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Sticks n Stones


“Character is like a tree and reputation like a shadow. The shadow is what we think of it; the tree is the real thing.”

-Abraham Lincoln-

I’m not typically the kind of person that lets other peoples’ words get to me. I’ve got a pretty hard exterior, and I’ve been through enough in my life, that I’ve just grown particularly strong against the methods people use to attack someone with.

I don’t usually get affected by things that people think about me, or rumors that people spread. It’s not often that much more than a dirty look is given when someone says something that might hurt most peoples’ feelings.

However, every so often something hits me the wrong way. Maybe I’m having a bad day, or I’m over sensitive at that particular moment. Maybe I’ve had too much to drink, or just happened to let my guard down for a minute or two, and someone was lucky enough to squeak one in on me.

Last night was that time. I was pretty buzzed, and in a really great mood. I was having a really good time, and actually can’t remember a time recently that I’ve been in a better mood at work. Which, is strange because we were dead, I wasn’t making anything, and usually that’s when a bitch gets pissed off and moody.

This particular person, is someone who shares a different sort of relationship with me. We tend to compliment each other with insults. It’s just how we work. It’s the basic mechanics of our friendship. Sometimes, the both of us can go a little further than we should, but we’re usually able to reign in it, and get along fine by the time the evening is over.

Tonight, this person was wasted. They told my boyfriend how much they love him, then said that they don’t like me.

At first, it didn’t really bother me. Then, after saying it a second time, it kinda hit me.

It’s like….look bitch. I don’t need you to like me. I don’t really even care if you like me. I’ll sleep the same at the end of the night regardless. But, if you don’t like me….then get the fuck out of my boyfriends’ car and get someone else to take your ass home.

Because if you don’t like me, you can sure as hell bet I’m not gonna waste my time liking you either.

When the lines of drunken ramblings, and truth personified become blurred and one can no longer tell if you’re just trying to be funny and joke around, or if your real feelings are coming out… doesn’t really feel that fun.

I can be a bitch of the grandest kind, but I also happen to think that I’m a  pretty great friend to those that I consider that term to apply to.

Maybe I took it all too personally, sure.

I guess there’s just this part of me that wears down. I spend alot of my time pretending to be tougher than I am. Wearing armor that weighs me down, just incase someone wants to engage me. Being on the offensive, or the defensive, instead of just enjoying myself. Being too worried about being strong, or vulnerable.

My walls go up, and they stay up for most of the time. And, I guess sometimes I just get annoyed with myself for being the kind of person that always has to feel protected against some way in which another person can hurt me. So much, that it’s actually turned me into the type of person that gets looked at as mean, or cunty.

Sure, I’m good at it, but it’s not really the whole of me. Somewhere underneath all the sarcasm and bitchiness is a really great person. And, I wish more people got to see that.

But, the wheels of life just haven’t rolled that way. It took a different path and the guy most people get to see isn’t this really nice guy.

However, I do expect the people I call friends to acknowledge every once in awhile that I’m more than just a crappy person.

And, if they haven’t learned that, and feel the need to dislike me. Then, I’m okay with it. I don’t need anyone any more than they need me.

If ya don’t like me….then…don’t bother me. I’d rather not be the type of person that smiles to your face, while biting my lip to keep my thoughts in. Save us both the trouble and ….quite simply….leave me the fuck alone.

I don’t need to be liked. But, I do feel like I deserve to be respected.

And, I think that’s what bothered me the most.

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Fighting is for cowards.

I’m not a violent person. I never have been.

That’s not to say that I wouldn’t throw down if I had to. And, I’m pretty confident that I could at least put up a good fight.

That’s also not to say that if you push me far enough, I wouldn’t punch you on your fucking face. I would. I’m confident that it would probably hurt your face too. But, it’s not the kind of fight I typically pursue.

I’m the “verbal-lashing” kind of guy. I’ll use my fists if I have to, but I’d rather just let you have it with words. And, I guess if I were to be “let have”, I’d rather it be with words too.

I’m not afraid of fighting. I just don’t really see the point. Sure, there are some people that just flat out deserve, or need their fucking asses beat. But, I don’t see the point of causing yourself or others physical pain. I can’t imagine it making me feel like more of a fan, to see someone’s lip bleed, or eye bruise.

Being someone that’s worked in bar, I’ve seen my fair share of ass beatings. I’ve seen people who fight dirty, I’ve watched groups (usually of a particular minority) gang up on one person. I’ve seen beer bottles, chairs, glasses, baseball bats, candles, tables, tazer guns, pepper spray, and all sorts of other random things used against people. I’ve seen people stomped on, spit upon, kicked, beaten, run over, blind sided, and have even seen some dirty fighting, and attacks from behind.

I’ve learned, that people are lunatics. It’s like they lose all sense of intelligence in a fight. All they care about is winning, and any sort of concern for what happens to the other person is thrown aside all in hopes that they personally don’t get bested.

I personally, can’t imagine myself ever picking up a broken glass and trying to stab someone with it, just because they punched me in my face. Well, unless they were trying to stab me too…then, it’s on bitch. I’ll cut you and your fucking mother in that case.

Mostly, I guess it’s because I have no desire to end up in jail. I certainly don’t want to kill someone and live with that guilt and grief. And, again…I don’t have any desire to be in jail.

Sadly, not everyone feels the same way. It’s like they’d rather hold onto their pride than their freedom. I just don’t understand it.

Recently, there’s been all this hoopla over this transgendered, or transexual person getting the living shit beat out of them in a McDonalds while the McDonalds’ employees watched, laughed and even video taped the whole ordeal.

Of course, the gay community is now out for blood.

I’ve seen some of the most fucked up comments about it.

“I’ll never eat McDonalds again”. As if the entire company is to blame for one group of cowards who stood there and did nothing while another person got beat up so hard that they went into convulsions.

“The employees that watched need to get beat like that, it’s what they deserve”. Is it?

Sure, I think it’s bullshit that noone but an old woman offered to help this tranny bitch. But, how much of the actual events to we know?

How do we know what provoked the arguement? Would it make it any more or less understandable if we found out the tranny had called the girl a nigger?

What if the tranny made fun of the girls’ nappy headed hair?

What if she got into more than she could handle, and the girls beat her ass for it.

What if that happened while you were working?

I’ve seen fights break out where I work. I’ve seen 15 different black people trying to cut people, ambulances called, people seriously injured. Are you telling me, you’d without a doubt step in to help?

I’m not so sure. I’ve seen some of the same people making comments about how disgusting it is that noone helped, stand in a bar and even back themselves away from a fight and into a corner so they didn’t get hurt.

And, that’s what you should be doing.

I don’t at all agree with people attacking people. I think it’s pretty cowardly to stand back and just completely watch someone get seriously hurt. But, where do you draw the line?

I think that people like to stand on their soap boxes and preach to others. They like to tell them what they did wrong, or how they could’ve done something better. How they could’ve done more, or would’ve.

Yet, I see those people stand idle when their chance comes.

I’ve seen some of the people who lash out against these girls that did this, and call them monsters, horrible people. People that need to be punished, beaten. I’ve even seen someone say the people that did this deserve to die.

And I’ve seen these same people take of their heels while in drag to hit someone. I’ve seen these same people fight dirty, and make the wrong decisions.

You don’t get to be the person that lays out judgement on others for doing something that you yourself has done, or could have easily done had someone not dragged you away.

It really kind of disgusts me. The way people get to be walking contradictions of themselves and the things they claim to stand for. It makes me angry to hear them lash out at someone that they don’t know, and the situations that they weren’t a part of, just because they see a video cliup of some girls attacking a tranny.

I know some trannies that are vicious fucking bitches. Ones that would cut your dick off with their fucking teeth if you called them a cunt, let alone did whatever this particular tranny may have done to provoke this attack.

Then, maybe she did nothing. Maybe the black girls were ghetto trash. Maybe they seen a faggot dressed like a woman and thought “I’mma fuck this faggoty ass fruitball up.”. Maybe it was unprovoked. Maybe they were monsters.

But, what if they werent?

That’s the thing with the world. You always need to get the entire story before you pass your judgements. Not everything is black and white, and can be completely decided by something being 100% right, or 100% wrong.

If everything were black and white, I’d fully support the “eye for an eye” way of thinking. You kill, you get killed. You rape, you get raped. You molest children, you get your genitals and your fingers chopped off.

Unfortunately, there’s not always a clear sided right and a definitive wrong. It’s not always that simple.

So, before you go saying that someone else needs to die, perhaps you should at least find out what happened in the best entirety that you can.

It’s always best to make a decision with as much evidence and arguement that you can. Not just because you seen a video that shows the actual ass beating.

Now, with that said…

I think it’s incredibly sad that in a world that offers so much hope, promise and opportunity….there are still people who only bring negativity to the table.

I wish it were a world where less people had to hurt each other, and more people tried to further themselves. Imagine the world we would live in without violence?

Sure, it’s hard to imagine. But it’s poetically beautiful too.

The crazy thing, is that it’s something that could be possible. It’s a way of life that could be established. If people just stopped being selfish, immature, overly proud, fucktards, and simply gave a shit about other human beings.

Any individual that could sit back and once a fight was over…..record another human being convulse, instead of dropping the phone and trying to be of assistance, is a complete fucking douchebag.

These are the people I could do without. The violent people, have anger issues. They have hurt, and pain that they’re unable to help, or control. There’s something there. Some reason. Some…something that can be tapped into, and helped. (hopefully). People that use physical violence are…afraid. Threatened. Fighting is for cowards.

But the people that stand by and let others be hurt and laugh….simply because their horrible people, they’re the biggest ashholes. They’re the people that need to be removed. They aren’t afraid, they’re just worthless.

And, frankly…I’d like to punch them all in their fucking gizzards. Then piss on their face, make them watch reruns of  MASH, punch them again, then run all their extremities through a fuckin meat grinder.


so much for that whole…non violent thing.

I’d also like to point out, that I’m not saying people that fight are just wounded little angles with misplaced anger, and people that don’t help others or laugh at others are little spawns of satan who need to be euthanized. I’m simply saying, I see more promise in a person that doesn’t know how to control themselves, over someone that just refuses to help those in need. And, not in all circumstances. Some bitches are just crazy, and ya can’t do shit about it. And they come in all different sorts of packaging. Sometimes they’re lovers, sometimes they’re fighters. Sometimes they’re your closest friend, and sometimes they’re your worst enemy. Horrible people are everywhere. It’s just a facet of life we have to deal with, and try our best to avoid.

If you think that never eating at a Mcdonalds is the best way to avoid them….then you’re just as fucking crazy.

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A Piece of Cake.

A few weeks ago while playing in the weekly euchre tournament I was humbled.

I’m not normally the kind of person that attracts a whole slew of compliments. I don’t have this drop dead gorgeous looks,(though..I think to think that I’m not completely unfortunate looking) I’m not generally this outgoing person who spends his time helping old people across the street, (though if I ever seen an old person who needed help getting across the street, I’d help instantly) I don’t rescue kittens that get stuck in trees, or have some sort of infectious personality that draws people in.

I’m basically just me. I do what I do, say what I say, and anyone that knows me knows that I’m if nothing else, at the very least I’m honest person that you can trust in. I’ll fight for the things I believe in, I’ll always call a spade a spade, and sometimes…I can be pretty fucking hilarious.

But it’s not like random people tell me that I have pretty eyes, or I have a beautiful smile. And, I’m alright with that. I’m the kind of person that would probably just be uncomfortable with those sort of statements anyway. Even inside my own relationship. The person I love more than anything in the world can pay me a compliment, and I’ll usually (to his disapproval) find some way to disprove it by ‘jokingly” putting myself down. Maybe it’s a self esteem issue, or just a lack of being able to believe in the goodness of people. Maybe somehow through everything I have a hard time believing in the goodness in myself. Though, I can tell you…I’m pretty fucking good.

So, while at euchre this friend of mine that plays repeatedly complimented my writing.

It’s something that happens frequently. I’ve never gotten a big head about it, in fact half the time I think that people just say that because they know if they said ” HEY! You’re writing is a bunch of horse shit and I’d rather listen to that horrible “Friday” song by Rebecca Black on repeat for several fucking hours than read your shit again”, I’d probably snap and make fun of them on levels they’ve probably not been made fun of before. I have a knack for that, I guess. And, I’m vicious when I’m angry. Hah.

Writing has been so important to me. So close to me. Its one of the few things in this world that I cherish. I’ve never considered myself good at breathing or walking. I’m never said I’m good at blinking, or smelling freshly cut grass. Those are just things I’ve done. Things most people do. I realize that not everyone, not even most people are able to write.  And while I don’t think I’m horrible, I’m certainly my biggest opponent.

I’m harsh on myself. I get angry that my punctuation isn’t better, or my vocabulary isn’t larger. I wish I could come up with crisper ideas, or expand the smallest details into monumental sentences and paragraphs.

So, when someone says “Nick, you are an amazing writer”. It’s often a difficult pill to swallow. Sure, it makes me feel good. It brings some sort of thought into the forefront of my mind that tells me that maybe the one thing I want to succeed at, isn’t something I’m bad at.

But, I’m quick to fall back upon my insecurities and weaknesses.

This friend, told me that I had a gift. That not everyone has what I have. That she wished she could put thoughts and emotions into words like I can. She urged me to make a move, to stake a claim on my future. To make something of myself with the talent I have, and not to just let it become a tool at my disposal that never gets used.

This friend isn’t much different than I.  She isn’t the type to pretend that something doesn’t matter that does. She, like me would never let someone disrespect her without sticking up for herself. Like myself, she doesn’t just wear her emotions on her sleeve, she is her emotions.  You pretty much know what you’re gonna get. Not everyone likes us, but those that do, really do. I see alot of similarities between the two of us. I see how she reacts to heartbreak, and I see myself. I see how she fancies herself a cocktail, and I see myself. I see how she wants more for her life than she has. And I see myself.

And she’s taking the steps towards making that happen. And…thats where I stopped seeing myself.

Her words stabbed me in the throat. I felt an urgency to produce something amazing. To write something spectacular. To create something that places me on the map.

I took her words very seriously. I thanked her endlessly for the compliments. I told her that, that meant alot to me. Probably more than most things you can say to me. And, for a short while I believed in myself.

It was nice.

Sometimes, you get so accustomed to doing things. You get so caught up in your routines and your regularities that you stop noticing things. You stop feeling as motivated to stimulate change. You somehow let things slip and slide. And you lose focus. You forget to fight tooth and nail for your dreams. You get sidetracked, and  your goals become far off ideas that seem impossible to grasp.

And, for a short while when she was talking to me. I felt empowered.

I felt like …I am a good writer. I felt like, I do have a strength. A voice. A talent.

Even if it isn’t as great as someone elses’ or as polished as it should be. Maybe theres something poetically beautiful in raw, unbridled talent. Something inspiring and special.

I’d lost that, for so long. Months, years maybe.

And it literally brought tears to my eyes to be slapped in the face so abruptly by a small compliment. It made me remember why I want to write in the first place.

Because it’s mine. Whatever I say, or list. How I feel, or think. It belongs to me. Noone else.

If I’m lucky enough to find even one person that can relate, or feels how I feel but doesn’t know how to say it and finds solace in the way I write…then I’m a successful writer.

I don’t need millions of dollars, (though..hey…if yer a publisher and willing to give me some…I’ll definitely take every last little bit you want to give me) I don’t need mass notoriety, or long list of followers.

I need the comfort of knowing that I’m able to do what I love at any moment of any day.

And that is the true gift.

Sure, I’d like all the other stuff too. But, if I can’t have my cake and eat it too…I’ll still cherish the hell out of mypersonal fucking piece of cake.

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Parent without the p.

Do you ever wonder what universe other people live in?

It’s like they paint this picture perfect scenario, then paste their face in the middle of it, so they can act like things are something more than they are.

Sometimes, I think it’s unintentional. Sometimes not.

Sometimes I think maybe they’re just too ashamed to face the truth. Too proud to recognize something that might just be too hard.

My dad asked me a question the other day. He read something I wrote in my last blog about moving around alot, and he wanted to know what I meant.

I guess I wanted to dodge it more so than actually answer it.

I know that during my childhood my dad did some drugs. I know it isn’t his proudest moment. I know he probably wishes he could take it back. If for no other reason, than to just…spend time with me.

I’m sure it affects him, to know that….he doesn’t really know me. Neither of my parents really do. I don’t think either of them could tell you what I wanted to be when I grew up when I was 9. They couldn’t tell you my favorite color, my favorite toy. And, that’s kinda just stayed the same.

I wonder sometimes if it’s because they don’t want to know, or are just too ashamed of themselves to ask.

I know a thing or two about guilt holding you back. Preventing you from things. It happens.

It sucks to be the guy though. The guy whose parents don’t know him.

I think you grow up expecting to always have this amazing parent-child relationship. And, it just doesn’t always work out that way.

I’m sure the strains on my relationship with my parents has something to do with distance. Not a measurable distance, but a distance nonetheless. You can’t just…spend 6 years of your life never seeing or talking to someone, and ….expect things to be like they were when you were little.

I’ve blamed alot of things on them over the years. Some completely warranted. Some a little harsh. Some definitely harsh. And some definitely not harsh enough.

The truth is…I’ve never really felt a great…love from either of them.

Sure, I know they love me. In their own ways. But knowing you’re loved, and being shown your loved are two completely different things. And, I guess it could be argued that I don’t go out of my way to express my own ways of loving them either.

I’ve always kind of felt abandoned by them. Maybe that wasn’t actually how it was. Maybe circumstances kept us apart. Prison time.  Maybe their differences with each other played into my relationships with them.

The thing now is that….while I had a relationship with them as a child, as dysfunctional or “interesting” as it was, it was there.

As an adult…I don’t really have one with either of them.

I’ve seen my dad probably, 6 times in the two years he’s been out of prison. And two of those were in the last two days. I’ve seen my mom one time since I was 17 years old. And, that was last year.

The argument is always made that …I don’t go out of my way to see them. My argument is…I shouldn’t have to.  I see it like this.

My mother never made much of an effort to see me. And, my dad screwed me over pretty nicely before he went to prison.

Why do I need to chase them down for a relationship. Especially one that they never really seem so interested in either.

I think my moms’ excuse is more guilt. And I understand that.

I think my dads’ excuse is more shame. He has three brothers. They’re all big butch guys. He told me alot of times things get said about me being gay. And while he’d never admit it, I know he feels ashamed. You just know.

So, I try not to share much of my life with him. I dont’ wanna make it any harder on him, and…honestly I don’t wanna make it any harder on myself.

I’ve had a hard time dealing with the emotional bullshit that comes along with accepting the fact that not everyone can be 100% open minded. Not everyone can love you unconditionally. It took me awhile to be okay with it. And, it’s easier to avoid it all, than deal with it.

I’m sure I’ve hurt both of my parents in my lifetime. And, they’ve definitely hurt me too.

But I know that deep down, they regret the way things have gone. Deep down, beneath their guilt and shame, is a big pool of “god…I wish I knew who my kid is. What matters to him. What he likes. What he stands for.”

I know that deep down, they love me. I guess I just wish they weren’t such lousy parents.

The last two days, I’ve went to the emergency room. I’ve been really sick, missed my entire work week, and been pretty much miserable.

On Friday night, my dad called me, said he heard that I was sick…and he’d take me to the hospital. I refused at first, I’m stubborn like that. But, eventually I thought, I should go.

He came with me. He sat in the  ER with me for the 3-4 hours I was there. He nagged the nurses. Made inappropriate jokes. And, for the first time in …..a reeeeeeeally long time, we had some decent conversation.

He dropped me off at home when I was released and said if I need anything to call him.

So, Saturday when I woke up even sicker than Friday….I knew I needed to go back to the hospital. It was bad. I was dizzy, shaking, felt like I was gonna pass out. So, I called my dad and asked him to take me to the Dr.

I could tell by his tone that he didn’t really want to. I knew just by the way he acted the night before he didn’t wanna sit in the Er another several hours.

His response to me was….

“Well…I guess I can. I’ve got to go to Taco Bell first. Your uncle hoohah and uncle whoawhoa just gave me their money and their order. So, let me go get our food, then I’ll come get you.”

I think that, I’ve just kinda gotten used to being disappointed. You know, my dads’ never said he was sorry for having gas cards in my name. He’s never said he’s sorry for screwing me over with my bank, and illegally putting all his bills in my name. Selling my tv for crack. He’s never apologized for any of that. And, I’ve never expected him to. I could’ve sued him, pressed charges. But, I’m not that kind of guy. He’s the only father I have. And, I guess what little piece of me exists that hopes that one day he’ll seem as interested in salvaging our relationship just couldn’t bring myself to make things harder for him when he went to prison the last time.

But when he said that he had to get Taco Bell before he could take me to the emergency room…I remembered how protective he was of me when I was little. When I was innocent. When I was a daddys boy. When he loved me more than anything in the entire world. When I was his son. Not his gay son.

I remembered that. Because I was so angry. I can’t imagine telling my only child, that They would have to wait to go to the hospital, so I could go on a fucking food run for my brothers.

It hurt me. Alot. It kinda, put me in my place.

He eventually came and got me. Dropped me off and told me to call him when I was ready to go home.

That kinda hurt too, that you feel sick enough to go the Emergency room two days in a row, and your dad is so unconcerned that he’s just gonna let you sit there by yourself, while he goes back home to put on his comfy pants and play farmville on facebook,.

But, I guess I seen it coming.

He did try to show how much he cares by calling repeatedly to make sure I was okay. It was his little way of being worried and showing he cares.

But, sometimes I think the ways you show you care, aren’t quite the ways in which people need to be shown that you care.

I remember a time when I looked up to my dad. When I slept on park benches, or random apartment utility closets just because he was a crack head and I didn’t wanna be away from him. He was everything to me. I felt like he was going to teach me everything I needed to know about the world.

And, while he has taught me somethings…

I have to admit that the greatest thing he’s taught me is that drugs can ruin your life.

And, how not to be a father.

I don’t mean any disrespect. I love the guy.

Parents are people too. They make mistakes too. I don’t hold them to some unfair standard. I’m not saying he’s a complete douche. He means well. He’s just a product of the environment he was raised in. He can’t be more than what he is. And I can’t expect him to be. Just like I can’t be more than what I am. And he can’t expect me to be.

But it sucks.

He’ll never have that perfect son he’s always wanted. The one that likes sports and women. And, talks about Jesus all the time.

And I’ll never have that endlessly supportive father. The one that will sit next to me when I’m sick and scared. The one that will tell me I’ll be okay. Like he used to…before everything got so….complicated.

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For Realz.

“The only way to have a friend is to be one. ” -Ralph Waldo Emerson-

I’ve never really been great with friendships.

I’ve had friends. I’ve had great friends. I still have great friends.

But, it’s never really an area I prospered in.

I’m too skeptical, or personal. It’s hard for me to relate to alot of people. I’m not sure if it has something to do with never going to high school or not. I never really had friends before that either. Maybe I moved around too much, or just wasn’t able to open up to people. Maybe I was dealin with some sort of inner struggle that I didn’t even realize I was going through, that prevented me from really being myself. Or comfortable. Or something.

I’ve always been that person that seemed more concerned with relationships than friendships. And, after some pretty shitty relationships I’ve learned that that wasn’t the right way to go. Unfortunately, you can’t really erase several years of bad relationships and fill the void with these amazing lifelong friendships.

I don’t know if I’m unable to sustain a friendship on “best friend” level or not. I’m not sure if my inadequacies lie with being too selfish, or not selfish enough. Whether it’s my inability to bite my tongue, or my tendency to want to only look out for myself. While not my intent, it’s just natural that way.

I’ve always hard one really good friend. Or two. That’s not an exact number, just a point. I associate myself heavily with a small group of people. I get really close to them select few, and remain mildly distant towards everyone else. Like, there’s a quota in the the friendships category and once I’ve reached it, there’s room for no more.

Eventually something happens, or doesn’t happen. And the group alters. Eventually you find yourself as a whole new person, in a whole new circle. Vaguely remembering things you had in common, or didnt have in common, with people that you merely offer a wave of the hand, when it used to be something more.

I’m sure some reason is that I’m just an insecure person. I find opening up to people a vulnerable thing. And, I’m not particularly fond of sharing my vulnerabilities. Maybe I feel threatened.

I’m not sure if I keep people at a distance just because I’m not really that used to getting too close, or if I just don’t want them to be close. Like I don’t want to expose my own little kryptonites or whatever.

Sometimes, it makes me wonder. Is it just the way things are made, or is it just the way I’ve manufactured them.

I’m usually not a very softy nicey kind of guy. I used to be. Kinda. More so than now. Maybe I’ve become slightly bitter and angsty. I can definitely see a difference. Not that I’m angry, I’m just….over it. I’ve learned more. I understand more. And instead of sitting there pretending something isn’t what it is, I just say fuck it, and get something else.

Sometimes, I fuck up too.

I’m not really good at being the nice friend. The caring, thoughtful guy, who can always say the right thing. That’s not me. I’m the guy that’s gonna keep it real for you. I’m gonna give you the good and the bad. The whole, not the half. The hard truth, the entire truth, and often times, the painful truth.

I’m also the kind of guy that speaks without regard.

So…people don’t know how to take me.

Am I really an asshole? Or just misunderstood. Taken the wrong way. Misinterpreted.

Sure, I’m harsh. I can light a bitch up. And, I’m not the kinda guy to sugar coat anything.  If there’s one thing I’ve learned….people seek the truth, but can’t handle the truth.

People often say they can’t really read me. They don’t know how to take me.

I guess I can see that. I don’t know how to take myself sometimes.

I could go over it a gazillion times, and I wouldn’t get any closer.

The “why do I suck so much at maintaining friendships” question could never really be answered. I’m just a riddle wrapped in an puzzle, wrapped in an enigma. Wrapped in some strawberry jelly, wearing a pitbull mask.

It’s gotta be some sort of insecurity….But my psych0-analysis of myself is winding down. I’m tired.

My whole reason for this blog, is I randomly started thinking of someone.

Someone I care about, but I hurt.

For whatever reason, my big mouth, my short temper, my tendency to put on my bitch hat before my thinking cap.

Or, just my routine of not thinking of someone else and how something will affect them.

I basically, got angry at several things, and exploded. Everything was pent up, and instead of handling it properly, I handled it improperly. I sunk my teeth into someone, that I shouldn’t have.

I’ve been trying to find the right time or way to say I’m sorry. But, it’s never really been my thing. I’ve always been good at saying it. But never really that good at meaning it.

The whole debacle has been one I wish I could take back. Or at least alter. Be a little more cautious. A little more caring. A little more kind.

This person was a really close friend. And, the only reason it hasn’t been that  way, is because of me. It’s strange when you realize a friendship is over. When you’ll never hang out again, or share deep conversation.

It’s also strange when you realize that it isn’t over. When you realize that you messed up, and you feel remorseful.

You wish you knew the right words to use. The right look to give. The right moment to make up.

I’m not really the best at all that shit. I’m just good at whatever it is I’m good at. Being real. Being the best possible person that I can be. Standing up for what I believe in, being true to myself. And, remaining humble, and grounded. I guess I’m just good at being me. Even if that isn’t always the greatest thing. It’s flawed, anyway.

I guess I just wanted that person to know that I’m sorry. It doesn’t matter if I’ve said it, and if we’ve “put it past us”. It’s the elephant in the room. Even when I’m in a room by myself.

I don’t like to hurt people. Especially people that wouldn’t hurt me.

It’s been awhile since this person and I have really been close.

I guess I just wanted to let that person know that I am sorry for the mistakes. The mishandling. The douchebaggery.

I haven’t felt right about it since, and I just wanted to point out that I was wrong, and I’d like to take the steps towards changing that.

I haven’t always been the greatest with friendships. But, I’ve always had some of the greatest ones.

And, I don’t want to throw another one away, just because I made some bad choices.

And, I made some really bad choices.

So, for what it’s worth. I’m really sorry. I love you. And, I do really miss you.

You know who ya is.





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Mad. Madder. Pissed.


So. I’m not typically the type of person who holds back his thoughts.

Lately, I’ve been kinda biting my tongue on a few things, simply because it’s not appropriate.

Basically, because it’s work oriented and a large number of people that read this blog, know me from where I work.

Maybe they think fondly of me, perhaps they think I’m funny. Some are probably not the biggest fan, some probably hate me witha  passion, while others merely think I exist so that they can have two limes in their vodka and cranberry.

When so many people have access to your thoughts, it makes it easy ammunition. It’s a handy dandy way to grab something that I’ve written, take it out of context, print it out (it’s happened to me!) and bring it to someone I work with or work for.

The wrong statement can bite a bitch in the ass, even if it wasn’t meant to sound how it sounded. And, often times people aren’t very pleased when they find something negative or disparaging in someone elses’ blog.

I’ll start by saying that’s not at all my intent. For the most part, I love my job. It’s usually good money, it’s good hours,  and where else can I enjoy a nice alcoholic beverage while getting paid?

I enjoy meeting new people. I don’t enjoy meeting all people, and sure….Sometimes you meet some real dickfaced mother fuckers at the bar. Someone always thinks they’re better than you, or they are someone special. Someone always acts like because they gave you a dollar or two, you’re their bitch. They talk down to you, they demand things from you. They expect things from you.

And, there are some fucking amazing people too. Some that you grow fond of or close to. People that become more than your customers, but your friends. People you genuinely care about, or can’t imagine not knowing.

In that regard, I love my job.

On the other hand…

I’ve worked in a bar for ten years. And for what seems like a long time now, I’ve been on the same routine. I see the same people, I hear the same karaoke songs. I see the same drag performances. I make the same shots. I work the same nights.

Everything becomes so repetitive.

There’s always some sort of drama. Always.

There’s always some sort of conspiracy, or back stabbing. Always some sort of something.

And, you just get fed up.

Lately, I’ve been calling off on Fridays, just to give myself something different. The same routine, has worn me out. I’ve become exhausted with it all.

It makes you feel like your life falls short of what it’s supposed to be. It makes you feel like you’re doing something wrong.

Lately, I’ve just found myself feeling angry.

Angry at whatever. Whomever. Sometimes warranted, sometimes unwarranted. There’s not really a difference. It’s anger. Boredom. Exhaustion.

Being the type of guy that never shies down from confrontation, or isn’t afraid to express his opinion….often fails epically in the work place.


It makes you seem like a prickface, or a tyrant. A control freak, or something.

You can’t really explain the whole process of just being fed up with all the bullshit you face on day to day basis.

The way you’re treated by your co workers. The way your boss talks down to you, or yells at you for something as ridiculous as not wearing a dress shirt.

Which brings me to this blog.

You see, I’ve worked in the bar long enough to know that noone really cares what you’re wearing.

I feel like the only time you should be wearing dress clothing is if you’re in fancy establishment. Serving fine wine and champagne.

Not somewhere that the sink leaks all over the floor, drencing your feet, the faucet hasta be turned off from below every weekend, the floors are caving in, the lights are falling down, your security guard was a hustler, a crackhead, a straight/bi/straight crackwhore who has sex for money, and the latest now used to sell jello shots and only got his job cuz the crackhead before him quit, and they needed someone to stock the coolers at the end of the night.

I work hard. I make money for the owner. and, I pretty much give 100% most of the time.

And, the only thing that gets acknowledged is that you wore a t shirt with John Lennon on it, instead of a dress shirt with a tie.

And to that I ask this…

Why? Why should I have to wear a dress shirt?

I’m next door to some of the freakiest shit in town. The place often smells like a sewer.. (And..I can say that..because…i love that sewer) My floors are caving in, my register still uses cardboard pieces to sort my money (that I cut myself!) because it never gets fixed.

Rarely does something I ask for get done. At least not in any sort of timely fashion. It’s like everything is thrown together half ass, and yet I have to dress like you’re in some sort of higher status establishment.

Let’s be real here.

I love my bar. I love my boss. I love the people I work with. And I love the customers that come in. (well….most of them).

But, it’s not some fancy schmancy place.

It’s tiny. It’s all second hand things (tables, chairs etc) and..while we manage to do pretty well for ourselves with what we’re given and the space we have….it’s not like we’re drawing in only the towns’ finest.

And, that’s fine. We love the people that come in, because we’re all a group. We’re in it together. Us that work there, and those that come there. It’s a circle. You come, we try to make sure you have a good time. We’re glad you came, and hopefully you are too.

But I’m really fucking sick and tired of the bullshit.

I’m sick and tired of being uncomfortable while I run all over the place making drinks, and walking out of the bar with crappy tips.

Keeping a sound work environment that runs the smoothest is about symmetry.

And, we’re close. At Blush especially. We all get along. We all have each others back. It almost reminds me of Caesars back in the day. We’re all there for each other. And that’s a good team to have.

But, there’s something to be said about giving the people that work for you the benefit of the doubt.

We all have our complaints. We all have things that don’t make us happy. But we work there. We deal with it.

I was told that the owner of my bar wanted to take 20 dollars out of my paycheck, because I didn’t wear my dress shirt on Saturday.

And, it’s insulting. It angers me. It enrages me.

That, that is all you have to say.

I think its bullshit that I have to wear the shirt in the first place. So does everyone else that has to wear one.

Why not let us be comfortable, and happy at work. If we’re happy, odds are we’re gonna do a much better job. And, if that happens, then you’re happy.

But, when you’re nitpicked at constantly, noone is happy.

And, I’m finding that to be very true in this case.

It’s almost to the point where you want to battle it out. Like some old shootout in the Old West. High noon or some shit.

I dunno if I’m just burnt out, or tired of being made to feel like I’m underappreciated.

I’ve gotten so tired of the bullshit, that I’m not able to enjoy the good times of it all anymore.

I’m not comfortable. I’m tired of being yelled at for something stupid. I’m tired of the things I need or want to be done, being ignored, yet the fact that I’m not wearing a fucking dress shirt is made out to be such a fucking big deal, that a small part of just wishes I’d get fired so I don’t have to deal with it.

Most of the entire staff has told me that if I didn’t work there, they wouldn’t either. Several have said I’m the only reason they’re still there. Some of said I’m the only reason they started in the first place.

It makes you feel good. To know that.

And, I’m not saying I’m getting fired or anything. That’s not the case. At least not yet. I mean, I’m sure this blog isn’t gonna make anyone happy.

But..then ..I guess it’s fair.

If you want to make me wear some ridiculous costume, because you’re in a fantasy world where you think people are coming to some classy joint, and make me feel completely unrespected, and underappreciated.

Then I can say, I think it’s fucking bullshit.

I have to dress up in a place that every week I have to spray an entire bottled of febreeze in because the cleaning guy doesn’t clean it til Friday morning. I have to dress up in a place where things get pushed aside, forgotten about, or ignored all together.

I have to dress up in a place, that other people can walk around selling jello shots in their underwear. Or people can drop their pants and show off their jockstraps. Or, old men can come in wearing their grandmothers dress and some scary wig they bought three Halloweens ago, with half their “coochie” hangin out. A place where people steal things off the wall, just to rip small pieces of metal off of them, so they can sell them to the scrap metal places.

Where the bar still isn’t stained, or the floor is cracking more and more.

Yet, the biggest complaint is that I’m not wearing a mother fucking dress shirt.

It pisses me off.

I didn’t ask to work there. I wanted to work at Ripcord. I was basically told that noone else that works for him could do it. I had no say.

That’s not to say that I don’t enjoy it. that I don’t love it. Because I do.

But, its amazing the way something as silly as letting us wear t-shirts could completely stange the atmosphere of the whole place.

Unfortunately…the only people that realize this are those of us stuck wearing something we fucking hate.

So, my solution that I propose…is make someone else fucking do it.

Because I am not happy. Not when the only thing that can be said to  me is that I’m in trouble for not wearing a dress shirt.

What ever happened to “good job”. or “thanks for working hard” or “it sure was nice to see you having fun behind the bar…why was that nick?”

I’d say…I had more fun last Saturday then I can remember at that bar.

Because I wasn’t being forced to wear something stupid that makes me unhappy, and makes me look like I was picked up from some place where everyone is dressed up, and dropped off in the middle of a lesbian fish fry, with a bunch of old half naked men with four teeth smiling atcha while they ash in a shit glass that you have to scrub clean with your own fucking finger.


I’m a little

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Don’t you (forget about me)

Tonight I seen two different people that I’m friends with. Not the closest of friends, not the furthest of friends. Not the kind you speak to regularly, but the ones you recall fondly. Ones’ that while you may not know what is going on with each other on a day to day or week to week basis, but you see occasionally, are glad you got to see them, and remember when you used to see them more.

In this case, both of them reminded me of another friend. One that unfortunately passed away almost two years ago.

It’s strange the way you grieve over a person. You get all sad, you remember the times you spent, the moments you shared. You get angry, you wonder what it’s gonna be like without them. And, you…just feel like…you just lost someone important to you.

Then, eventually you’re able to put it past you. You think about them less. You stop thinking of the moments, because it’s too depressing. So you try to just push it aside. And you do. You’re fine. You’re sad. You miss them. But you’re fine.

And then one person, at one moment….randomly….out of the blue…and everything rushes back.

You remember everything you tried to forget, or get past, or move on from. Every memory you kept close to you. Every one far, and in between.

You remember losing them all over again. And, getting over it. You feel bad. Because you’ve inadvertently blocked a person from your memory. And you still miss them.

It’s pretty shitty.

I had that tonight.

It was wonderful to see the people I hadn’t seen in awhile. But, it also reminded me of someone that I won’t ever see again. At least, not in this state of being.(??)

You’re grateful for the people that you still have around you. The old friends you cherish, the new ones you meet along the way. And the one’s developing all around you at every moment.

But it never seems quite the same as ones you’ve lost. Whether because of an arguement, or a fight. Whether your bff done went and fucked your man, raped your kid, stole your cat, ate your last nutty bar, pissed all over your face while you were sleeping or a confidant simply passed away, moved away, or stopped getting you in general….there’s always a part of you that misses that. A part of you that clings to that memory. A part of you that holds that higher than the rest, because it’s the unattainable, the unchangeable. The set in stone. It’s what it was, and that’s all that it can ever be.

It sucks losing people. It’s sucha shitty part of life. To grow attached to people, to love them with some, any, and all of your being. And, then lose them. It’s the fucking worst.

It’s the Rebecca Black of life. If you don’t know who that is, look her up, then you’ll know…I mean that it is the complete worst. The shittiest. The fucking dumps.

Sure, you can only do your best. You try to do your best at moving on. And you do. You have to. You need to. You do.

And everyone’s always like you have to accept it, and deal with it, and blah blah fuckin blah.

But, sometimes there’s just gotta be someone that says fuck that shit. I don’t want to accept it. I fucking know that I have to….but I don’t want to.

I guess that’s me today.

There are certain people I miss more than anything. Scott. Angie. Stacie. My grandmother. A list of people I’v emet and lost in some way or another.

And for whatever reason, I guess this blog is just my cynical little way of remembering them. Missing them. Loving them.

I guess that’s how I’d want it. If you can’t remember me often, remember me fondly. If ya can’t do that either, then call a spade a spade and say I miss that fucking cunt. God he was a fucking dickhead…but I loved that dickhead. He was my fucking dickhead.

That’s what I want it to be like when I’m not around.

Regardless, I got off topic. (I do that) My whole point is just…it sucks when you lose people. But, it also sucks to remember the people you’ve lost…after you tried to get it out of your mind. Cuz then you miss them, and feel like a crappy person for trying to forget about them too.

But, it’s what you do. It’s part of the process. Evnetually…You remember them, you miss them. And you don’t have to try to block it out. Because, all you want to do is remember them.

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It was occuring to me today how many certain places I’ve associated with different people or particular moments.

That’s where I lost my virginity. There’s the first place I was broken up with. That’s where my grandmother and I went all the time. That’s the first place I ate at after she died. That’s where I got drunk for the first time. That’s where I met my lover. That…is where I met the worst thing that’s ever happened to me. That is where I went to be alone.

There’s so many different things you remember. So many different parts of you, that you clump together simply because of location.

So many things you won’t forget. You attach them to these places. The corner store. Your old family church. The random gay bar.

And, for the sake of this blogs’ topic….The bowling alley.

I recently spent the last time I’ll ever spend in this place.

A place I’d been going to for 25 weeks out of a year, for 6 out of the last 7 years.

It’s a place I remember having fun at. Being drunk. Being annoyed. Being angry. Passing out in, cursing out, enjoying, hating, loving, loathing.

A place I’ve been at with so many different people. People that were my best of friends, worst of friends, boyfriends, play things, confidants, co workers and arch nemesis-es. (lol)

I’ve made a fool of myself, an ass of myself, a drunken ass fool of myself and a drunken fool ass mess of myself at this place.

I’ve yelled at lesbians, old men, old women, old men dressed as women, and old women that used to be men.

I’ve bowled well at, but mostly horribly at this place.

I’ve won awards, made friendships, lost friendships, and moarned a dear friend of mine at this place.

I’ve also grown to fully despise this place. Every week I’ve gone there over the last 3 months, has been a miserable experience. Something always goes wrong, fucks up, breaks, falls apart, takes forever, isn’t working, or is working too well.

Even the people have become boring old shits. I don’t mean to say everyone on the league are boring old shits, but….there’s alot. It’s become more about the bowling, and less about fun associating times.

The times it used to be about for me. It’s not about that anymore. It’s something different.

So, as I think about all the shit that I’ve done in this place, and the people I’ve done it with…it makes me want to remember it fondly. Not for the complete piece of shit it’s become.

It’s weird when you physically see something leave your life.

Toot-a-fuckin loo, Bay Center.

I had fun, but not that much fucking fun.


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Crazy Talk.

Everyone changes.

It’s inevitable.  In most people, it’s optical. You can see it. The way they act, the way they talk. Everything.

Often times, the only time you cannot recognize change is either when you’re too afraid to recognize it, or….its yourself that’s changed.

It just kind of gradually sneaks up on you. Before you know it, you’re a complete different person. You go by the same name, you get up at the same time. You shop at the same places. You eat the same thing. But, everything else is different. You don’t even realize it. Until something clicks. For some reason you remember that you used to hate being home on a Friday night.

I’ve gone through this lately. Maybe I’m just getting older. Maturing. Settling down, or something. I’m not sure.

I’ve found that some of the things that used to interest me, don’t. The things I used to make time for, now seem like things I make time to avoid. The things I wanted, are the things I hope I never have. The people I loved, are the people I’ve been free of.

Somewhere along the lines, I’ve …..grown.

Over, or through. Backwards? Mostly, just up.

I’m drawn to remember a time when I wasn’t the way I am now.

I remember when I was younger. Naive. I lust for the innocence.

The days before I’d been hurt, or fucked over. Long before I’d become impatient, and mean.

When I was quiet, and kind. (well……more kind.)

I feel like now I’m loud and opinionated. I’m glad, because I used to be a doormat.

Now that I’m too proud to be a doormat, I remember the innocent way I looked at the world.

When I wanted the experiment over the experience.

I wouldn’t want to be any different. But I remember a time when I did.

I guess it just made me nostalgic.

The biggest change is my hunger.

I remember writing all night. Pages and pages. It didn’t matter whether it was a journal, or a poem. A story, or just random sentences, trying to make something out of nothing.

I remember being hungry for my passion. It’s what I wanted. It’s what I needed.

I never really got anywhere with it. I never really tried.

I got wrapped up in myself. So busy trying to shove different relationships and their issues down my own throat with my fingers, that I stopped writing.

And, it gets easy.


When I was alone, or unhappy…I found shelter in my thoughts. I found solace in my words. My ideas.

Now, that I reside with the best thing that’s ever happened to me….I’ve found that it’s not as important to me to write something amazing, as it is important to me to cuddle up to my partner.

It makes me miss the days when I was lonely. If only, because sadness inspires me.

It brings out that….writer in me.

And, that’s been the hardest part of my change.

I’m happier than I’ve ever been in my entire life.

But, in a sense…I feel like my left arm has been severed. My elbow gashed.

My shin removed.

My heart pierced.

It’s difficult to find yourself in an amazing place economically, but such a dark place creatively.

It’s, not what I’m used to. It’s now what I’ve come to expect. It’s not what I know how to deal with.


I find myself looking for things to be sad about.  Wishing for something bad to happen. Hoping for some sort of brief depression, just to get one amazing moment in words.

But, the birds chirp. They fly around playing pattycakes with butterflies. They sweep the floor, and tie my shoes. And everything is perfect.

And, it’s nice. It’s warm. It’s ..wonderful.

But the only opportunity at fame, fortune, notoriety, or whatever else I hope to gain by being a successful published writer, suffers.

And, I mean…its the one I’d sacrifice.  But, I wish it didn’t have to be that way.

I wish I could write when I’m happy. I wish I wasn’t this tortured artist kinda guy.

I just am. I was ..Born this way. Or something.  (Gaga fingers up!)

After seeing all that’s changed in my life. Which is…pretty much everything.

I’m slightly excited by the thought of more change.

Maybe eventually I’ll change into this guy that can write at will. Everything will be amazing, I’ll be ec-fucking-static. I can come home, jack off to the greatness that is my life, and write something that blows everyones fucking mind.

In the mean time, you get this bullshit.

My woe-is-me-cry me a fucking river, its alllll about me, overdramatic, self involved, monstrosity type bullshit.


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