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I hate people who don't say thanks after you hold the door open for them. Especially when it's fu*king freezing outside and they are super far away but you're like "Ah what the heck, I had my favorite cereal this morning and didn't hit any red lights on my way here. Sure I'll hold it open." Then they just walk on past. MOTHER FU*KER!

NOIR

   There I was, sitting in the lounge. Just a night like any other, only it wasn't. He was fifteen minutes late. When people run late to these kinds of things that usually means bad news. There it was again, the shake in my hand. I asked the waitress for another drink. Twenty minutes now. Same seat as usual. Far left corner of the room. I liked it over there because there were less people. Most guys are so love-drunk they never make it past the first dance stage. I had a girl I'd never met before.
   She had the face of a godess. Her hair was piercing blond, almost white. She seemed nice enough, almost too nice. We made small talk; weather, economy, sports, movies. I asked her what she was doing in a place like this. She asked me the same thing right back. I chuckled. But she finally gave way. She told me she and her boyfriend had a baby together, but he hit the road. She hadn't seen him in months. I was able to figure out the rest. She was a single parent living in this hell-hole of a town, how else was she gonna' get money? And with looks like hers, the job couldn't have been too hard to get.
   I asked her what she really wanted out of life. I mean, she couldn't have wanted to be doing *this* until the day she died. She said, "I only want one thing out of life. Lots of people want money, and fame, but me, I just want one thing, that's all. I want to b-" Then I got a tap on the shoulder. There he was, thirty minutes late. He reeked of alcohol, even for being in a place like this. I told her I'd be right back. She nodded, and gave a smile. We took our meeting to the alley out the back door. The less eyes the better. I could immediately tell something wasn't right. It was in his face. "I'm sorry" he said. "My boss, my family... Please forgive me." Then a loud ringing and a flash. My eyes closed instinctively.
   I opened them and I was lying on the pavement now. I could feel the warm blood pooling beneath me. He had already left. I wasn't sure how long I'd been out. Hours, minutes? Then I heard gunshots from inside the lounge. Three, maybe four. I was able to pull myself up by the dumpster next to me. I opened the door to a heavy smell of fresh gunpowder. There were loud screams and shouting everywhere. People were running amok. Like cattle in a pen. My shirt was soaked now, I ripped off a piece of it and tied it around my torso. I grabbed one of the girls and asked her where he went. "He went out the front door and drove off, he's long gone." I asked her if anyone got hurt. She pointed to the bar, where there was a tall, heavy-set man lying deceased on the ground. Then she pointed to the far left corner of the room. I already knew before I turned my head. There was the blond hair. Lying motionless on the blood-stained carpet. I couldn't move. Was it the gunshot that caused me to sit there, not doing anything but stare at her dead body? Was it lust? Was it what she was going to say to me? "I want to" the next word started with a b, I'm sure of it. I limped out the back door, and walked without looking back.

Know your meme

F E A R S

"You traveled the world...Now you must journey
inwards...to what you really fear...it's inside
you...there is no turning back. Your parents'
death was not your fault. Your training is
nothing. The will is everything. If you make
yourself more than just a man, if you devote
yourself to an ideal, you become something
else entirely. Are you ready to begin?"

I'm afraid of myself
I'm afraid of hobos
I'm afraid of anyone and everyone from Asia
I'm afraid of being racist
I'm afraid of skinheads
I'm afraid of boys
I'm afraid of The Birds
I'm afraid of girls
I'm afraid of The Bees
I'm afraid of not being good enough
I'm afraid of death
I'm afraid of really living
I'm afraid of Italian men with baseball bats
I'm afraid of being afraid
I'm afraid of Mr. Nelson when he covers his ears and starts screaming
I'm afraid of my sarcasm
I'm afraid of "prestiging"
I'm afraid of malls
I'm afraid of the hair that grows around my belly-button
I'm afraid of moobs
I'm afraid of H20
I'm afraid of this blog

Is the Mirror Lying?

Is the mirror lying?
Am I my phone?
Am I the kind of car I drive?
Am I the "friends" I have?
Am I the style of music I listen to?
Am I the clothes I wear?
Am I connected? Or do I just think I am, but really I am as distant as everyone else?
Am I my job?
Am I the way I do my hair?
Am I what I eat?
I'm a fat, juicy, tasty Whopper?
Am I the same jokes I tell, again and again?
Am I the tough, renegade adolescent I think I am? Or am I the outgoing, kindhearted type?
Am I the weights I lift at the gym?
Am I the movies I watch?
Am I the crude things I've done to my family?
Am I the tears that fall for the exact same reason every time
Am I the mole on my neck?
Am I what I see in the mirror?
Is the mirror lying?

I'm Thinkin' Boutchu' Yo

I'm thinking about you like soap thinks about my pinky toe named Jimmy. Like soap thinks about being dropped in a prison shower. Like prisoners think about not having freedom. Like freedom doesn't think about Obama. Oh, did I say that? Whoops...
I'm thinking about you like a train thinks about being derailed. Like rainchecks think about being cashed in. Like cash thinks about hoes. Like hoes think about pimps. Like a pimp thinks about a raincheck.
I'm thinking about you like plaid thinks about corduroy. Like Corduroy thinks about children's books. Like a child doesn't think about getting cancer at the age of 2, going through months of chemotherapy, being bald, and wondering why they're different.
I'm thinking about you like a Glock thinks about a SIG. Like an Alien thinks about SIGourney Weaver.
I'm thinking about you like a kiss thinks about herpes. Like herpes thinks about mass destruction. Like mass destruction thinks about Chernobyl, or Hiroshima, or The Two Towers, or my conscience.
I'm thinking about you like E.T. thinks about being Asian. Thank you, thank you.
*takes a bow*

The Hobo Across the Street

We exit the resaurant. He sits on the street. We laugh. He hears. We launch spit-wads at each other. He sees. We talk. He walks. The words mix and tumble out of his mouth like a baby eating peaches for the first time. My wallet is heavier than ever...

What is love? (baby don't hurt me, don't hurt me, no more)

Love is Donkey Kong. Love is an over-cooked Hot-Pocket. Love is seven hours straight with the arthritis setting in. Love is making a fist then exhaling. Love is the squigly line in my eye. Love is spilling the glass then lying about it. Love is Old Spice- Fiji. Love is alcohol and neon lights. Love is the sheet pulled over Hollywood. Love is a roadside bomb. Love is a nail that just won't let itself enter the wall. Love is a Toyota Corolla. Love is...