherrie’s right was the other 60-70ish man who looked like Mario from Super Mario Bros. He bore a strong resemblance to someone of German and Irish descent. If I had to guess, his occupation was plumber. He was pudgy and as we all got comfortable with each other, I noticed Sherrie kept leaning into “Kraut Mario,” while making remarks, as she touched him on his shoulder casually.

Jealousy burned across the surface of my face the second time she did it.

But then I remembered that I wasn’t completely confident that I wanted to take her panties off; so I played it cool.

Sherrie and I talked about going to another bar-Mephistopheles’ but before we could finish our beers Jeff bought the table a round. We soaked up another along with the charm of our company. While bullshittin’ I noticed that Jimmie had these enormous hands. He must have been a mechanic or someone who worked with his hands. I mentioned the part time job I had at one of the local funeral homes; it was once a German, family owned establishment. As Jimmie drunkenly squawked and joked, I noticed that he was missing a finger.

“Yeah that Mesican can sure barbeque,” Jimmie said to me. He explained that he was waiting on his friend from the valley named Henry. Jimmie’s brother in law had just died of cancer and his ‘fat Mesican friend Henry’ was meeting him there to hit a local lake; to prepare for a barbeque plate sale. The competition/benefit was taking place the next day, on a Saturday. It was being held to raise funds for funeral expenses in honor of Jimmie’s brother in law. Jimmie and Henry were planning on smoking a brisket and drinking all night.

To be continued.

Flowers through the cracks.

I’ve enjoyed reading work by Ankandas. In this particular piece, some of the things that stand out are, “a sense of uniformity blowing through an exhausted forest,” and “obliviate the curfews of your minds.”

Thank you for writing this Ankandas. I look forward to reading more of your work