Coming Out

So I decided to come out early.

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On The Ball Like A Testicular Surgeon

Work turned out to be very full of events. Mistakes, near deaths, crazy shit, that boss; and all with a new guy under my wing. I was pretty hyper by the end of the shift. Made me feel fuckin’ alive for once.

During the shift, in between near human roadkill and new rules, I wrote. I wrote a lot. i wrote pages and I wrote single lines.

I like to write. I’m a writer.

But, I also like feeling as alive as I did during those last few hours. I was feeling manic before, but then it became energy. Productive energy. Something I can direct when I feel it.

Something that can help me in the long run.

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“You’re Being Very Mature About This”

“Thanks, Dad.”

Fuck, really?


This wasn’t what I was going for.

Virtues aren’t right most of the time. They tend to get you lost in the crowd, or walked on, or killed. Vices are what define you. Your ability to walk the wrong way beats out your ability to bleat like the rest of them.

But the fact is if I wasn’t holding back every well-deserved trick and cuntpunch, the situation would be much worse. It would cost my family more drama and treasure. It would make the current rough seas stormier, Perfect Storm-style. It would invite destruction upon the already suffering city,

Fuck this.

God owes me one.

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Fear Nothing

I take my first drag of a cigarette in years and blow out a small amount of smoke. I take a second.

Nothing. It didn’t catch. Fuck.

I feel like I’m back in college drunk and taking an offered butt. At least in college being drunk was the excuse for taking forever to light it.

Finally, its lit.

I stand at my sink and take my time. I think of everything that I’ve been told to fear about this little stick. I think of cancer, bad breath, stained teeth, headaches, lung problems; I think of the fears pushed on us. I think of the daily billboards, commercials and concerned citizens with nosy personalities. I think of everything that can go wrong. And then, I take in another drag.

I think of the fear of being emasculated when I take the Ex her stuff. It’s not that far out of my original route, and its cheaper. I think of being suckered in by her coyness. I think of seeing her pretty face and crumbling. I think of the guy she lives with. I think of the guy’s friend who also lives there. I think of her fractured and tribal group of friends away biting at each other.

I think of how much I feared everything. How much I fear now. How much that none of it really fucking matters one bit when I look at myself.

There are things you can’t control. When hurt deeply and badly, its human instinct to get revenge. Its survival. When pained physically or emotionally, a man attacks and if he’s lucky, he’ll win. Its not easy to get over loss.

But it doesn’t have to control you. It doesn’t have to destroy you. When you let it, you fear that you’re going to die alone. That no one likes you. That you are persona non grata.

Quit fearing. Quit caring. Let the shit slide and the cool flow from every pore.

I smoked in my apartment. That’s against the contract. I used to fear their response to the punched hole in the wall. The marks. Even the dude next door who beats his wife and kids does it outside. He fears. He fears the landlords. He fears the cops who come every few weeks. I watch him from my window, finishing my smoke. He waits under the gray sky. Cold and shaking.

He has something to lose.

I have everything to look forward to.

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I Should Start Smoking


Because everyone is telling me not to do it.

My friends who smoke. My friends who don’t. The government. Private groups funded by the government. My smoker mom, if I told her. My non-smoker dad, once he gets the picture. My employer’s overpaid, ugly-ass health adviser who writes in the propaganda we get every month.

Everyone is telling me not to smoke.

But, I have this giant urge to start.

I’m also told I’m a good guy, and I am.

But, I should start being a giant asshole.


Because everyone is telling me not to do it.

My friends. My best friend. The government. Private groups. My mom. My dad. My boss.

Everyone is telling me not to be an asshole

But, I have this giant urge to start.

It’s probably healthier to be an asshole, but that depends where I’m going to be an asshole. I could be an asshole once and get my jaw cracked.

Smoking a pack or two on my trip may just shorten my life by a few minutes. Could be a good trade.

Though there’s no law against being an asshole in or within 25 feet of a building.


I buy awesome by the carton!

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Money for Nothin’

Day shift today, so I should be asleep now. In lieu of information, here’s great music:

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The Castle

My space, my way

With her gone, the place is mine.

With her gone, I have the ability to shape it.

Home is supposed to be your sanctuary. Your place to rest, relax, and recharge, so that you can get ready to go out and face the world another day…knowing you can come home and let your guard down and just enjoy the company of your family upon your return.

How can you do that when you’re afraid of doing or saying something, and than having to deal with an upset tyrant of a spouse? -Hawaiian Libertarian

Before, I’d be happy to come home because of her. I was happy to relax, talk, screw and all the stuff marriage was about. Then it got testy. Then it got nasty. Then she bolted.

It was ours. A lot of the decorating was her, but it wasn’t like I was pushed out to a single room.

Now the castle is without the princess, and it feels much better. As good as it can be under the circumstances.

King of the Castle.

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