C*******y College.

      If I could, I would go back in time and change many, many, many things. I know that the past events of my life have shaped the man I am today. But come on. When you have screwed up as much as I have, the what if game is an addiction even though it sucks to think about.
      If I could do anything to change my circumstances I would, because community college sucks huge piece of tree bark. Every day here is another splinter in my tongue. And because I strive to get back into Chico State I must endure the waste of gas, time, and money that is XXXX College. Granted my classes are not to bad. I have actually enjoyed a few of them. But not being able to see friends at school, the time it would take to go home between class. These two semesters are just one big fat inconvenience.
       I wish I had requested to get treated for ADHD sooner. That one little decision could have drastically changed my predicament. There is always the chance that it would not have done anything, but I would like to see where I would be now. Probably still at Chico.
      Well it is easy to fantasize of greatness when your life is still climbing out of the toilet. Funny side note, though any reader wouldn't recognize it, I am misspelling a word in every sentence. Thank you spell check. Although I would probably attract more readers and comments without it.
       Soon Chico State University, soon I will be back to you. Hopefully only six more months of affordable education and I will be back in your arms. 

Long time

Well it seems like I have time for a post. The last couple of months I haven't really had time to write, and I guess I haven't had anything to write about. I have been in a little bit of a slump. Creatively drained and exhausted. The good news is that is all over now. I don't know why but I feel refreshed, almost like a have finally woken up. Things are looking good in most aspects. More to come in the near future dear readers, I know you are few but I feel like I have neglected you all. Ha. Alright.

Dedicated to an idiot friend of a friend of mine.

Hey you fat fuck! yes i mean you. Your voice is like a piece of metal sliding across broken glass. Every carefully chosen word drips off of your lips pre coated in egotistic day after shit. You understand that is my favorite band you are talking about. The singer who can not sing, or write music, or play guitar, he fucking wrote the anthems that I live by. I nod and smile because I respect our mutual friend. The one whose house we both happen to be drinking at. Fly off to your foreign country and learn its customs because I say you are not welcome here. The music you praise I consider to be pulp. Squeezed and juiced and strained till the originality is gone, forced down my throat like the grove stand that birthed it. Your heros are clippings, rubbed with white stuff and stuck into strained earth. I don’t care about the “screamer” who left your favorite band. To be good you don’t need a screamer. You don’t need some scrawny fuck who know one liked in high school, the one so immature he hated every charismatic character and strove to mimic the sounds of swine in the name of music. I weep for your sorry excuse for a genre, but I don’t belittle your hero so don’t you fucking dare belittle mine. Just because he didn’t wear jeans so tight his balls rotted off, or die his hair every shade of the dark side of the moon. He was dark and angry in his own way. He was a fuckin martyr. So take your bullshit fuckin ideas out of here. My hero started a movement and yours followed the crowd. Fuck your couch you pale skinned fat nigger. Every word makes me want to scrape a stone nice against the skin of your scalp and claim it for my own. You play an instrument, but that does not make you an expert. Every fucking johnny come lately and his mother can strum tunes of a guitar these days. You are not special and neither am I. So fuck off with your attitude. You are a bigot and a fatty. No one will ever think of you as a gentleman and a scholar. Leave my heaven alone. I do not punch holes in your nirvana, so leave mine the fuck alone, it has a fucking capital letter. They were visionaries. They paved the way for your bullshit. How dare you. How fucking dare you. If you speak one more mal-word against my inspiration so help me. I never asked for your fucking holier than thou opinion. Your fat fucking face makes me want to cut my lifeline to this generation. I really hope the rest of my peers do not think the same way as you. Nevermind. I will just drench my memories in bleach. You reek of fat kid angst when I know I smell of teen spirit. I want to wash your stink out of my pores fatty, as you rape my heroes harder that the record companies ever could. You represent the death of music. The step out of the wilderness to follow the beaten path. I hope that I die before I become like you. Fuck off. I hope I never see you again.

Peace, love, angst, respect, and most of all, dry socks,

Me

Itchy little frights.

     Have you ever seen a very large bug or spider? Or killed one after it crawls across your skin, and then every little itch and scratch becomes a spider, scampering across your legs, arms, forehead. God help me. I just found the biggest spider I have ever seen. Now I am not the squeamish type. I am man, watch me kill (bugs). I have never been scared of spiders or any creepy crawly. But no less than ten minutes ago I decided to smoke a late late night cigarette, and stumbled across the largest spider of my life.
     I would like to inform you that I live in California. So spiders do not really grow much bigger than a thumb nail. Occasionally we will get a rather large black widow, but that rarely happens. This spider was the size of a playing card. So being the smart individual that I am, I turned on the porch light before I stepped outside and avoided the embarrassing moment where I would walk into the web and scream bloody murder because there is a spider on my face.
     So I turn on the light, and boom. There it is. I am quite sure it is a queen among its peers. A regular Madame Octa. Of course I decide to do what any person would do and search my fridge for an old jar of jelly to wash out and catch it with. Low and behold, I now have a spider on ice in my freezer. I think I will make a specimen jar with this gigantic beauty. Do not worry folks. There will be a picture up shortly. Much love and dry socks.

-Me

Well there is an old man and the sea.

The Dock

The waves pound the hardened wood of the dock, playing a frantic beat, like the heart of a boxer fresh from the ring. The splintered old beams hold, calm and unmoving. The old man walks alone on this dark dismal day. The clouds overhead churn and spit, pregnant with rain. His footsteps keep time with the waves. The old man pauses and sighs, takes the last drag of the cigarette in his right hand and exhales smoke into the heavy damp air. An old letter hangs from his left hand, yellowed and creased from years of wear.

The old man turns toward the ocean and leans over the edge of the dock, leaning against the splintery hand rail, the thin plank separating him from the restless waves. As he peers over the rising swells, memories of this place, of love and pain, of anger and laughter, flash just behind his stone hard face. His cold eyes glisten with tears, and his wrinkled forehead furrows with the years burden he carries. He rubs his eyes, turns back, and walks farther down the dock.

The faded yellow rubber of his rain jacket crinkles as he sits down on a familiar wooden bench at the end of the dock, like an old friend supporting his weight. The dead body of a seagull, covered in grime and flies, lays rotting on the planks before him, staining the aged wood with bile and gore. He wrinkles his nose at the sight of it and pulls out a fresh cigarette. The waves continue to pound the dock, taunting and threatening the old man with cold sprays of salty water. He lights his cigarette, and the tiny ember at the tip glows defiantly in spite of the suffocating damp that surrounds it. It hangs between his lips, quivering softly, like a beaten dog still faithful to his master.

The old man unfolds his letter, like he has done countless times before and begins to read it. He knows all of those delicate inked words by heart, each elegantly penned letter carved on the surface of his soul. It was the last letter he had received from his wife, years ago. She had died while he had been away, working at sea.

As his eyes scan the letter, he can still hear her soft angelic voice whispering her words in his ear, he can still feel her warm breath on his rough cheek. She had wanted him home, wanted him to be there to witness the changing of their lives together, to see the birth of his child.. He still cannot, will not forgive himself for missing her last moments, for not being the one to hold her hand when she finally gave up her fight, slipped away and gave her life to the blood soaked leach in the doctor’s gloved hands. The child had died less than a year later, wasting the life its mother had given it.

The old man drags deeply from his cigarette and exhales, craving the relief that just will not come. He struggles to keep his composure, and his weathered face soon contorts, tears escape and roll down his cheeks. He cries. Painful agonizing sobs escape his throat, audible over the thundering drums.

A behemoth of a wave hits the dock, breaking and sending seawater up and over the wooden edge. The old mans cries drown as water assaults him. And as he defiantly raises his hands above his head, the wind and water work together to steal the letter from his hands. The soggy paper, the old man’s most valued treasure, skirts by the body of the seagull and right over the other side of the dock. With rivulets of seawater running down his yellow jacket the man hurries to the other side of the dock, as fast as his stiff cold limbs will take him. He reaches the hand rail just in time to see the letter being carried away, and dragged down..

His wrinkled face is stuck in a new emotion, something between anger and amazement. He sits down again on the splintered wood of the bench, arms folded for warmth over his wet chest. The cigarette between his lips is out, wet and hanging limply. Without thinking he tries to take a drag, and spits with disgust at the stale smokey water he sucks into his mouth. The clouds overhead crack, and soon shower the old man with clean crisp rain. The drops are warmer than the seawater.

He flicks the butt over the rail into the water into the water and stares blankly ahead, at the dead body of the seagull. The wave has cleaned off the flies and dirt, its fluids leaking fresh into the puddle it lays in. The old man sighs and looks down at his feet, his own puddle forming from the soggy drips of his clothes. His expression softens and a tear slides invisibly from his eye, following an already sopping trail down his face.

The man stands up and gives his old yellow coat a good shake, dislodging showers of salty drips. His dry eyes glance one more time at the endless sea before he turns and begins to walk back to shore. The thudding sounds of his boots against the dock ring in his ears, but other than that the world is quiet. He doesn’t hear the waves.

The first draft, might be just an outline.

Chubbs

Chubbs never had a real name to me, and for the life of me I can’t remember what his real name even was. I do remember he killed ants, before school when we would sit and smoke. He would walk his fingers along the ant trail, killing five with each step his sausage fingers took. He would smile while he went about his spree, pausing only to take a drag from his cigarette, but never to wipe his fingers. He wasn’t the kind of boy who cared to keep himself clean, and it showed. His teeth were stained yellow with years of smoke and his hair was a dreadlocked mess. He stunk, badly. His clothes were shabby. His daily wardrobe consisted of the same faded blue sweatshirt and crusty jeans, both riddled with cigarette burns and painted with stains.

Most days I was ashamed to know him, as anyone would be. There was something off about him, something not right. Maybe it was the glint in his eye that was less of a spark, and more a shining dark hole. It could have been the smile that he always wore, unwavering and unsettling.

He moved at the speed of fat, and had no sense of time. He would tell the group of us to meet him at the park in fifteen minutes, and we would wait. An hour later he would lumber along. He had a messed up head, and we never thought different of him for the odd things he would say. There was a strange his words, the kind of connections a bucket of paint would make if it had a brain and had to compare apple pie with calculus. He used to tell us that he knew why people couldn’t fly. It is quite simple really, he would say and his voice that hurt my eyes, like a bright fluorescent light. Could you imagine the first caveman to jump? How excited he must have been? Thats what flying must be like. We just don’t know how. Chubbs would sit, cigarette in hand and ponder the simple mysteries in life.

I never knew Chubbs to be the violent type but one day he just woke up and decided he wanted to hurt someone. That was the last day we saw Chubbs. He had beat some kid half to death with a baseball bat on the way to school and had shown up to his first period covered in this kids blood. I pretended not to know him, and ran out of the classroom with the other kids when the police came to arrest him. There was always something off about him. He was smiling when they put him in the back of the patrol car. I never saw Chubbs again.

For the Summer

I plan on trying to write at least five pages a day from this day forward. That will be my goal. I really hope that I will stick to it, and maybe I will work out as well. I feel I am getting rather round around my middle. I hope I do not end up to be fat and gross. I apologize for those of you who read this and are fat and gross. It is not your fault. Or for some of you it is not. But most of you, who were cute little thin kids who are now fat and gross, it is your fault. And I have decided not to become one of you. So I hope I will work out too.