“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.”


“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?”


“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.


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.


Visit Gab

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

What the fuck does that really look good? Really? Really.

My wallet looks like it belongs to a bum. Holy fuck have things been…weird.

The job is going well. I just survived a baptism of fire. Ask me what being stuck in a well hung room full of smarmy sales fuck tards is like. Not happy about the pay but the job does provide me with a semi stress free work place and plenty of free time for writing.

I finished my first sci fi horror story. Now it’s time to see about publication. Shopping my work around has been a slow, brutal process. I don’t like it. But until things change, I guess it has to be done.

This week I should have a set of poems and pics available on Amazon. I think there are more platforms to publish on besides Amazon and…

Name a few if you know of any.

Keep writing. I love the stuff I’m reading here on WordPress.

Birthday Beats — Treacle Heart

To cut a long story short: I am still 25. Brighton. Breakfast. Hailstones. Sarcophagus. Skeletons. Sunshine. Cocktails. Rain. Arcade. Football. A horrible fishcake. Nightclub. Argument. Return to London alone. Bad song. Spiral. Overdose. Hypothermia. Footsteps. Men everywhere. I’m not safe. Blackout. Ambulance. Blackout. Hospital. Blackout. Confusion. Adrenaline. Fight or flight. Flight. Try to go outside […]

Birthday Beats — Treacle Heart

Legacy of Brutality

I’ve been reading Treacle for a little while now and what I admire the most is the jagged play with imagery. It’s hard to read this and not walk away bruised or cut.

Passover was fine this year, didn’t sleep or drink too much. For the first time in a long while I’m not depressed about having to go to work tomorrow. Didn’t write much. Went and saw Hellboy (it’s good). And now I’m just looking for the last beer in the fridge as I unwind the horseshit I’ve had to put up with the last few months. Happy easter all

Inert Velocity — The literati mafia

Transcription Beta (low confidence) “Hey you, Apologies for taking so long to return your call, I’ve been lost in America, MIA. I haven’t been able to think clearly, although maybe I’ve been thinking too clearly and that’s the problem, after all clarity is a matter of perspective. Thank goodness for humor, almost everything is funny… […]

Inert Velocity — The literati mafia

We got that loud Saturday Sunday,

I really like Mia’s work. The part about Dramamine makes me think of that song by the Sparks – Angst in my pants. I’m probably the worst about explaining the fine details of why I think a piece of art is good but Mia’s writing in this piece is something I would like to read more of.

Work has been going well, it looks like next week they are going to order me a more ergonomically efficient chair, which is like, the best ever because who wants to fuck up their spine while they’re hunched over slaving away as a typist. A typist!

Mia I hope this share does your work justice, if you think it looks funky in any way or you want me to change anything just send me a message.

Have a happy eastersss everyone