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.
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.
I was staring at the over packed trunk of my car for about ten minutes; scratching my ass with a lost expression on my face. My jagged brain considered options of how to re-organize my car with all the crap I planned to take with me. Clothes, books, guitar, shoes, towels; what could be stuffed into where, to economize the sparse room in my vehicle? My mom walked outside and asked if I wanted help. I declined. I played Tetris as a child. I could figure this out. Ten more minutes went by without a single bit of progress. I unloaded some of my gear, deciding to cut back on what I would bring. Unhappy with the decision I began to unpack inside the house. The sound of my friend Tanya’s voice crept through the backdoor of my brain, “no way you’re going to fit all that junk in your itty bitty car. Just take three pairs of underwear and two sets of socks!”
My mother walked over and this time I welcomed her assistance because by this point it was 10 P.M. and the thought of getting up by 7 A.M. to drive 4 hours was making me anxious. We worked like a couple of Asian kids in a sweat shop and before I knew, it I was able to fit everything back in my car with room to spare. I drank a few beers to relax me and finally went to bed. In the morning I moved the remainder of my belongings back into the car and before I left, my mom asked me if I wanted to take a lamp. I stood and pondered the question. My brain hadn’t quite flipped the power switch on and something about her question rubbed familiarity against my cranium…
I smiled. Took the lamp and left for my new place.
I was standing in a packed aisle of a department store; wildly perusing unoccupied shelves for the next gift on my list. The delirium of the crowded store pushed up against my senses, creating a dizzying effect akin to inebriation. The music of the season plowed through the PA system above as it began to water-board me into submission. I was in a frosted white, winter-fuck me-wonderland! Christmas music is ok when it’s played on Christmas Eve, Christmas day, maybe even a week before Christmas; and only in moderation. I’m okay with those terms. But there are some nut jobs out there who will blast that shit from November till the end of December.
Six years ago, while working in a small office, my supervisor would bring in Christmas CDs by mid-November and crank out Christmas chanteys till our ears bled eggnog. So now, when December rolls around, I manage my PTSD by maintaining a safe distance from retail stores, malls, flea markets, bodegas.
This year, “I had to be different,” I thought as I retracted myself from a thousand yard stare and grumbled at having waited till Christmas Eve to finish buying Christmas gifts. And as I stood squeezing out annoyance with a Nerf football; something magical happened. The opening bars of my savior began to cram its melody over the store PA. THE GREATEST CHRISTMAS FUCK YOU SONG EVER WRITTEN!
The annoyed voice of a twenty-something hipster moaned from the next aisle over. My Personal Jesus had delivered the goods once again, successfully pissing off John Q. Public. Glancing across the aisles, as people turned their noses up in hoity disgust, I relished in the itchy irritation of embarrassment instigated by this song. Restraining my absurd smile, I walked up to a register, grabbed a handfull of gift cards and walked out the sliding doors; leaving the hysteria of the holiday behind.
Its five minutes till midnight and I can’t come up with a decent concept to write about. I’ve been lugging around writers block on my shoulders for the past few months and have been going stir crazy sitting at home trying to deliver the goods for this month’s essay. 11:57 P.M. and time is running out. I thought about how much television I’ve been consuming over the past few months and how I equate this to a woman I use to know, a woman I referred to as a, “beautiful distraction,” but I couldn’t paste two sentences together to make a decent paragraph, so I dropped that idea. I thought about how my writers block and my lack of gainful employment could somehow be connected. Half way through my second paragraph I realized that I hate work, or should I say I don’t care much for the types of jobs I am qualified to do. That idea was tossed. Then I thought about addiction. How a constant revolving maelstrom affects not only the sufferer but those around them. I thought about the fight that many endure 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. What promises they make and break on the daily; just to wake up and exist. Just to quiet their nerves. I thought about the junkies and drunkies I know. The shopaholics, gamblers, TV addicts. The porn addicts, the sex addicts and the rage freaks. I thought about these concepts profoundly. Trying to make sense of the dilemma at hand. Trying to write a few days worth of work into 5 minutes. Trying to beat the demons of procrastination. Trying to kick start my brain without succumbing to the addictive glow of TV and Taco Bueno. Then I realized it was almost 12:30 A.M. December 1st. I had missed my deadline.
It was the final week of my 60 day juice cleanse; I was exhausted and craving junk food. My brain knew by the end of the week I would be eating solid food and gluttonous nightmares began infesting my sleep. I dreamt of raiding candy dispensers at the local market. Dumping neon colored, sugar-coated, gummy bits into my mouth, head tilted back, eyes kissing fluorescent lights as I choked on candy. I was spooked by dreams of pastry possession and drowning under tides of Thanksgiving gravy. I became afraid to sleep at night. I began to sleep with a light on. It didn’t help.
I got the idea for a juice cleanse after watching a movie where this three hundred pound guy lost hundreds of pounds juicing fruits and vegetables for 60 days. I became more and more comfortable with the idea as I thought about it. Like the man in the film I hoped to reset my eating habits and lose weight at the same time. I began to question what I was eating and how it affected my mood. Generally speaking I mostly consumed carbs and would often drift into a coma like stasis after each meal.
During my 60 day campaign I reflected on my habit. I realized that eating is something I often do uncontrollably and without the sensation of hunger being present. Like a flesh-eating fiend from a George Romero flick I often wandered the kitchen in search of food. Not hunger but an urge. It was a frightening realization. I began to equate this idea to that of someone dealing with addiction.
While I juiced I made sure to use a recipe that would give my body all the nutrients I needed so that I would not starve. Starvation was not appealing to me. I wanted to be able to appreciate food. During the 60 days I noticed I was hardly ever hungry. However I quite often fought with the craving of certain foods, Chick-fil-a’s meal number 4, pizza, Chinese food, mom’s homemade tacos. But there was never any real hunger. The words, “I’m starving,” never crossed my lips.
The first 30 days went by fast as I noticed the weight vanish. Success bred confidence and I increased my cardio to twice a day. Then I lost my job but I didn’t let the stress derail my movement. I was near the finish line. Only one more week left and I was down to 157 pounds. Within two pounds of reaching my goal. Then the nightmares came. Like a possessed child in need of an exorcism I was being haunted by junk food. Would I over throw the food junkie that pressed cupcakes against my face, like a fat stripper pressing her gut up against me? The last night of my fast was a long one; my mind went back and forth contemplating all the irresponsible food I would indulge in. I wanted to be a food junkie again and as I sat there I wondered if I could look myself in the mirror if I ordered Dominos but didn’t eat it till after midnight?