Posts
Hello everyone. After doing some browsing, I have decided to move the blog over to WordPress. Overall I just seem to like it over there. There haven't been many changes (most of the updating will be done when I go on leave in September) but I will continue to post as regularly as I can. Pre-Deployment is a bitch.
Anyways, feel free to update your bookmarks (Ha, like anyone here has this blog bookmarked) www.almostpublished.wordpress.com I also have an email dedicated to all things writing and what not, joe.wellsblog@gmail.com
Hope to see you all over there and I hope I continue to entertain you all with my ramblings.
-joe
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Monday, August 2, 2010
You Are Free To Throw Your Life Away
For the fool who allows himself to believe in a fantasy world where no matter what he does, happiness will find him, there is no sympathy. Sadly it is the same for the fool who holds onto the littlest ounce of hope that love is still out there. Waiting. Testing him. The only difference is for the latter, there is a grievance allowed. He fought the good fight no matter how many times he may have stumbled so he does not allow anyone to weep for him or apologize for hurting him but only if moves forward, chin up and ready for the next disappointment.
But he gets his grievance. One bender. Drunk. Grabbing titties and smacking ass. No recollection of how he got home. Late to work cause he is still passed out drunk at 10 a.m. One bender.
It is that following morning he decides if he going to move on or if he will find himself wallowing in regret and sorrow.
I have had my bender. It was everything I needed. I felt cleansed, ready to press on. Joe “Mother Fucking” Wells might have passed some months back but Joe “BAMF” Wells was born (credited to my roommate, Russell) and he is ready to drink, party, and fuck. No Tomorrow.
But if you all know me, I’m one depressing mother fucker. So here I sit at midnight, thinking of all the shit I built in my head. My hopes as to how everything would turn out. Sure there was never a chance for it to ever be a happy ending, but I shall press on, fighting the good fight. I can be dead in three months, I can be come back all fucked, hell, worst case scenario I can come back and want to keep doing this army gig, but I refuse to see that happening. I’m not out of this fight.
Most people at this point of their post-bender analysis realize that they were only in love with the idea of being in love. I’m in love and now seems like a good time to keep on and see what happens. Guess this deployment is perfect timing as it allows me to kill some time while waiting to get back and throw my life away.
To everyone following this over-dramatic account of my life, I apologize. I know some of you were lead to believe that I was bowing out. Sorry, but the saga continues.
But he gets his grievance. One bender. Drunk. Grabbing titties and smacking ass. No recollection of how he got home. Late to work cause he is still passed out drunk at 10 a.m. One bender.
It is that following morning he decides if he going to move on or if he will find himself wallowing in regret and sorrow.
I have had my bender. It was everything I needed. I felt cleansed, ready to press on. Joe “Mother Fucking” Wells might have passed some months back but Joe “BAMF” Wells was born (credited to my roommate, Russell) and he is ready to drink, party, and fuck. No Tomorrow.
But if you all know me, I’m one depressing mother fucker. So here I sit at midnight, thinking of all the shit I built in my head. My hopes as to how everything would turn out. Sure there was never a chance for it to ever be a happy ending, but I shall press on, fighting the good fight. I can be dead in three months, I can be come back all fucked, hell, worst case scenario I can come back and want to keep doing this army gig, but I refuse to see that happening. I’m not out of this fight.
Most people at this point of their post-bender analysis realize that they were only in love with the idea of being in love. I’m in love and now seems like a good time to keep on and see what happens. Guess this deployment is perfect timing as it allows me to kill some time while waiting to get back and throw my life away.
To everyone following this over-dramatic account of my life, I apologize. I know some of you were lead to believe that I was bowing out. Sorry, but the saga continues.
Saturday, July 10, 2010
Bitching, moaning and beating yourself up cause it feels so good
I don’t mean to sound like I’m bitching here nor do I tell you all of this in hope of some sympathy, money or a piece of ass. They way this life has turned out so far has me looking at every “event” as a story, a story to be told for laughs, tears, understanding. That is the purpose of literature, whatever the hell that is anymore; to strike an emotional chord deep within the human soul.
But people come attracted because they feel we have something in common and that makes us peers, comrades, friends. It is the same reason why Bukowski attracted all the loons; they believed he was just as crazy and drunk as they were (or they wanted to see a man fall to pieces). So they come over to my room or call me on the phone or, thanks to the technology today, instant message me with their rants and bitching.
Everyone expects me to have a good story to tell, but I have already told them so many times they have become lies to me. My life is a work of fiction and so I tell them what is happening in the moment. This results in a pouring of emotion every now and then until I finally shut myself up because I have sickened myself. And I do feel bad, for usually this happens when in a shitty mood and really don’t want to be around people, but that is when people are always around.
Nonetheless, I get out of my rut and walk around, smiling and gay, feeling that if I were to dive off the roof of my building I would float slowly and smoothly, like a feather, to the ground. That is when they knock on my door or ring my phone or cause my computer to go on the fritz. It is always on the worse day of their lives, their hopes and dreams and women all gone. They sit in my room, taking advantage of the liquor and my ear, looking, begging and pleading for some empathy. Well sirs, I am incapable of that for whatever it is that has you down, well, I truly can give two shits about.
There are only three people that I will listen bitch about their lives and that is only because I care for them; Clinten, Danielle and drunks. They rest can just sit there and sulk for as long as they want, they will eventually get out of their rut as I have mine.
That doesn’t mean that the above three get a free pass to enter in and send a barrage of bitching and moaning my way.
Who am I kidding? These are my friends, of course they can. What I mean is I expect at least a little bit of tact, decency, and respect what little bit of feeling I have left. Besides if I wasn’t for them, I’m not I would have a lot to write about, a lot of stories to tell.
But it is like, take Danielle for instance, since she is the object of my affection at the moment. I listen to her going on and on about Adam and all the other boys she is going out and hooking up with, or at least, attempting to hook up with and she goes into great detail about the situations she finds herself, every finger’s movement, every ounce of moisture gathering below the belt, every inch of cock that is involved and for someone who cares so deeply for her and wants to spend the rest of my life with her, it is enough to make me puke up all this beer and cry myself to sleep at night. Except I don’t. No, I take a step back from it all and realize that I don’t feel that way even though my mind is telling me I should. I just accept it and come to terms that I am Crazy.
Yet, on the other foot, when it is mentioned that I have come to know a woman intimately (who am I kidding; when she finds out I fucked someone) she is unnerved by it all and I find her gathering distance. It’s only when I tell her how I truly feel that she seems to come around, but it doesn’t matter. Her heart is with someone else, no matter how much she wants to deny it. It’s just the fact that her and I are going through the same exact thing, wanting someone who doesn’t want the other and it appears she refuses to acknowledge that fact when we speak. But I do ask, and if I was truly bothered by it all, I would talk to her. And shit, I know of a woman who feels exactly like Danielle and I do, and is tied into this as well for I string her along and crush her soul at the same time, I’m sure.
I’m actually getting sick of myself and now need a drink more than ever. I got this forensics exam tomorrow and then have to go out to the field for the rest of the month. Maybe in that time I will have another good story for you all, hell maybe in that time I will be over Danielle, or her over Adam or hell, her over me. Maybe I will even stop bitching to this keyboard and say something real for once. Or maybe I will just grab another beer and keep doing what I do.
But people come attracted because they feel we have something in common and that makes us peers, comrades, friends. It is the same reason why Bukowski attracted all the loons; they believed he was just as crazy and drunk as they were (or they wanted to see a man fall to pieces). So they come over to my room or call me on the phone or, thanks to the technology today, instant message me with their rants and bitching.
Everyone expects me to have a good story to tell, but I have already told them so many times they have become lies to me. My life is a work of fiction and so I tell them what is happening in the moment. This results in a pouring of emotion every now and then until I finally shut myself up because I have sickened myself. And I do feel bad, for usually this happens when in a shitty mood and really don’t want to be around people, but that is when people are always around.
Nonetheless, I get out of my rut and walk around, smiling and gay, feeling that if I were to dive off the roof of my building I would float slowly and smoothly, like a feather, to the ground. That is when they knock on my door or ring my phone or cause my computer to go on the fritz. It is always on the worse day of their lives, their hopes and dreams and women all gone. They sit in my room, taking advantage of the liquor and my ear, looking, begging and pleading for some empathy. Well sirs, I am incapable of that for whatever it is that has you down, well, I truly can give two shits about.
There are only three people that I will listen bitch about their lives and that is only because I care for them; Clinten, Danielle and drunks. They rest can just sit there and sulk for as long as they want, they will eventually get out of their rut as I have mine.
That doesn’t mean that the above three get a free pass to enter in and send a barrage of bitching and moaning my way.
Who am I kidding? These are my friends, of course they can. What I mean is I expect at least a little bit of tact, decency, and respect what little bit of feeling I have left. Besides if I wasn’t for them, I’m not I would have a lot to write about, a lot of stories to tell.
But it is like, take Danielle for instance, since she is the object of my affection at the moment. I listen to her going on and on about Adam and all the other boys she is going out and hooking up with, or at least, attempting to hook up with and she goes into great detail about the situations she finds herself, every finger’s movement, every ounce of moisture gathering below the belt, every inch of cock that is involved and for someone who cares so deeply for her and wants to spend the rest of my life with her, it is enough to make me puke up all this beer and cry myself to sleep at night. Except I don’t. No, I take a step back from it all and realize that I don’t feel that way even though my mind is telling me I should. I just accept it and come to terms that I am Crazy.
Yet, on the other foot, when it is mentioned that I have come to know a woman intimately (who am I kidding; when she finds out I fucked someone) she is unnerved by it all and I find her gathering distance. It’s only when I tell her how I truly feel that she seems to come around, but it doesn’t matter. Her heart is with someone else, no matter how much she wants to deny it. It’s just the fact that her and I are going through the same exact thing, wanting someone who doesn’t want the other and it appears she refuses to acknowledge that fact when we speak. But I do ask, and if I was truly bothered by it all, I would talk to her. And shit, I know of a woman who feels exactly like Danielle and I do, and is tied into this as well for I string her along and crush her soul at the same time, I’m sure.
I’m actually getting sick of myself and now need a drink more than ever. I got this forensics exam tomorrow and then have to go out to the field for the rest of the month. Maybe in that time I will have another good story for you all, hell maybe in that time I will be over Danielle, or her over Adam or hell, her over me. Maybe I will even stop bitching to this keyboard and say something real for once. Or maybe I will just grab another beer and keep doing what I do.
Do you just ever write about your emotions?
She asked me if I ever wrote what I felt or if I just stuck to the stories. I had. From time to time I would open up and express my love, my hate, my confusion in the relationships I had. I also wrote about my anticipation, my fear, my anxiety of going to war and not going to war. Except now I did now want to touch those emotions. I didn’t want to feel anything. I just wanted to put out my novel and my short stories. I didn’t need to tap into those feelings. They were always there.
She hated the fact that I didn’t share my feelings with her, or anyone for that matter. Sure with love and relationships I am sure she could help me work through my problems. But, with war, combat, she had no place. No one close to me did. They didn’t know what to say to the fact that I was scared that I would not be able to train my guys properly. That I was scared that I might not bring some of them back.
Very few people can tell you how to deal with the recurring dreams of not, physically, being able to pull the trigger, or when you must rush to stop the killings of friends and family and you are stuck, no weapon, no equipment. Helpless.
I have sat here for six years on the sidelines. Every minute I spent training, I have invested 100% of myself into it. I know nothing of combat, but I have been to every practice. I sit here on the bench of the biggest game of the year, third string, and now I am being called up. To ensure my men do their job. To kill the enemy and win the hearts and minds of the population. To bring everyone of them home alive. It’s a terrible amount of pressure.
Yet, it is only here, in the dark, that I show my cracks for in the morning I awaken to throw on my uniform. I do everything I can to prepare my men, mentally and physically. That is the easy part though. It is gaining their trust in my leadership that is the hardest. Maybe it is due to the slow pitches we have received in training, that makes them believe that our job is a little too simple. It might even be the fact I myself have no idea about the essence of combat therefore, any remark I make sounds as though it comes straight out of a text book.
I do not know what it might be; all I am aware of is how it shakes me during these nights. Alone and constantly harassed about what I feel.
She wants to know what I feel. Well overall I feel nothing, because in the morning, in the woods, the swamps, the mountains, all my mental and emotional fortitude is dedicated to them. I don’t have the luxury to decipher what is going on inside me.
She hated the fact that I didn’t share my feelings with her, or anyone for that matter. Sure with love and relationships I am sure she could help me work through my problems. But, with war, combat, she had no place. No one close to me did. They didn’t know what to say to the fact that I was scared that I would not be able to train my guys properly. That I was scared that I might not bring some of them back.
Very few people can tell you how to deal with the recurring dreams of not, physically, being able to pull the trigger, or when you must rush to stop the killings of friends and family and you are stuck, no weapon, no equipment. Helpless.
I have sat here for six years on the sidelines. Every minute I spent training, I have invested 100% of myself into it. I know nothing of combat, but I have been to every practice. I sit here on the bench of the biggest game of the year, third string, and now I am being called up. To ensure my men do their job. To kill the enemy and win the hearts and minds of the population. To bring everyone of them home alive. It’s a terrible amount of pressure.
Yet, it is only here, in the dark, that I show my cracks for in the morning I awaken to throw on my uniform. I do everything I can to prepare my men, mentally and physically. That is the easy part though. It is gaining their trust in my leadership that is the hardest. Maybe it is due to the slow pitches we have received in training, that makes them believe that our job is a little too simple. It might even be the fact I myself have no idea about the essence of combat therefore, any remark I make sounds as though it comes straight out of a text book.
I do not know what it might be; all I am aware of is how it shakes me during these nights. Alone and constantly harassed about what I feel.
She wants to know what I feel. Well overall I feel nothing, because in the morning, in the woods, the swamps, the mountains, all my mental and emotional fortitude is dedicated to them. I don’t have the luxury to decipher what is going on inside me.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Home is where the beer, whores and friends are
Home. Wherever that was anymore, I didn’t fit. To my family, I drank too much, cursed and slept around with whomever. To my friends, it was the same, except they were drinking just as much (only a few slept around as much as I did, but they at least knew how to ensure the entire town didn’t find out about it the next day). I was like this when I left that dead town, New Kensington, not too many people acknowledged it though. Clinten did. He was there the night we were all drinking one woman’s garage as I sat there, four females lined up in front of me. All wanting to know who the best kisser was. Sure there were two other guys with me, but with some stroke of Luck, I had become the expert of the group.
And he was the one to drive me and two other females all off to our respective homes. First dropping off Lauren, making out with her in the back yard, trying to find a spot where she could blow me and not have to worry about her father. After being interrupted by Clinten’s car horn (he can be a dick like that and so am I. It keeps the friendship going), we were at Tina’s house fooling around on her computer when her and I decided to start fooling around. Clinten left in disgust, throwing me a condom and I fucked her good that night.
Something happened after Danielle and I broke up. These women finally started showing me that I had something to offer them, something they wanted for quite some time. All I had to do was be there and smile.
The years started going by and women left my bedroom at higher rates and I ran around with an air of arrogance, entitlement, and who wouldn’t? For the most part, especially my years in Germany, I was getting consistently laid by women who, for the most part, were amazing, and if they lacked looks they made up for it with either their oral skills or freakiness level in bed (or bar bathroom, restaurant parking lot, club dance floor, just to name a few). Back home, everyone else thought I was an asshole, but it didn’t stop women from spreading their legs so it didn’t stop me.
Now, five years later and one hell of a vacation over Christmas were pulling pussy was more like deciding which apples to buy at a supermarket than some sort of exciting chase, I’m bored with it all. My cousin is happy that I have hung up my manwhore shoes, but she knows that I’m leaving for Afghanistan in the fall so I will be home, and people will hear the scary tale of future war and combat, the possibility of death and again, those legs will spread, and I will glide my cock in yet again. It’s what I know, and it seems that is all I got.
I’m sure there will be a few back there, telling me I am too old for this shit. Last time I checked, I’m twenty three. They act as though they don’t understand me, but I plainly don’t understand them. When we were young and didn’t comprehend how big the world was, everyone would shout there head “WHAT’S MY AGE AGAIN! WHAT’S MY AGE AGAIN!” Then people attempt college, have a kid or two or three, marry, and they believe they have grown up. Matured.
HA!
Home. Maybe they’re right though. Being in the army gives you a few grievances and people tend to let you slide, BUT I’m coming home for good. The “I was in a war, goddammit” card will only go so far until I finally use it all up, and then what? Do I settle down, start furthering my education? What about all those young girls of eighteen walking around the campus, their eyes filled with hope and wanting to experience everything they can, everything their mothers and fathers did and are now afraid of? Who will please them?
Do I get a steady job that pays a decent as a war vet could hope for? Date? I tried dating over Christmas, it scared the hell out of me. Too many whores and bar flies and military town sluts have caused me to forget what even a date is even supposed to be like. Plus, over the years I have come to hate people. It’s all rudimentary to what will happen down the road (either a few good fucks or a serious relationship) and worst of all it requires a lot of small talk which will only force me to put a gun in my mouth.
Do I try to work it out with my ex, the woman I truly love? My stomach is to torn up right now to even deal with that. Actually excuse me a moment while I go and puke.
Ah, so where was I? yes yes So what will I do?
I will get a small apartment, with a small room and small desk. Sitting in there; my laptop, my typewriter, my ashtray and my fridge, stocked with beer and whiskey, and I will get drunk. Writing and typing and screwing. Screwing who? Those sweet young eighteen year old girls who traveled one of the three rivers to make it as a biologist or lawyer or accountant or, god forbid a writer.
Change my ways. Try to be with my love. Mature. The catch phrase seems to be, “Leave it up to fate.” No one wants to make any decisions, take any responsibility and that is all I need. My conscience is clear. I’m already expecting to lose it all and just be another drunk in a crummy apartment talking about the days when I was young so why try? I can’t control this shit, I know what I want and will take it if available. If not, well, damn.
Still, I will be close to the family and they do love me. I will be close to friends and they still put up with me. I will be close to alcohol and that never let me down. New Kensington. Pittsburgh. Pennsylvania. Home. Maybe it’s not as scary as I make it seem. Maybe that’s just the 3 a.m. beer talking.
And he was the one to drive me and two other females all off to our respective homes. First dropping off Lauren, making out with her in the back yard, trying to find a spot where she could blow me and not have to worry about her father. After being interrupted by Clinten’s car horn (he can be a dick like that and so am I. It keeps the friendship going), we were at Tina’s house fooling around on her computer when her and I decided to start fooling around. Clinten left in disgust, throwing me a condom and I fucked her good that night.
Something happened after Danielle and I broke up. These women finally started showing me that I had something to offer them, something they wanted for quite some time. All I had to do was be there and smile.
The years started going by and women left my bedroom at higher rates and I ran around with an air of arrogance, entitlement, and who wouldn’t? For the most part, especially my years in Germany, I was getting consistently laid by women who, for the most part, were amazing, and if they lacked looks they made up for it with either their oral skills or freakiness level in bed (or bar bathroom, restaurant parking lot, club dance floor, just to name a few). Back home, everyone else thought I was an asshole, but it didn’t stop women from spreading their legs so it didn’t stop me.
Now, five years later and one hell of a vacation over Christmas were pulling pussy was more like deciding which apples to buy at a supermarket than some sort of exciting chase, I’m bored with it all. My cousin is happy that I have hung up my manwhore shoes, but she knows that I’m leaving for Afghanistan in the fall so I will be home, and people will hear the scary tale of future war and combat, the possibility of death and again, those legs will spread, and I will glide my cock in yet again. It’s what I know, and it seems that is all I got.
I’m sure there will be a few back there, telling me I am too old for this shit. Last time I checked, I’m twenty three. They act as though they don’t understand me, but I plainly don’t understand them. When we were young and didn’t comprehend how big the world was, everyone would shout there head “WHAT’S MY AGE AGAIN! WHAT’S MY AGE AGAIN!” Then people attempt college, have a kid or two or three, marry, and they believe they have grown up. Matured.
HA!
Home. Maybe they’re right though. Being in the army gives you a few grievances and people tend to let you slide, BUT I’m coming home for good. The “I was in a war, goddammit” card will only go so far until I finally use it all up, and then what? Do I settle down, start furthering my education? What about all those young girls of eighteen walking around the campus, their eyes filled with hope and wanting to experience everything they can, everything their mothers and fathers did and are now afraid of? Who will please them?
Do I get a steady job that pays a decent as a war vet could hope for? Date? I tried dating over Christmas, it scared the hell out of me. Too many whores and bar flies and military town sluts have caused me to forget what even a date is even supposed to be like. Plus, over the years I have come to hate people. It’s all rudimentary to what will happen down the road (either a few good fucks or a serious relationship) and worst of all it requires a lot of small talk which will only force me to put a gun in my mouth.
Do I try to work it out with my ex, the woman I truly love? My stomach is to torn up right now to even deal with that. Actually excuse me a moment while I go and puke.
Ah, so where was I? yes yes So what will I do?
I will get a small apartment, with a small room and small desk. Sitting in there; my laptop, my typewriter, my ashtray and my fridge, stocked with beer and whiskey, and I will get drunk. Writing and typing and screwing. Screwing who? Those sweet young eighteen year old girls who traveled one of the three rivers to make it as a biologist or lawyer or accountant or, god forbid a writer.
Change my ways. Try to be with my love. Mature. The catch phrase seems to be, “Leave it up to fate.” No one wants to make any decisions, take any responsibility and that is all I need. My conscience is clear. I’m already expecting to lose it all and just be another drunk in a crummy apartment talking about the days when I was young so why try? I can’t control this shit, I know what I want and will take it if available. If not, well, damn.
Still, I will be close to the family and they do love me. I will be close to friends and they still put up with me. I will be close to alcohol and that never let me down. New Kensington. Pittsburgh. Pennsylvania. Home. Maybe it’s not as scary as I make it seem. Maybe that’s just the 3 a.m. beer talking.
Monday, July 5, 2010
Love, Fate, Hope and All the Things You'll Never Get
I don’t ever expect you to tell me that you love me. All I want is for you to know that I do. I could write long stories about it, but for me, nothing compares to those three little words.
That was the text message Danielle, my high school girlfriend, woke up to. Five years later after our falling out, she was coming out of a long relationship and I was entering back in to her life. Fate. It appeared that it was the most perfect time except I am leaving for Afghanistan in a few months. Five years later and I was making the same mistakes I always do; getting involved when I was leaving and now, telling a woman that I love her when there is no chance of her feeling the same.
When I first told her how I felt she was still in a happy relationship. Well, she was happy. Her boyfriend found a few skeletons and some minor bickering had him distancing himself. Just a fight, and Danielle wasn’t going to throw all that away on a womanizing, drunk just because he could put how he felt eloquently on paper. No, I had wronged her too many times for her to ever embrace the reformed Joe Wells. Loving, caring, hell, even happy.
Yet here we were, night after night on the phone, talking about her and Adam, her, all the other guys that wanted her and every now and then, me. The conversation was great and when I closed my eyes I saw us walking home from school, like we did all those years ago, before we moved out into the world. Then as the night went on, we would talk about us, how it seemed like there was still something there. Fate. Long ago we said we would be together in the end. Long ago, I would do anything to be with her. Long ago, we loved each other.
She could never say it though, especially now. She just had her heartbroken and she didn’t really know me anymore. This is the real world and you need a lot more to work up to those three little words. Unfortunately for me, I don’t live in this world. For I know everything I have done, every person I have hurt and every whore I have fucked. I know she could never do worse. That is how I have been able to keep the flame burning for so long.
But it is a double-edged sword, for it keeps my love for her just as strong as the first time I looked into her eyes and knew she was the one I was going to marry, those same choices push her away from me. She wanted to know how many women I slept with and I refused to tell her. No woman should ever know how many pussies their ex has had to enter, trying to forget it all.
So we talk, smile, laugh and I try not to tear up like a fag. As our conversation comes to a close, we lie in our respective beds, alone. I listen to her breath, slowly drifting into sleep, and wonder if I am the last thought on her mind. Finally we say good night and I listen to those last few, slow breaths. I can feel her heart rate slow and relaxed. She may not dream of me that night but at least I can still bring calm and peace over her. At least she knows everything will be all right.
The smile on my face as I begin to fall asleep fades as I realize that I have fallen further into the past than I believed. For what we have now is not the good times Danielle and I had when we dated, no, it’s ninth grade. We are walking home and I am carrying her book bag, it’s too heavy for her. I’m listening to all her problems with boys, none of which include me. I’m hoping and praying she will recognize me. Recognize my love for her and reciprocate it. I am a fool. I hold my pillow tight that night.
I am a fool in love.
That was the text message Danielle, my high school girlfriend, woke up to. Five years later after our falling out, she was coming out of a long relationship and I was entering back in to her life. Fate. It appeared that it was the most perfect time except I am leaving for Afghanistan in a few months. Five years later and I was making the same mistakes I always do; getting involved when I was leaving and now, telling a woman that I love her when there is no chance of her feeling the same.
When I first told her how I felt she was still in a happy relationship. Well, she was happy. Her boyfriend found a few skeletons and some minor bickering had him distancing himself. Just a fight, and Danielle wasn’t going to throw all that away on a womanizing, drunk just because he could put how he felt eloquently on paper. No, I had wronged her too many times for her to ever embrace the reformed Joe Wells. Loving, caring, hell, even happy.
Yet here we were, night after night on the phone, talking about her and Adam, her, all the other guys that wanted her and every now and then, me. The conversation was great and when I closed my eyes I saw us walking home from school, like we did all those years ago, before we moved out into the world. Then as the night went on, we would talk about us, how it seemed like there was still something there. Fate. Long ago we said we would be together in the end. Long ago, I would do anything to be with her. Long ago, we loved each other.
She could never say it though, especially now. She just had her heartbroken and she didn’t really know me anymore. This is the real world and you need a lot more to work up to those three little words. Unfortunately for me, I don’t live in this world. For I know everything I have done, every person I have hurt and every whore I have fucked. I know she could never do worse. That is how I have been able to keep the flame burning for so long.
But it is a double-edged sword, for it keeps my love for her just as strong as the first time I looked into her eyes and knew she was the one I was going to marry, those same choices push her away from me. She wanted to know how many women I slept with and I refused to tell her. No woman should ever know how many pussies their ex has had to enter, trying to forget it all.
So we talk, smile, laugh and I try not to tear up like a fag. As our conversation comes to a close, we lie in our respective beds, alone. I listen to her breath, slowly drifting into sleep, and wonder if I am the last thought on her mind. Finally we say good night and I listen to those last few, slow breaths. I can feel her heart rate slow and relaxed. She may not dream of me that night but at least I can still bring calm and peace over her. At least she knows everything will be all right.
The smile on my face as I begin to fall asleep fades as I realize that I have fallen further into the past than I believed. For what we have now is not the good times Danielle and I had when we dated, no, it’s ninth grade. We are walking home and I am carrying her book bag, it’s too heavy for her. I’m listening to all her problems with boys, none of which include me. I’m hoping and praying she will recognize me. Recognize my love for her and reciprocate it. I am a fool. I hold my pillow tight that night.
I am a fool in love.
Another night with another drink, with thoughts running all about
Mark Kozelek’s “Metropol 47” plays quietly on the radio. Over and over. A tall glass of Bushmills sits on my night stand. I chase it with Coca-Cola. Been quite some time since I had a drink. Midnight. I am alone.
Work is in six hours. It will be hot and humid. We will run and this whiskey will only hamper my performance. Due to the heat and humidity and the whiskey and the fact that I ran eight goddamn miles the day prior, I won’t eat breakfast. Instead I will lay in my bed.
My room will stay a mess. The dishes won’t be cleaned. I will just stare at my alarm clock, eventually catching an hour of rest, only to awake angered by it all. My disgust for the job at the moment, my trashed room, the blinking cursor on the white background of the word document that has been open for over a week.
Then it will all go away, and I will grab a glass from the liquor cabinet. Sucking the nectar of hate and love, joy and anguish, down so smoothly. Chasing it with Coca-Cola. A woman, that is what I need. Someone to provide balance.
Money. That is what I need. Some sort of security.
The ability to love. That is what I need. To open up and feel.
No, what I need is what I want, which is what is not possible. The last six years back AND the experience of what will come in the following year. Sadly, the latter is the only part to come to reality. Yet, I shouldn’t be sadden by this, it is really all I wanted. I did marry this bitch, Army.
I just regret these past six years with her. I gave up any chance of normal, teenage, life bullshit FOR A NOBEL CAUSE, only to get stuck behind a desk the entire time. Did I make a difference? Did I defend freedom? No, I just missed out on a whole bunch of shit in life and said thank you when the paycheck came.
I have been angry for so long. I am now in a place in my life where, after my tour, I am ready to move on. Be a civilian again. But then I see my guys. I think about Afghanistan and I become scared shitless, not because of war, but when we got the machine guns rocking and we sit back, having a few beers afterward I think to myself, “Damn, I could do this for the rest of my life and be happy.”
Metropol 47 continues playing softly. I pour what is left of the whiskey down the sink. Eighteen months from now I will be either a civilian or a soldier, but that is not what matters. It’s whether I will be able to finally go to bed at night and be at peace with myself. I close my eyes and turn off the light.
Work is in six hours. It will be hot and humid. We will run and this whiskey will only hamper my performance. Due to the heat and humidity and the whiskey and the fact that I ran eight goddamn miles the day prior, I won’t eat breakfast. Instead I will lay in my bed.
My room will stay a mess. The dishes won’t be cleaned. I will just stare at my alarm clock, eventually catching an hour of rest, only to awake angered by it all. My disgust for the job at the moment, my trashed room, the blinking cursor on the white background of the word document that has been open for over a week.
Then it will all go away, and I will grab a glass from the liquor cabinet. Sucking the nectar of hate and love, joy and anguish, down so smoothly. Chasing it with Coca-Cola. A woman, that is what I need. Someone to provide balance.
Money. That is what I need. Some sort of security.
The ability to love. That is what I need. To open up and feel.
No, what I need is what I want, which is what is not possible. The last six years back AND the experience of what will come in the following year. Sadly, the latter is the only part to come to reality. Yet, I shouldn’t be sadden by this, it is really all I wanted. I did marry this bitch, Army.
I just regret these past six years with her. I gave up any chance of normal, teenage, life bullshit FOR A NOBEL CAUSE, only to get stuck behind a desk the entire time. Did I make a difference? Did I defend freedom? No, I just missed out on a whole bunch of shit in life and said thank you when the paycheck came.
I have been angry for so long. I am now in a place in my life where, after my tour, I am ready to move on. Be a civilian again. But then I see my guys. I think about Afghanistan and I become scared shitless, not because of war, but when we got the machine guns rocking and we sit back, having a few beers afterward I think to myself, “Damn, I could do this for the rest of my life and be happy.”
Metropol 47 continues playing softly. I pour what is left of the whiskey down the sink. Eighteen months from now I will be either a civilian or a soldier, but that is not what matters. It’s whether I will be able to finally go to bed at night and be at peace with myself. I close my eyes and turn off the light.
Joe "Mother Fucking" Wells Is DEAD
On Wednesday, May 19, 2010, Joe “Mother Fucking” Wells was found dead in the parking lot of the Best Western Hotel in DeRidder, Louisiana.
Witnesses say that Joe “M.F.” Wells became distraught after leaving the room of what appeared to be an out-of-state slut of large proportions. It is believed the persona took its own life after it was shot down on multiple occasions.
Friends close to the persona say that Wells had been walking around for the past couple of weeks with an air of desperation. One close friend stated, “[He] kept walking around talking about how since he couldn’t be with his love he was just going to keep fucking whores and writing novels. I didn’t see him doing any of that.”
Joe “Mother Fucking” Wells is survived by his host, Joseph Wells of New Kensington, PA. Per Wells’ last requests, there will be no funeral.
Saturday, April 17, 2010
It was 2:30 in the morning and the beer was steadily flowing. The worst part was that I wasn't even drunk. No buzz. I just sat there, staring out my window at the mad world. It was late but out there everything was happening. Everyone was bumping into each other. All chaos, and to think that somewhere out there, people were living normal, quiet lives.
Everyone out there was drunk. Only a few were handling it well. Most were arguing with each other, some in physical confrontations. One big pissing match. I grabbed my cigarettes and sat outside the window. No one noticed me, not even the police when they finally showed up. Some ran, some just got on the ground, others fought. The cigarettes burned slowly.
The cops spent a good hour trying to restore the peace but they couldn't. The mob was too strong. Even the ones that laid down or ran were fighting now. Men were on the ground, bleeding, screaming for help, mercy. They were all for the cause moments before but now, faced with their mortality, they abandoned everything, everything except their god.
I drank beer as I listened to them repent and swear to God that they wouldn't commit the sins they have anymore. I was finishing the six pack on the window sill when my phone rang. It was the chief of police, Tom Lambert.
"Hey Ryan, it's Tom. Look, we got a situation goin' on right now," you could tell he was scared of what was out there.
"Yeah I know. It's going on right outside my apartment."
"Good so you can get down there quickly."
"What? Wait a minute. You want me to try and end this madness?"
"Come on Ryan, you know they will listen to you."
"Well all right, just let me put some shoes on."
I hung up the phone and searched for my sandals. It took awhile and I could still hear the screams coming through my window, hurrying me. Before heading out the door I opened up another bottle of beer.
Outside it was cool and the moon shined high in the ski. I looked down at the bodies. Poor sons of bitches. They were still yelling for God until they saw me at the bottom of the stairs. Then they became quiet. I walked amongst them for a few minutes. Finally, I stopped next to a big pine tree and finished the beer. I threw the bottle behind me and gave everyone a stern look.
"Look, you all have been damn fools. Every damn one of you is a goner. Did you really think you could live a life like mine? Did you really think that you could stop it? Your comrades have left, both sides have called a truce, yet here you lie.
I walked up and down the scattered rows of bodies and watched them expire one by one. After a half hour there were only two men left, a drunk and an officer. I looked down at both of them. They were quiet but were staring at each other hatefully.
"Damn," I said to the drunk, "you're pretty fucked up."
The drunk tried to sit up a little more, "Yeah well at least I ain't as bad as that fucker over there."
I looked down at the officer and I couldn't believe it. He was only shot in the shoulder. He wasn't going to die. "I hate to tell you this but he ain't gonna die," I said to the drunk.
"I'm not?" asked the officer, shocked.
"No, you were hit in the shoulder, straight through. No organs or arteries hit. You will be fine, but this guy," I looked over at the drunk, "he's done for."
Just then the drunk looked up at me and said, "You know what Hall? You can be an asshole sometimes." He died seconds later.
I patched up the officer and took him to a bar down the street. We went back and forth buying rounds of beer and whiskey and he told me about himself. His name was James, married to his wife Sally for five years. Two children, both boys, Junior and Nathan, named after James' father. He became a cop to protect his community. He wanted to save it, save it from drunks like me.
"You know before you came down there, all I was doing was asking God to forgive me and if he let me live I would change, be a better man," James said staring into his glass of Bushmills.
"Yeah I heard. All of you were, it was almost deafening."
"No, but I really meant it and still do. See, I have been cheating on my wife for over a year now. I love her but Kelly, she's just different. There is something about her."
"I understand that."
"But I am going to change. I love my wife. I can't hurt her anymore."
We continued drinking well past sunrise. James told me all about Kelly. He was going to show me a picture of her when his phone rang. It was none other than Kelly. They talked briefly then he hung up and finished his beer.
"Well I had a great time and thanks for everything but that was Kelly and she wants me to come over."
"But what about everything you just told me? What about changing?"
"No I am just thinking I should break things off in person."
"BULLSHIT! You're going to fuck her. Fuck her and forget everything else."
"Look, you know I have to be honest with you. I probably will sleep with her but change takes time."
"All it takes is will. And you don't have to be honest with me. You have to be honest with Sally, your WIFE."
James put on his coat and walked to the door., "You know, you are an asshole."
He was gone and the only thing I was left with was the tab.
Everyone out there was drunk. Only a few were handling it well. Most were arguing with each other, some in physical confrontations. One big pissing match. I grabbed my cigarettes and sat outside the window. No one noticed me, not even the police when they finally showed up. Some ran, some just got on the ground, others fought. The cigarettes burned slowly.
The cops spent a good hour trying to restore the peace but they couldn't. The mob was too strong. Even the ones that laid down or ran were fighting now. Men were on the ground, bleeding, screaming for help, mercy. They were all for the cause moments before but now, faced with their mortality, they abandoned everything, everything except their god.
I drank beer as I listened to them repent and swear to God that they wouldn't commit the sins they have anymore. I was finishing the six pack on the window sill when my phone rang. It was the chief of police, Tom Lambert.
"Hey Ryan, it's Tom. Look, we got a situation goin' on right now," you could tell he was scared of what was out there.
"Yeah I know. It's going on right outside my apartment."
"Good so you can get down there quickly."
"What? Wait a minute. You want me to try and end this madness?"
"Come on Ryan, you know they will listen to you."
"Well all right, just let me put some shoes on."
I hung up the phone and searched for my sandals. It took awhile and I could still hear the screams coming through my window, hurrying me. Before heading out the door I opened up another bottle of beer.
Outside it was cool and the moon shined high in the ski. I looked down at the bodies. Poor sons of bitches. They were still yelling for God until they saw me at the bottom of the stairs. Then they became quiet. I walked amongst them for a few minutes. Finally, I stopped next to a big pine tree and finished the beer. I threw the bottle behind me and gave everyone a stern look.
"Look, you all have been damn fools. Every damn one of you is a goner. Did you really think you could live a life like mine? Did you really think that you could stop it? Your comrades have left, both sides have called a truce, yet here you lie.
I walked up and down the scattered rows of bodies and watched them expire one by one. After a half hour there were only two men left, a drunk and an officer. I looked down at both of them. They were quiet but were staring at each other hatefully.
"Damn," I said to the drunk, "you're pretty fucked up."
The drunk tried to sit up a little more, "Yeah well at least I ain't as bad as that fucker over there."
I looked down at the officer and I couldn't believe it. He was only shot in the shoulder. He wasn't going to die. "I hate to tell you this but he ain't gonna die," I said to the drunk.
"I'm not?" asked the officer, shocked.
"No, you were hit in the shoulder, straight through. No organs or arteries hit. You will be fine, but this guy," I looked over at the drunk, "he's done for."
Just then the drunk looked up at me and said, "You know what Hall? You can be an asshole sometimes." He died seconds later.
I patched up the officer and took him to a bar down the street. We went back and forth buying rounds of beer and whiskey and he told me about himself. His name was James, married to his wife Sally for five years. Two children, both boys, Junior and Nathan, named after James' father. He became a cop to protect his community. He wanted to save it, save it from drunks like me.
"You know before you came down there, all I was doing was asking God to forgive me and if he let me live I would change, be a better man," James said staring into his glass of Bushmills.
"Yeah I heard. All of you were, it was almost deafening."
"No, but I really meant it and still do. See, I have been cheating on my wife for over a year now. I love her but Kelly, she's just different. There is something about her."
"I understand that."
"But I am going to change. I love my wife. I can't hurt her anymore."
We continued drinking well past sunrise. James told me all about Kelly. He was going to show me a picture of her when his phone rang. It was none other than Kelly. They talked briefly then he hung up and finished his beer.
"Well I had a great time and thanks for everything but that was Kelly and she wants me to come over."
"But what about everything you just told me? What about changing?"
"No I am just thinking I should break things off in person."
"BULLSHIT! You're going to fuck her. Fuck her and forget everything else."
"Look, you know I have to be honest with you. I probably will sleep with her but change takes time."
"All it takes is will. And you don't have to be honest with me. You have to be honest with Sally, your WIFE."
James put on his coat and walked to the door., "You know, you are an asshole."
He was gone and the only thing I was left with was the tab.
Friday, April 2, 2010
The Things I Couldn't Say to You In Person
It took him less than an hour to push out another story, another poem, hell, another drunken ramble and they ate it up. Thanks to the 21st century, his babble hit the masses within seconds. He could see them all sitting in front of their blue screens, hitting the refresh button, waiting.
They all knew it was coming, nothing was a secret. He put his life up there for everyone to see. Tweets, status updates, video rants. Part of him did it for them, it helped keep them away. Soaking up all this generic bullshit made them all feel like his best friend. He worked harder at that then the blank page.
The other part did it because he was drunk.
What idiots he thought. "They wonder where I get this stuff, why I do it. Can't they see? All they have to do is take off the gloves and not give a flying fuck what anyone else thinks."
The reviews were coming in now. Most were the same. "You're the greatest thing since Hemingway!" He hated that, being compared to Hemingway, or Bukowski, or Hank Moody. He respected them all, even the one that wasn't real. Yet, he didn't like to think that he was embodying these people, it was more like he was heading down the same slippery slope they all traveled before him. Fuck, people could be dumb, he laughed to himself.
Then he saw the note from his mother, "I hope you are ok."
FUCK FUCK FUCK! She shouldn't see this, he thought. The acquaintances, "friends," co workers, fan boys, young lady admirers, sure they could read all they want, but his mother; there was no reason for her to see how fucked up his life was. That was why he escaped home in the first place.
It got to him more and more when he saw the comments from the girls asking to see him, and the girls asking to see him again. He had disappointed his mother. Her friends and coworkers saw this shit and he was sure that bothered her as well. Hell, he fucked a few of them and they hinted to that shit when in the messages they left him.
He got up and grabbed his phone and a beer. He had to tell her he was ok, he couldn't apologize for everything, but he could give her some peace of mind. That would be enough.
As he looked through his phone for his mother's number someone knocked at the door. "SHIT!" he yelled. It was Cindy, he forgot she was coming today.
He let her in and they talked for awhile and after a few drinks they moved to the bedroom. Same old play, different cast. He had beer, a place to stay, food in the fridge, and a young woman of 19 laying naked in his bed. His latest story was a hit. It was all he wanted out of life and he was happy.
He regretted never calling his mother, though. Part of it was because he loved her. The other part was because he was drunk.
there's no F'in christmas!
you're right mom. there is no f in christmas. :)
They all knew it was coming, nothing was a secret. He put his life up there for everyone to see. Tweets, status updates, video rants. Part of him did it for them, it helped keep them away. Soaking up all this generic bullshit made them all feel like his best friend. He worked harder at that then the blank page.
The other part did it because he was drunk.
What idiots he thought. "They wonder where I get this stuff, why I do it. Can't they see? All they have to do is take off the gloves and not give a flying fuck what anyone else thinks."
The reviews were coming in now. Most were the same. "You're the greatest thing since Hemingway!" He hated that, being compared to Hemingway, or Bukowski, or Hank Moody. He respected them all, even the one that wasn't real. Yet, he didn't like to think that he was embodying these people, it was more like he was heading down the same slippery slope they all traveled before him. Fuck, people could be dumb, he laughed to himself.
Then he saw the note from his mother, "I hope you are ok."
FUCK FUCK FUCK! She shouldn't see this, he thought. The acquaintances, "friends," co workers, fan boys, young lady admirers, sure they could read all they want, but his mother; there was no reason for her to see how fucked up his life was. That was why he escaped home in the first place.
It got to him more and more when he saw the comments from the girls asking to see him, and the girls asking to see him again. He had disappointed his mother. Her friends and coworkers saw this shit and he was sure that bothered her as well. Hell, he fucked a few of them and they hinted to that shit when in the messages they left him.
He got up and grabbed his phone and a beer. He had to tell her he was ok, he couldn't apologize for everything, but he could give her some peace of mind. That would be enough.
As he looked through his phone for his mother's number someone knocked at the door. "SHIT!" he yelled. It was Cindy, he forgot she was coming today.
He let her in and they talked for awhile and after a few drinks they moved to the bedroom. Same old play, different cast. He had beer, a place to stay, food in the fridge, and a young woman of 19 laying naked in his bed. His latest story was a hit. It was all he wanted out of life and he was happy.
He regretted never calling his mother, though. Part of it was because he loved her. The other part was because he was drunk.
there's no F'in christmas!
you're right mom. there is no f in christmas. :)
Monday, March 29, 2010
Responsible Loner
they come in and sit
doing their work,
barely talking to me
only to ask me
how to make their work better.
one at a time
they enter;
all random times,
all hours of the day.
it never matters
what I am doing.
I try my damnedest
to be there for them.
no one else is
because their leaders see
my generosity,
my weakness.
another one comes in.
he needs to print a bunch of papers.
the ink is almost gone
and I don't have the money to replace it.
so I lay in bed,
finish my drink.
the man leaves and
moments later
another one enters.
he asks me for a favor.
I oblige.
then I close my eyes.
doing their work,
barely talking to me
only to ask me
how to make their work better.
one at a time
they enter;
all random times,
all hours of the day.
it never matters
what I am doing.
I try my damnedest
to be there for them.
no one else is
because their leaders see
my generosity,
my weakness.
another one comes in.
he needs to print a bunch of papers.
the ink is almost gone
and I don't have the money to replace it.
so I lay in bed,
finish my drink.
the man leaves and
moments later
another one enters.
he asks me for a favor.
I oblige.
then I close my eyes.
Disgruntled Employee
Six fucking years. Six years I have played the game. Followed the rules, kept the fire going while everyone sat there telling me not to bother. What a fool I was. Now, as I try my damnedest to give it my all, I get the same role I have been given for my entire career. Bitch boy.
There is all types of bullshit that the Army has to deal with and I have been the one to fucking do it. Now I am stuck with the rejects, the ones no one wants and the ones that don't want to be there. Fucking babies who need me to wipe their mouths and asses every second. But they are not the worst, no, the ones with shitty leadership that I get stuck taking care of because these "men" can't take care of themselves, they are the worst.
It's the job though, so I don't get as angry as I may appear. No, I suck it up and deal with whatever issue that comes my way. What gets me the most though is the loss of my soul. The loss of individuality, of goals, hopes, the freedom to make a decision. The Army doesn't allow this when you are a leader, and I now understand why there are so many "shitty" leaders out there today. The Army just wants to blind us with their corporate goals and have it appear that we are making the decision to "better our life."
"You are molding young men to be the best in their field, the future leaders and that is experience you can take with you when you leave."
"You get to go to college and get a paycheck at the same time. All college paid for by us."
"Meals and housing paid for. No utilities. Your paycheck is for you to spend as you see fit."
All bullshit. Bullshit that I spent the past six years defending. Why? Because deep down inside I believe in the system and want to see it succeed. Yet after awhile, reality sits in. Those young men turn out to be unmotivated idiots that didn't belong in the military in the first place. The experience you get is how to make the smart ones understand and how to flush out the turds.
If you have the time, and smarts, for college sure you can do it. The only point to it though is to help you get promotion points for the military and most likely after six years you will have a bullshit degree in something you didn't want from a bullshit college.
The free meals and housing are nice but let's face the facts. The food is better in prison and the portions are bigger. The efficiency that I am sharing with my roommate doesn't really allow for privacy which, when you are trying to concentrate on anything, you can't focus because every one and every thing is watching you. I now understand why Hemingway kept a second apartment and Bukowski drank and wrote alone.
All of this sounds like a bitch fest and it really is, but I am losing it here. Someone's soldier is here doing some retarded Army class on my computer because he couldn't get it to work on his. Been here for hours and all I want is to be left alone. I hear my roommate typing away at his keyboard, talking to his bitches and the sound is pecking away at my brain. I'm screaming inside my head, I want to get away. I have been stuck in this room for the past week, thinking I was going to get some work done, instead I have just become angry at the world.
I just want to be alone for now. Just for once be able to sit here in the quiet.
There is all types of bullshit that the Army has to deal with and I have been the one to fucking do it. Now I am stuck with the rejects, the ones no one wants and the ones that don't want to be there. Fucking babies who need me to wipe their mouths and asses every second. But they are not the worst, no, the ones with shitty leadership that I get stuck taking care of because these "men" can't take care of themselves, they are the worst.
It's the job though, so I don't get as angry as I may appear. No, I suck it up and deal with whatever issue that comes my way. What gets me the most though is the loss of my soul. The loss of individuality, of goals, hopes, the freedom to make a decision. The Army doesn't allow this when you are a leader, and I now understand why there are so many "shitty" leaders out there today. The Army just wants to blind us with their corporate goals and have it appear that we are making the decision to "better our life."
"You are molding young men to be the best in their field, the future leaders and that is experience you can take with you when you leave."
"You get to go to college and get a paycheck at the same time. All college paid for by us."
"Meals and housing paid for. No utilities. Your paycheck is for you to spend as you see fit."
All bullshit. Bullshit that I spent the past six years defending. Why? Because deep down inside I believe in the system and want to see it succeed. Yet after awhile, reality sits in. Those young men turn out to be unmotivated idiots that didn't belong in the military in the first place. The experience you get is how to make the smart ones understand and how to flush out the turds.
If you have the time, and smarts, for college sure you can do it. The only point to it though is to help you get promotion points for the military and most likely after six years you will have a bullshit degree in something you didn't want from a bullshit college.
The free meals and housing are nice but let's face the facts. The food is better in prison and the portions are bigger. The efficiency that I am sharing with my roommate doesn't really allow for privacy which, when you are trying to concentrate on anything, you can't focus because every one and every thing is watching you. I now understand why Hemingway kept a second apartment and Bukowski drank and wrote alone.
All of this sounds like a bitch fest and it really is, but I am losing it here. Someone's soldier is here doing some retarded Army class on my computer because he couldn't get it to work on his. Been here for hours and all I want is to be left alone. I hear my roommate typing away at his keyboard, talking to his bitches and the sound is pecking away at my brain. I'm screaming inside my head, I want to get away. I have been stuck in this room for the past week, thinking I was going to get some work done, instead I have just become angry at the world.
I just want to be alone for now. Just for once be able to sit here in the quiet.
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Wannabe
I pull out all my notebooks, six in all
All shapes and sizes and colors
I go to the bar, too many bottle to count
All shapes and sizes and colors
I see the novel I am working on and get down to business
Pour myself a tall glass of whiskey and find a pen
I grab one of the notebooks and look at my laptop
Fuck it
All shapes and sizes and colors
I go to the bar, too many bottle to count
All shapes and sizes and colors
I see the novel I am working on and get down to business
Pour myself a tall glass of whiskey and find a pen
I grab one of the notebooks and look at my laptop
Fuck it
Friday, March 26, 2010
I'm Pretending Not To See Them And Instead I Pour The Milk
It had been months since I was with a woman and I was starting to realize it. It's easy to forget about women when you don't have one. Even easier to let the drink and pen replace them. When I took the first sip of my whiskey and coke I immediately wondered why I thought I needed someone in my bed tonight.
My roommate Russ had just left to go and pick up a woman at the airport who was staying us for the weekend. It amazed me that there were women willing to travel across the country for some cock. I knew of women that wanted to come and visit me only when they had plans to be and the area and a few had wanted me to come see them as well, but that wasn't this time. No, this was time of depression and loneliness. I was broke but Russ and I's bar was stocked and I was taking full advantage.
I was actually surprised that Russ was having this woman stay with us. The last few girls he was with, the steady ones not the girls he would fuck for a night, ended up making passes at me. He saw this when it happened but I was beating up on myself too much to care about their advances. Those girls didn't stay around very long.
I was walking around with my glass listening to Warren Zevon, trying to spruce up the place. I like to do what I can to make the best first impression, but as I finished my first drink and made my second, I abandoned the cleaning and picked up the pen.
I started working on a short story about a man who goes home for his five year high school reunion. I had this vision of a game board and everyone spinning the board to see where they end up but not Ryan, the man in the story. No, he rolls the die and moves along the board. In the end it was all about luck but at least Ryan wasn't being luck's bitch.
I wrote and drank and smoked for a good hour then got up for a good stretch and went outside, cigarette hanging from my lip. I looked hard out into the parking lot and watched the lights come and go. They reminded me of Danielle and Alex and Joan and Nadia. I took a long drag of my cigarette and as I coughed I felt my heart wither. I hunched over stopping the water from forming in the corners of my eyes.
I went back inside, this time pouring shot after shot of whiskey. Five shots in, I heard Russ opening the door. I went straight to the bathroom to piss, my bladder would have exploded right there if I hadn't. I came out a few minutes later and Russ introduced me to Janie. She wasn't that attractive, not thick but big, and she was way to shy and passive for my taste. When I extended my hand to shake hers, it felt limp. Our hands touched and she quickly pulled away. I was going to have to break her in. I hate it when people are uptight or reserve with me. Thinking they have something to protect. Some face to save, but I see past it. I'm sure she is a good person deep down inside but that doesn't allow them to slide past. It never allowed me to slide so I don't accept it as an excuse.
I talk with Janie and Russ for awhile and they entertain me like they are entertaining any drunk off the street. I ramble, I ask questions that receive little response. They stare uncomfortably at me, they believe me to be but I am collected the entire time. I know they want me to go to bed; they want to explore each other and Janie doesn't want to be judged.
After about forty five minutes of me interrogating Janie she finally gives me a straight answer and I respect her for it, leaving her alone. Russ closes the curtains that separate our room and I undress in the dark. Before my clothes are off, I can already hear Janie moaning. I listen for awhile; she is really exciting when turned on and I can tell Russ was a wise choice at this point in her life. She needed this.
I lay in bed and stare at the ceiling. Janie continues to get louder and louder then climaxes. She then becomes soft, her moans are more intimate but a few minutes later they intensify again.
Finally, I pick up my iPod and cell phone. I put the ear buds in and begin slowly searching through a playlist that is labeled "Heaven Ain't Close" and prepare text message to good friend and ex-fuck-buddy, Ashley. She is one of the three people still on my side in the game of life, that will still listen to me. I send the following text as I hit play on the Smith's "Asleep."
Just know I respect and trust you the most. You are my emotional dumping ground and that may be wrong but I have never felt so alone than tonight. I don't want you, one of your friends or a lost love. I just want to not be alone tonight. I just don't want that and it means being the asshole I usually am because I don't want to subject any woman to this lifestyle. For the first time in a very long time, I need a friend.
My roommate Russ had just left to go and pick up a woman at the airport who was staying us for the weekend. It amazed me that there were women willing to travel across the country for some cock. I knew of women that wanted to come and visit me only when they had plans to be and the area and a few had wanted me to come see them as well, but that wasn't this time. No, this was time of depression and loneliness. I was broke but Russ and I's bar was stocked and I was taking full advantage.
I was actually surprised that Russ was having this woman stay with us. The last few girls he was with, the steady ones not the girls he would fuck for a night, ended up making passes at me. He saw this when it happened but I was beating up on myself too much to care about their advances. Those girls didn't stay around very long.
I was walking around with my glass listening to Warren Zevon, trying to spruce up the place. I like to do what I can to make the best first impression, but as I finished my first drink and made my second, I abandoned the cleaning and picked up the pen.
I started working on a short story about a man who goes home for his five year high school reunion. I had this vision of a game board and everyone spinning the board to see where they end up but not Ryan, the man in the story. No, he rolls the die and moves along the board. In the end it was all about luck but at least Ryan wasn't being luck's bitch.
I wrote and drank and smoked for a good hour then got up for a good stretch and went outside, cigarette hanging from my lip. I looked hard out into the parking lot and watched the lights come and go. They reminded me of Danielle and Alex and Joan and Nadia. I took a long drag of my cigarette and as I coughed I felt my heart wither. I hunched over stopping the water from forming in the corners of my eyes.
I went back inside, this time pouring shot after shot of whiskey. Five shots in, I heard Russ opening the door. I went straight to the bathroom to piss, my bladder would have exploded right there if I hadn't. I came out a few minutes later and Russ introduced me to Janie. She wasn't that attractive, not thick but big, and she was way to shy and passive for my taste. When I extended my hand to shake hers, it felt limp. Our hands touched and she quickly pulled away. I was going to have to break her in. I hate it when people are uptight or reserve with me. Thinking they have something to protect. Some face to save, but I see past it. I'm sure she is a good person deep down inside but that doesn't allow them to slide past. It never allowed me to slide so I don't accept it as an excuse.
I talk with Janie and Russ for awhile and they entertain me like they are entertaining any drunk off the street. I ramble, I ask questions that receive little response. They stare uncomfortably at me, they believe me to be but I am collected the entire time. I know they want me to go to bed; they want to explore each other and Janie doesn't want to be judged.
After about forty five minutes of me interrogating Janie she finally gives me a straight answer and I respect her for it, leaving her alone. Russ closes the curtains that separate our room and I undress in the dark. Before my clothes are off, I can already hear Janie moaning. I listen for awhile; she is really exciting when turned on and I can tell Russ was a wise choice at this point in her life. She needed this.
I lay in bed and stare at the ceiling. Janie continues to get louder and louder then climaxes. She then becomes soft, her moans are more intimate but a few minutes later they intensify again.
Finally, I pick up my iPod and cell phone. I put the ear buds in and begin slowly searching through a playlist that is labeled "Heaven Ain't Close" and prepare text message to good friend and ex-fuck-buddy, Ashley. She is one of the three people still on my side in the game of life, that will still listen to me. I send the following text as I hit play on the Smith's "Asleep."
Just know I respect and trust you the most. You are my emotional dumping ground and that may be wrong but I have never felt so alone than tonight. I don't want you, one of your friends or a lost love. I just want to not be alone tonight. I just don't want that and it means being the asshole I usually am because I don't want to subject any woman to this lifestyle. For the first time in a very long time, I need a friend.
Monday, March 22, 2010
Can't Tell Me Nothing
In the wake of my arrest, I reflect upon what led up to the events and think about what will happen. Most would say that the amount and rate I consumed my drinks that night would put me in the same group as those labeled alcoholics; none of those people are in the Army though. I beg to differ as the only reason I drank that much, and drank at such a high rate was because it was there. Take what you can, when you can. Live for today, I say. Not that there is a shortage of alcohol, just that we should all enjoy what is going on in the moment, throw caution out the window and down another glass. The way I see it, you don't know when the next good time will happen; life gives us a lot of burdens. At least with that memory of that one party, or night out drinking with the guys, or whatever it is you look to do for fun, it makes dealing with life a little easier.
Some will ask though, was it worth it? You were arrested, you disappointed your NCOs, you are looking at losing money and rank and time. Hell yes it was worth it! In the end I still have a job, I am still alive and I have a funny story to tell. I once heard that there is no such thing as right or wrong, just the consequences of our actions and dammit, I am willing to accept those consequences even if I don't agree with them. I spent too much time regretting things in my past to let this affect me. No, for now on all I will do is adapt to the ever changing situation that is life. Making plans and trying to do the "right thing" is a waste because you can't control the variables. I can't control the variables. If I walk out of this thing with a slap on the wrist, it is not because I am a good Soldier, because I do the "right thing." It is because I am lucky, and that is all I hope for. Yet, no matter what comes of this you won't be able to persuade my way of thinking, no you can't tell me nothing.
Some will ask though, was it worth it? You were arrested, you disappointed your NCOs, you are looking at losing money and rank and time. Hell yes it was worth it! In the end I still have a job, I am still alive and I have a funny story to tell. I once heard that there is no such thing as right or wrong, just the consequences of our actions and dammit, I am willing to accept those consequences even if I don't agree with them. I spent too much time regretting things in my past to let this affect me. No, for now on all I will do is adapt to the ever changing situation that is life. Making plans and trying to do the "right thing" is a waste because you can't control the variables. I can't control the variables. If I walk out of this thing with a slap on the wrist, it is not because I am a good Soldier, because I do the "right thing." It is because I am lucky, and that is all I hope for. Yet, no matter what comes of this you won't be able to persuade my way of thinking, no you can't tell me nothing.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
The Price for Bringing Out the Best
I have been lucky enough to have known quite a few of them over the years.
Recently though, boredom has set in and the chase doesn't seem worth the reward anymore.
Another stiff drink; another empty bed.
It's sad actually, because I love to show them all that element inside that makes them so special.
That lets them know they have something that a man is looking for.
That gives them their hope, their confidence back.
While I may get pleasure from it all, it quickly fades.
Another stiff drink; another empty bed.
I want to carry this lifestyle on well into my thirties.
I want to know as many of them as possible and show them why every one of them is unique.
I just can't help but feel as though it is time for me to settle down like my peers.
Find one that I can spend the rest of my life with, start a family, make each other feel complete.
I think about this for a moment and feel empty; I just can't picture her.
Another stiff drink; another empty bed.
So I press on into my mid-twenties.
A deployment to a war zone.
An eight year stint in the military.
A new life as a college freshman.
With many young women looking for a new experience and a mature man.
Looking for someone to show them just how special they really are.
Another stiff drink; another empty bed.
Recently though, boredom has set in and the chase doesn't seem worth the reward anymore.
Another stiff drink; another empty bed.
It's sad actually, because I love to show them all that element inside that makes them so special.
That lets them know they have something that a man is looking for.
That gives them their hope, their confidence back.
While I may get pleasure from it all, it quickly fades.
Another stiff drink; another empty bed.
I want to carry this lifestyle on well into my thirties.
I want to know as many of them as possible and show them why every one of them is unique.
I just can't help but feel as though it is time for me to settle down like my peers.
Find one that I can spend the rest of my life with, start a family, make each other feel complete.
I think about this for a moment and feel empty; I just can't picture her.
Another stiff drink; another empty bed.
So I press on into my mid-twenties.
A deployment to a war zone.
An eight year stint in the military.
A new life as a college freshman.
With many young women looking for a new experience and a mature man.
Looking for someone to show them just how special they really are.
Another stiff drink; another empty bed.
Time in Thought, Utah
I don't hate my job. I mean, yes there are times when it just plain sucks but overall, especially out here in the field with the guys, I like being an Infantryman. What is taking a toll is my writing and I am starting to worry that soon I will lose my talent; have it fade away and be replaced with weapon statistics, battle drills and FM numbers. I fear that in the near future there will be nothing for me but the Army.
My dreams might seem a little big, even may appear to try and mimic a television character, but the truth is I just want to write, mainly I want the time to write. Before coming to Utah I was doing my best to expand a short story I wrote a year ago so that it would be publication ready for the University of Pittsburgh's literary magazine. Looking at my high school transcripts and knowing that I will need to retake the SATs, I decided that being published in the university's magazine would make me a shoe-in, coupled with a strong essay.
Studying at Pitt is mainly just for the experience, plus being a 25 year old freshman who used to be in the infantry will have its perks with the young ladies looking to experience life. By the time I reach college though I want a first draft of "Heaven Ain't Close" to be complete. I want to take my main character over a three novel arch. The second and third novels revolving around Louisiana and the effects of Russ' relationships on my own pursuits. I am sure Afghanistan will provide me with enough material for a fourth novel, whether or not it will follow my protagonist or not, I am not certain.
After graduating from Pitt, I am not sure what I will do. I really don't want to do any conventional jobs but I am afraid that if my talent doesn't grow exponentially, then living off the money from my novels will be impossible and I will be back at the nine to five or worse, be back in the Army. Lucky would be being able to drink and write for the rest of my life with no rush, just taking life at my own pace.
I'm not worried about being famous, I just want to be good and good enough to live comfortably with little work. So for now I press on, training with the guys. If the life of a famous writer is to come I welcome it, it's just that right now it is not meant to be. Right now, it is meant to play out in my dreams. There is too much going on to worry my head about what to do in the years to come.
My dreams might seem a little big, even may appear to try and mimic a television character, but the truth is I just want to write, mainly I want the time to write. Before coming to Utah I was doing my best to expand a short story I wrote a year ago so that it would be publication ready for the University of Pittsburgh's literary magazine. Looking at my high school transcripts and knowing that I will need to retake the SATs, I decided that being published in the university's magazine would make me a shoe-in, coupled with a strong essay.
Studying at Pitt is mainly just for the experience, plus being a 25 year old freshman who used to be in the infantry will have its perks with the young ladies looking to experience life. By the time I reach college though I want a first draft of "Heaven Ain't Close" to be complete. I want to take my main character over a three novel arch. The second and third novels revolving around Louisiana and the effects of Russ' relationships on my own pursuits. I am sure Afghanistan will provide me with enough material for a fourth novel, whether or not it will follow my protagonist or not, I am not certain.
After graduating from Pitt, I am not sure what I will do. I really don't want to do any conventional jobs but I am afraid that if my talent doesn't grow exponentially, then living off the money from my novels will be impossible and I will be back at the nine to five or worse, be back in the Army. Lucky would be being able to drink and write for the rest of my life with no rush, just taking life at my own pace.
I'm not worried about being famous, I just want to be good and good enough to live comfortably with little work. So for now I press on, training with the guys. If the life of a famous writer is to come I welcome it, it's just that right now it is not meant to be. Right now, it is meant to play out in my dreams. There is too much going on to worry my head about what to do in the years to come.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
For a Cold Hearted Bitch, with Love.
How come ugly females think that because they see other women exercising the power of their vagina that they can as well? Why is it that after being dumped, the first thing they believe is that is the guy's loss and automatically believe that they are going to find a hotter guy? Why do they assume that the man is "just a little boy," and that they will find a "real man?" Were you not with the ex because you thought he was a real man? Would you start a relationship with little boy at all, or did you just read this person wrong? Just ponder this for a moment, is there really something wrong with the guy or is it that you are just meeting guys that don't click with you on all the levels of a relationship to where you both fall in love and live happily ever after.
It's 2010. Your relationships will not be like your parent's. For the majority of the population, gone are the times of marrying your high school/college sweetheart. Yes, growing up we all wanted to find our Ross or Rachael, our Corey or Tapanga but it just doesn't work out like it does on television. Your heart has the capacity to love more than one, to heal and love another and is that such a horrible thing? So why be so hateful, so egotistical about our future relationships and sex life? Why not just let go?
It's 2010. Your relationships will not be like your parent's. For the majority of the population, gone are the times of marrying your high school/college sweetheart. Yes, growing up we all wanted to find our Ross or Rachael, our Corey or Tapanga but it just doesn't work out like it does on television. Your heart has the capacity to love more than one, to heal and love another and is that such a horrible thing? So why be so hateful, so egotistical about our future relationships and sex life? Why not just let go?
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Change - A Writing Prompt from October 2009
If I could change one thing about myself, I would change my honesty. I find it easier to be honest with strangers than with myself. I accept too much work and overburden myself. I tell people the truth that we don’t want to hear or know to be true, we just find it not politically correct. This in turn makes me come off as an asshole. A man has no clue about the world because I don’t want to follow the rules. I then get so caught up with all of these petty arguments that I don’t finish any of my work.
If I could change one thing about the world, I would change that what we say to one another. Cut out all the spin and BS that makes up most of our conversations and have us talk honestly to each other. I don’t see anything wrong with telling people what is on your mind so long as it is the truth. We censor ourselves so much that it creates this underlying tension in the smallest of situations. We become paranoid that everyone has a hidden agenda or is trying to hide something from us.
If I were to change then I wouldn’t worry about all this BS that I deal with at work and outside of work. I could focus on my novel and hopefully enough people would read it and realize that there is nothing wrong with telling the people that we interact with, the truth. Or nothing would change and I am just a loon. Who knows, but why are we afraid to find out?
If I could change one thing about the world, I would change that what we say to one another. Cut out all the spin and BS that makes up most of our conversations and have us talk honestly to each other. I don’t see anything wrong with telling people what is on your mind so long as it is the truth. We censor ourselves so much that it creates this underlying tension in the smallest of situations. We become paranoid that everyone has a hidden agenda or is trying to hide something from us.
If I were to change then I wouldn’t worry about all this BS that I deal with at work and outside of work. I could focus on my novel and hopefully enough people would read it and realize that there is nothing wrong with telling the people that we interact with, the truth. Or nothing would change and I am just a loon. Who knows, but why are we afraid to find out?
Monday, January 18, 2010
Love Is
I have been cleaning my room and came across some letters I received back in the summer of 2004. I read through them, then turned to face my computer. This is what happened next.
Love is the eight page letters you read while far away in an unfamiliar place. Love is what you feel when defeated, and then see her face. Love lasts forever, but only for one. As time continues for the one who has no one else, it easier to keep that love pure, to keep the fire burning. Yet, for those who have to deal with life and the reality that they are alone, any small amount of affection can shake the foundation and let doubt seep in.
Love is the eight page letters you write, while you read her letters that have dwindled to a page and a half. Love is feeling that there is something happening, but trusting that she stays faithful. Love lasts forever, but only for one. As time continues, you become a faded memory in her mind, a love that did not last. For you though, it is the love you will always remember, the love you yearn for,keeping your foundation solid and your faith strong.
Love is the eight page letters you read while far away in an unfamiliar place. Love is what you feel when defeated, and then see her face. Love lasts forever, but only for one. As time continues for the one who has no one else, it easier to keep that love pure, to keep the fire burning. Yet, for those who have to deal with life and the reality that they are alone, any small amount of affection can shake the foundation and let doubt seep in.
Love is the eight page letters you write, while you read her letters that have dwindled to a page and a half. Love is feeling that there is something happening, but trusting that she stays faithful. Love lasts forever, but only for one. As time continues, you become a faded memory in her mind, a love that did not last. For you though, it is the love you will always remember, the love you yearn for,keeping your foundation solid and your faith strong.
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