words splattered on cement

Tragic tales of woe for your entertainment.

[wordssplatteredoncement]

Far from the Norm

You never expect the person who made you laugh the hardest to make you cry the longest, but as I sit here, hours after learning of his death, I find this to be the case. Depending on who you speak to, Norm Macdonald is an absolute genius, or a complete moron. He didn’t use large words. His pronunciation could be rightfully described as a little sloppy and he often seemed lost in some of his own jokes. What he had, that most lack, was an ability to make an audience hang on his every word. In a stand up set, it could prove difficult to tell when Norm was hitting his punchline. A small smattering of laughter would begin to roll through the room as the moment the brains of others connected with what the comedian had just spoke and the wave of laughter would continue on. 

Accused of being “secretly Canadian” by most who knew me in the first couple decades of my existence, my love of hockey, pro wrestling, Crown Royal and, above all else, Norm Macdonald, painted a large part of my upbringing. If you’ve ever laughed at anything I’ve said, full credit is owed to Norm. I studied him in my youth. I worshipped him. I watched and mimiced the way he spoke, moved, and carried himself. He was a hero of mine, and will remain as such until my final breath. I’ll never forget the first time I had the opportunity to see him live. Front row and center at Cobb’s, a small comedy club in San Francisco. I could could feel my heart testing the strength of my ribcage as I waited in anticipation for Norm to appear. As he hastily made his way in from stage right, the crowd erupted in applause as he approached a mic which stood a mere few feet from my face. Norm quickly uncradled the microphone from the stand and proceeded to tell everyone he wasn’t sure he could complete the set without shitting himself, due to whatever Cobb’s served him shortly before his set upsetting his stomach. The eruption of human hyenas cacking was quick to follow, but the laughter soon quieted to a murmur throughout the evening. He never let up on the “joke”, if it was even a joke to begin with. This is where the “genius” lies. The blurring of what is a joke, or the ability to spin something very real into something humourous and questionable in an instant. I still, to this day, I have no idea if my hero was seconds from defecating in front of me, or merely flexing his craft, but I can tell you I l laughed hysterically throughout. I just “got” him. There was a connection I felt in his awkwardness that resonated with me on a level that doesn’t with people I truly know in this world.

As time passed, Norm’s fear of death became more and more apparent. Most of his comedy, and the lifestyle he lived, was in fear of existence ending. It’s especially sad to reflect on this today, day of his death.  In my heart of hearts, I hope he went out peacefully, but, as he’s gone on to say in many of his routines, “if even your heart is out to attack you, we all go out screaming in the end”. His anxiety of death is where our paths, once in-paralell, deviated. Where he became obsessed with the end of life as a thing to avoid, I’ve grown to view it as the beautiful end of my personal story. In whatever fashion he left this world, I believe it was in a way that only Norm could. As the understanding of his impact on the comedy world takes hold, the tides of laugher will start to roll in waves. As I’ve come to learn, understanding of complexity, even in simplistic forms, takes time. Rest well, Norm. 

[wordssplatteredoncement]

And Then There Was One...

I don’t know where to start. I feel as though I’ve been shot by a gun that I’ve been staring down the barrel of for the last several years. As much as I’ve tried to brace for impact, nothing could prepare me for the blow. Yesterday, the remaining members of my immediate family left to start their new life in Idaho (my sister and her family moved back in January). As they pulled away, the gravity of it all hit felt as is I would be dragged though to the other side of the planet. Tears streaming, and struggling to catch my breath, I stood in the driveway of what was, up until a mere minute prior, my parents home. For the first time in a long time, I feel completely lost in myself. 

To give some background, this move has been a long time coming. Fresh off of my divorce, I moved back into my parents home to gain some semblance of self again. It was proposed early in my return that the family would be looking to uproot their lives to either Oregon or Washington, two places I’d always desired to live. At the time, there wasn’t much holding me here. The failed marriage, a go-nowhere job, and a lack of self confidence equated to the prospect of a fresh start sounding more than desirable. As my parents started to get deeper into the search for their new home, it became more and more apparent that Oregon and Washington were becoming less of a possibility. The political ideology wasn’t aligned with what they believe in and soon after their home hunt, Idaho became the top prospect. Anyone who knows anything about me likely perceives that Idaho is about the furthest place in this country I’d want to live. Largely liberal in my politics, atheist at my core, lacking in ability to keep my mouth shut about my thoughts on anything, and the void of any real music scene spelled nothing but a horrible existence in overtly red state for me. To my parents credit, the area they wanted to move to is riding the Washington border, but with only one mid-sized city as an option, I felt painted into a corner. I either move into city in Washington that was close enough to visit them on occasion, or bite the bullet and hope for the best in a state I want no part of. 

Neither option seemed ideal, but I flirted with the idea. The driving force behind it all was not wanting to be so far from my family. We’re incredibly close. It wasn’t uncommon for us to gather once or twice a week for dinner. Holidays were just expected for everyone to meet at my parents place. It’s just how things were. But times have changed. I’m several years removed from the divorce. I’ve made a good deal of friends who love and respect me and my opinions. I have a job that, while not ideal, pays the bills, including the large amount of medical visits I have due to my condition that I’ve been dealing with for the last 3 years. I know who I am, and I know what I’m not. Over the span of the pandemic, tension has rose to levels I hadn’t experienced prior. The things that were being stated, even by my own family, went against what I stand for. Arguments became far more common and it dawned on me that if my own family and I are going to argue our sides on most things, how am I to fair amongst strangers in a state who is more aligned with beliefs far from my own? This, coupled with the gold rush of Republicans flocking to “escape” California, has caused the housing market in even rural areas to boom to Golden State-esque levels. With wages being far less than what they are in California, I truly don’t know how anyone survives on the pay given in those areas. This a long way of stating, my decision to remain in California was long thought and ultimately what I felt was best. 

There’s no animosity between my family and I. They’re doing something they feel will better their life, and I am staying in an area that I feel is best for me. It doesn’t help the emotional wounds I’m currently feeling, but it’s important for me to reiterate there’s no bad blood. We’re all just going in our divergent directions to try and create a better life for ourselves. No blame can be cast for wanting to improve ones life. 

To my friends, I need you now more than ever. This is going to be a trying time in my life and I need your love and support. To my family, I love you and wish you nothing but the best. I’ll come up and see you when I can and I hope you do the same. To myself, hang in there. You can do this.

[wordssplatteredoncement]

The Room is a Strange Place

Everybody has a back pocket story or two. You know the kind? The tales you pull out of your ass when trying to impress, or just entertain. I’ve divulged a couple of those cherished stories (on this very blog) over the years. I implore you to scroll a bit if you want to read about a physical altercation with a “pimp” on the Las Vegas strip or night spent with a close friend, two upset stomachs, a backed-up hotel tonight, and the culmination leading to several homeless people watching me shit in a public restroom. This story isn’t as grandiose, so I don’t want to over-hype it, but it does make me laugh every time I think about/ tell it and, I don’t know about you, I could use some laughter. Shall we proceed?

My brother and I have an unhealthy obsession with awful films. I’m not sure how it started, but we’ve always found a great deal of humor in horrible flicks. For as long as I can remember, he and I have gathered around a television set for hours watching countless “how on earth did someone create this?” movies. Our love of rancid cinema has extended to our close friends in the form of “So Bad, It’s Good” movie nights. We lure our loved ones in with the promise of as much booze, candy, and popcorn they can handle, and subject them to this perverse passion for terrible acting, cinematography, writing, lighting, set design, etc. We’re constantly in search of the next pile of trash to give an excuse to transform our living room into a shitty version of Mystery Science Theater 3000. There are some who long for the next Avengers and, while I will watch that, these bad movies speak more to my sensibilities. 

In the mid-2000′s there were rumblings that a new champion had taken the crown for worst flick ever made. The internet was ablaze with this laughably bad, nonsensical movie that was only showing in Los Angeles. The movie was titled “The Room” and it was written, produced, and starring a man I’d never heard of before, Tommy Wiseau. Not one to torrent, I spent the next few evenings learning everything I could about this film. Each review, both those that were in on this being a god-awful blunder, and those that, seemingly, weren’t hip to the fact that this was largely considered the Citizen Kane of abhorrent films, made me salivate at the chance of getting my hands on this piece of substandard pop culture. While the reviews were enough for me to know this was a “must-see” it was the interviews with the man behind it all himself, Tommy Wiseau, that drove my desire to see this film. His cadence, accent, mannerisms, look, laughter.. everything about the man just leapt out as a truly original cat. I became just as intrigued about the man behind the film, as I did about the motion picture, itself. 

Some time passes and I find myself at San Diego Comic Con, as I had many times before. For those of you uninitiated, think of San Diego Comic Con as the biggest nerd/ pop-culture orgy ever created. 120k+ plus descend upon Southern California to share their unadulterated love of movies, television, toys, and yes, comics. I went with someone who was newly christened my ex-girlfriend, thinking we could just work through things, as we’d each spent a great deal of money on the trip prior to the break up. This was a mistake. We were at each other’s throats more than a vampire at a hydra gathering. That is to say, any second away from her was more than welcomed. When she informed me that she wanted to take a nap, I used this time as a breath of fresh air (as fresh as can be in a sea of people who don’t treat personal hygiene as a top priority, that is). I hit the convention floor, in seek of an autograph of the creator of Invader Zim, Jhonen Vasquez. I’m weaving through the convention hall, when I see the man I’d become infatuated with... Tommy Wiseau. “Hey kid (I’m in my mid-late twenties at this point, mind you), you wanna buy a movie?” Without hesitation, I fired back “FUCK YEAH I DO!! How much?” This is when things got a little weird.. or Wiseau..

“For my biggest fan? Ten dollars.”, Mr. Wiseau said. “Biggest fan? He randomly stopped me, and I haven’t even seen this movie.”, I thought, but didn’t say a word, only reached for my wallet. I handed him a sweaty $10 bill, he goes to hand me the film, but reels back a second. “Do you want me to sign it?”, he asked. “Yes, please!!”, I fired back. Tommy pulled out a pin, started murmuring something, then signed my DVD. “Do you want GREH (he was saying “Greg”, but I couldn’t make out what he was saying through his accent) to sign it?” I didn’t know who “GREH” (I later found out this was Greg Sestero, another star of the film and inspiration for the movie) was, but sure, why not? As I awaited my newly autographed copy of my most anticipated movie of that year, Tommy chimed in again. “Would you like a soundtrack?”. “Um, how much?”, I cautiously treaded. “For my biggest fan? Are you kidding me? It free for you.” Genuinely creeped out, I said “Sure”. Tommy then turns and screams at a child no older than 7 to fetch me a soundtrack. The kid scurried off out of sight, leaving me with me with Tommy and “GREH”. A couple of minutes passed before the youngster returned, without soundtrack in hand. “WHERE IS THE SOUNDTRACK!?”, Tommy bellowed. “We’re all out.”, squeaked the kid. “HOW COULD YOU DO THIS IN FRONT OF MY BIGGEST FAN!?!”, Wiseau roared, then turned and asked me, “I’m so sorry. Would you like a t-shirt?”. “Oh, that’s okay. I don’t want to be any trouble.”, I said in genuine fear. “No trouble at all. GO GET HIM A SHIRT!!”, he screamed at the minor. “It’s really no problem at all for my biggest fan”, Tommy reiterated as he put me in a vice-like headlock. So there I am, in a Wiseau-headlock, standing next to “Greh”, when I notice something. There is a line of dozens of people, all holding copies of The Room, waiting to get their movies signed. In front of them, is a woman holding a sign that states “The Room: Front of the line”. Being a Comic-Con veteran, I realized these people were there to meet this man I stumbled across, had spent several minutes with, and was now awaiting a free shirt while in a wrestling hold by the man they were trying to meet. The daggers that were cast from the looks of those waiting in line would have killed me, if Tommy’s anaconda-like grip on my neck didn’t first. When the child reemerged, he handed me a shirt. I thanked the child, Tommy, “Greh”, and said my goodbyes. “Thanks for being my biggest fan. HAHAHAHAHA!!” I could hear Wiseau wail across the throng of nerds. 

And there it is, my story of a strange encounter with a bizarre man who made one of Hollywood’s worst. I love The Room. I’m not entirely sure if I love it purely because of how bad it is, or have an affection for it due to the aforementioned meeting with the people who created it. Either way, it goes down as one of my favorite celebrity encounter moments and genuinely a film I watch more than those that make my “favorite film” list. It’s a movie I’ve subjected several friends victims to, and one that I can’t wait to put others through. That moment in time, and the flick itself, is a constant reminder, that even when life hands you lemons, you can always chuck them at somebody. 

[wordssplatteredoncement]

The World Is On Fire (and So Am I)

There are times in your life where you experience things that you know will become a memory that lasts a lifetime. Several of those moments have been pleasant in my experience. A shared moment with a friend where you realized you both inched your bond towards something more. Various parties thrown where you watched the weeks worth of thought, time, and effort payoff in a night that will be talked about for ages. A concert where the band’s connection with the crowd transcends the usual “musician/ audience” role play, and a melding of minds makes the show something unforgettable. This year has been one most won’t soon forget, but for all of the wrong reasons. 

“FUCK 2020!!” A sentiment uttered by many, and one I’ve said more than my share. The reality... 2020 isn’t the problem. The issues that have arisen have occurred due to years of neglect. The change of a calendar isn’t going to bring back the lives of hundreds of people of color who have died at the hands of those pledged to “protect and serve”. The turn of a year won’t suddenly erase a pandemic that has killed a half a million people worldwide, and shows no sign of slowing it’s destruction on any semblance of normalcy we’re yearning for. And, on a personal level, 2021 brings no promise that my body will stop feeling as though it’s trying to burn from the inside-out. Instead of leaning hard into this notion that the turn of the next 365 will somehow cure our sorrows, why don’t we take some responsibility for the moment and do our part today to ensure tomorrow is aimed in a direction of correction and healing?

I’m going to start by reflecting inward. The last time I touched this blog was nearly a year ago. I wrote about the horrible pain I’m experiencing on a daily basis. My asshole feels like Satan decided to relocate Hell inside of it. I truly feel as though like I’m on fire from the inside out. Today marks the 2 year anniversary of this pain that has completely upended up my life. Earlier this week, I had my 4th procedure in hopes of finding some reprieve from this pain and, for 2 days, I thought maybe I was healed to a level I could cope with. The pain had largely subsided... and then yesterday happened. I didn’t really see any fireworks on the 4th, but I felt them. My body ignited from beyond my balloon knot and the pain has lingered to this very moment. I spent a good portion of the day on my couch, partially in hopes of reprieve, but mostly in wallowing over another disappointment. I peeled myself off of the couch and decided to splatter a few more words in hopes that I could inspire those who give the blog a gander, but also to help myself out of a seemingly hopeless situation. 

8 minutes and 46 seconds. My 2 years of asshole-aflame don’t hold a candle to the suffering the neglect, hurt, and tyranny 5 dickheads wearing a badge made to an entire race in our country. In those near-9 minutes, we all witnessed a man completely prone and in constraints, cry out for his mother as he suffocated in cold murder. Immediate responses from cop-defenders shot out with “All Lives Matter”, “Blue Lives Matter”, and “not all cops are bad people”... Here’s the problem with all of those statements, this isn’t a one-off occurrence. This isn’t a singular police officer who went rogue. In this very instance, 4 other cops watched, with hands in pocket, as this man, George Floyd, had his life taken from him. The uprising that came in the wake of this atrocity was a natural response to the oppression of a culture long held down by those in authority. Peaceful protests over the mistreatment of African Americans have existed for years, each met with hostility in the way of thinly veiled racism and clearly falling upon deaf ears, all while more instances of death at the hands of oppressors pile up. Breonna Taylor, a 26 year old black woman, was shot in her sleep when three police officers, in plain clothes mind you, broke into her home with a no-knock warrant... erroneously... AS THEY WERE IN THE WRONG HOUSE. In both of these instances (two of hundreds, I must add), the police were not arrested until met with the pressure of the public in the form of protesting. Sure, some protests have been met with opportunists. Buildings have been burned. Statues brought down by force (and I stand that these statues dedicated to slave-owning southern leaders should have never been erected in the first place), but PEOPLE ARE DYING AT THE HANDS OF THOSE IN AUTHORITY. And yet, I hear more about these buildings and statues from our “leader” on down to people I come in contact with, than the human lives taken. White privilege at its finest, folks. I’d love to hear an “All Lives Matter”-crier, shout “All Cancer Matters” at a breast cancer awareness event to experience the absolute ignorance of that statement. Everyone matters, you dumb fucks, but there are times that call attention to a specific group... this isn’t your time. “Blue Lives Matter!!”.. you aren’t born blue.. you choose that life. You don’t choose to be a person of color. Let’s take a fucking second to recognize that there is a disparity in this world in how we are treated and figure out how we can correct our ways. 

So that brings us to the last bit of “2020″, the year is “cursed and doomed”. COVID-19, aka coronavirus. A pandemic that was written off as nothing more to be worried about than a flu by our “genius” leader. Trump compared this pandemic to the number of lives that are taken yearly by the common flu and thus created the great divide in America. Half of our country decided that everything was cool.. our president said “we’re good”. The other half, listening to the CDC, and other health experts, whose literal job is to track and control the spread and containment of disease, followed advice from those who have dedicated their life to the education of well-being. Trump slowly had to cater to those health experts when it became very clear this was something far more serious than a “flu”, and we were ordered to stay indoors. People went into bat-shit-crazy-survival mode. Toilet paper, hand sanitizer, and canned goods became the new gold as the masses flocked to stores in droves to ensure their asses were wiped, hands were.. sanitized.. and goods had a shelf life of several months. Hospital ICUs were strained as the number of people needing to be treated met new highs. We were asked to wear masks in public and keep 6 feet away from those we don’t live with. And the response from a wide number of Trump’s supporters.. “THIS IS CRAZY.. YOU’RE INFRINGING ON MY FREEDOMS.. THE ECONOMY!!!!”. As stated earlier in this blog.. human lives > businesses and the economy. Due to this outcry, backed by the moron-in-chief and his plethora of tweets (seriously.. what job have you ever had where you can sit around and call people names through social media all day long??.. certainly not mine..), the shelter-in-place orders were lifted, just as we were starting to see a leveling out in the number of cases our country was dealing with. And Americans, being as stubborn as they’ve proven to be over the years, went out en masse. With this, the number of cases has risen to absurd levels. The president, always one to find a way to suck his own cock, daily gives praise to this being accredited to the great testing he has imposed. Even taking it so far as to say we might be testing “too well” and that if we just test less.. the numbers will go down.... I’ll take a minute to let the absurdity of that statement, which he has doubled down on, sink in. I work in health care. This isn’t a joke. This isn’t a farce. This isn’t the flu. This isn’t a conspiracy. 533,000+ deaths isn’t a joke. Wear a fucking mask. Stop going out for the sake of killing boredom. Start thinking and do your part. Your parents, grandparents, and neighbors count on it.

So there you have it. 2020 hasn’t been kind but, as I’ve stated, this isn’t the problem of a singular year. This is years of neglect and a current state of ignorance. January 1st will come and go. It changes nothing. The only thing that will cure the issues we’re facing is recognizing there is indeed an issue and taking action to improve our current state. Nothing is solved if we don’t accept reality and inflect on how we can do our part to make a change. Stating “Make America Great Again” is a stupid way of saying we’ll revert to a past laced in hatred. Instead of looking over our shoulder the days that we’ve progressed from, let’s focus on a future that provides equality for all. Instead of crying about our freedoms being removed over having to stay indoors or wear a mask, let’s think about those we might be saving by stopping the spread of disease. As for my butthole.. I got off the couch to write this, all while in a fair amount of pain. I can reflect on a time I didn’t feel this, or I can accept what this is and do my part to seek improvemnt. I opt for the latter.

[wordssplatteredoncement]

The Sky Is Falling (Apart)

Tonight should be like countless others. In the Bay Area, drink in hand, bobbing my head to a beloved musical act with the only concern being the dreaded workday greeting me on the other side of an all-too-short stint of sleep.. but it’s not. Tonight the pain has sunk in too deep and a ticket goes unused. Most nights I can put on a grin in front of others and try my damnedest to pretend like I’m not struggling through life but, on this eve, I’m struggling to sit in one place long enough to type this out. For the last fifteen months, only those in my closest of circles have been told everything I’m going through. Today, I reveal all of the cards to everyone willing to read on. 

It began on July 4th, 2018, my nephew’s birthday (and the birth date of America, I suppose..). While most were asleep, their only plans as the morning greeted them, being getting wasted and watching explosions burst in among the stars, I woke up running to the bathroom to praise the porcelain altar. Waves of nausea hit me time and again with my side feeling as though the puncture wound I bestowed on a D&D character, acted as some kind of voodoo-totem. I clutched my side, rocking back and forth in my bed until it was my next turn to relive the contents of my stomach from the day before. This continued until I hauled my ass into my car and drove myself to the ER. A 6 hour visit revealed a 1.2cm kidney stone. Dick-rocks have been something I’ve dealt with for the last decade, but this was a stone the size of Conan O’ Brien’s head.. unfathomable, but a reality that stares back at us, with cold, lifeless eyes. And I don’t know if you’ve seen the hole at the tip of a dick, but suffice it to say Conan’s head was never made to fit through one. I was told this would require a surgery, one that the hospital I was in couldn’t perform, but that I’d be transferred for. Then, without a real reason given, I was discharged and told to try and pass it on my own. I overheard several nurses gasp when they were told I’d be sent home. I gathered my belongings and shuffled to the pharmacy to wait around for pain meds. Baffled at what had transpired, and in far too much pain to care about the looks I’d received for being in pajamas, I clutched at my member as if my hand was the only thing keeping it attached to my body. Several days and urologist visits later and I was finally approved for lithotripsy, the procedure involving treating my side the way Rocky Balboa beat his.. ahem.. meat. This pulverized the stone into smaller fragments that I could piss out. The next few weeks felt like I was urinating sand.. ‘cause I was. I had finally been able to put this behind me, but in the time of this kidney stone treatment I’d developed another problem entirely...

“You know when you have a cut, and some lime juice gets in it?”, I’d ask my next friend (victim) who I was trying to explain problem # two’s symptoms to, “It’s kind feels like that, but almost all of the time”. This is how I best described my latest conundrum. Nothing to do with my penis this time, oh no, this time my arsehole was the culprit of my displeasure. Movement of any kind caused a sharp pain that made me momentarily spastic. A quick WebMD searching only elicited my clear demise, but with some diligent weeding out, I came to the more rationale diagnosis that I likely had a fissure, a small tear on the star-kisser that normally heals itself. Only it didn’t. Weeks rolled into months, and it became clear something needed to be done. A number of doctors visits, antibiotics, and far too many fingers up my ass, and it was declared I’d need surgery. Minor, with little downtime, and I’d be back onto my feet with the nicest poop-cutter this side of the Nile. I should have taken a wager on that statement. Post-surgery, several moons passed and I realized I wasn’t getting any better. It certainly didn’t help that during this time I got a job as a barback at a local music venue. In a half-hearted attempt to dip my toes into the world of bartending, a life goal of mine, I landed a job I knew I likely wouldn’t be able to perform. And fuck was I right. Lifting each 160lb keg felt like I was being torn in half along my back-crack. I was struggling to keep up and in complete agony the entire time. After a few short weeks, I decided to step away. Feeling loathsome that I’d quit the only thing I wanted to do in recent memory, I put a renewed focus on recovery in hopes that I’d be able to take another stab at this new career path. Another surgery, this time for a fistula (sidenote: nothing with “fist” in it’s name should come anywhere near the asshole.. just saying). A fistula is a small hole that bores through the anus and can hurt like all get out. After a scan, it was determined I had one. Surgery two. Extra time given to heal. Nada. Same pain resided and I was beginning to feel like this was my life going forward.

Accepting my fate, I doubled down on the things that kept me happy. Scouring every music blog, event info email, and social media post I put in my time to find a show within 100 miles. Nearly every dollar I could spare went to concerts and the nights that went with them. If life was going to be spent in pain, I was at least going out with a killer live soundtrack to accompany my torture. Now jump-cut  to three weeks ago. I had just returned from an amazing solo adventure that involved partying with one of my favorite bands in LA, then riding everything in sight at Disneyland, when I struggled to get to sleep my first night home. My bladder felt as though it was going to burst, but only a trickle would come out when I tried. This lasted until the sun greeted me with it’s unwanted presence, but the next day I felt fine. I went about my life like normal, showing no signs that something was wrong (besides the ass on fire thing). Just when I thought my phallus and I were getting along, I pissed what felt like pure flames of Hades. I streamed tears as I went to relieve myself and met with anything but. Another several doctors trips and restless bouts of sleep, I found myself back at the same hospital as I’d began on this adventure. I was once again discharged without any help or any feeling of hope. 

And that brings us to tonight. On the eve of when I’m supposed to be scoped, or a cystoscopy in medical terms. If you’re unfamiliar, this is where a doctor forces a tiny camera up your dickhole. I’m going to stop there and let that sink in. A camera. Up your dickhole. I can honestly say I’ve never in more fear in my adult life. The worst part of it, I have zero faith this will help me out. I have a year and some change to give me reason to believe this will do nothing but hurt my wallet, pride, and fix nothing but the mansion of another overpaid guy in a long white coat. I’ve done tests, surgeries, been asked “have you been engaged in any rough sex”, had more fingers up my ass than I care to recall.. and I can honestly say I’m no better off than when I started this downward spiral. 

I apologize if this is the first you’re hearing of any of this. This isn’t an easy thing to bring up in a conversation. Sorry if I’ve seemed pissed off or distant. Truthfully, I’m scared. I’m afraid that this is life now and that I’ll never find any level of comfort again. That isn’t a hard thing for me to admit, but I felt the need to state what’s going on. I should be at a concert tonight. But instead of chasing dreams under the stars, I’m looking in the mirror and seeing that Sky is falling apart. 

[wordssplatteredoncement]

We Can Do Better

**Disclaimer: I am an uneducated, community college drop out who is expressing nothing more than an opinion. If you’re reading this, you’re clearly a friend, have nothing else better to do, or both. Read with caution.

I’d been working on this blog for the better part of a year. No matter how many times I came back to it, I never felt comfortable releasing it. Then, reading the words to myself, I took my own advice and expressed how I truly felt. What you’re reading is a touched up blog that I feel should be read, irregardless of how you feel afterwards...

The flag sits at half-staff for the 19th, 20th, 23rd (clearly things kept escalating as 2018 continued) time this year. Another student went on a rampage and decided to eliminate several of their classmates. Another press conference about the tragedy that occurred. “Thoughts and prayers” being offered to the victims and their families. We rinse and repeat until the blood remains on our hands and hope no one notices as we hold our hands under the faucet for the umpteenth time. We tried to pass the buck on the “decaying” society that surrounds us, and offer “thoughts and prayers” in hopes it all goes away. We raise the flag, then are prompted to lower it again. We can do better...

I can’t speak for your household, but I grew up in a home where violence was rarely seen as a bad thing. I could sit and watch as people were shot, stabbed, maimed, and decapitated.. but a titty or a dick pops out from behind clothes and I was told to turn my head. Something about this never sat well with me. I could watch countless deaths, in a million different ways, but the second anything that could be viewed as sexual came on the screen, that wasn’t okay? Death, GOOD!! Life, BAD!!!! It wasn’t just my parents, or even their generation that acts in this way. I’ve spoken and witnessed this among friends my age that have kids of their own. It was through this realization that I came to realize our culture values it’s own Christian beliefs more than the education of our own children. We can do better...

Maybe, instead of worrying about your kids getting an erection, or moist (how many people cringed over that word, eh?) over seeing a body part, we educate? We tell the children why they’re feeling they way they do when they see a naked person on the screen. Why we should wince when a person riddled with bullets. Why it’s okay to believe differently than the way we do, and that differences shouldn’t lead to hate. In my opinion, a western (read: Christian) belief system that has failed us time and time again. If we turn a blind eye to it, it goes away. Instead of turning your children’s head away, either don’t have them watch at all, or.. I don’t know.. EDUCATE THEM! Jesus-fucking-christ (Christian name), take a look around you. You’re turning your children’s head away from a television screen did not stop the countless unwanted pregnancies that surround us, and have for as long as someone realized they could put a boner in the ham-wallet. Instead of ignorance, we should just talk to our kids. Tell them the rights from wrongs. Not the bullshit we read in an archaic book, or constitution written by forefathers who knew nothing of the future, but TALK to your kids about the climate of the world we currently live in. We can do better...

Now I know a few of you are fuming. You’ve got Trump’s Cheeto-colored, NRA-funded prick in your mouth.. and you’re mad that I would even point a finger in the direction of a parent who believes that the Constitution, Bible, and other text written in a time long passed are gospel. But please, get mad. Get upset. It’s better I point a finger at you, than your kid point another barrel at a fellow student. You value your text in a bible and a Constitutional right more than you do the life of a child. That isn’t opinion. I’m seeing this daily. If this a moment of rage makes you think, even for just a moment, I’ve done my job. Again, I’m an uneducated, middle-aged, heathen of a man who doesn’t have any children, and even I can see that we have a problem. WE CAN DO BETTER!!

[wordssplatteredoncement]

Save the Snails

Have you ever met someone who makes you strive to be a better person? An ally in life who has your back through the toughest of times, even when the world seems to have forgotten your existence? Someone who just “gets you” in every sense of the word? I’m going to do my best not to fumble on these next several sentiments, as I do have a person in my life who is all of those things, and so much fucking more. I hope you’ll indulge me for the next few paragraphs as I spill my heart out about my best friend, Mallory Gruber Lane. 

It all started so randomly. I was sitting at my drab desk, in the boring office, at the job I loathed. As I hung up the phone from ordering my (apparently) all too bland of a sandwich, an IM popped up on my screen from someone I’d never shared more than head nod in passing from. 

Mallory Gruber: Wow! Don’t get too adventurous with your sandwich over there.

(Embarrassed) Me: You heard that, eh? It’s not bland, I’m a purest (I said, defending my turkey and cheddar on dutch crunch.. plain and dry).

Future Best Friendo: You know what you like. I can respect that. But you’re also lying to yourself. (laughter.. literally.. she was a few desks down from me and I could hear her laughing at my pathetic, joyless, overpriced joke of a sandwich from where I sat)

Over the next couple of days, the IM conversations continued, ranging from music and movies, to how much we loathed the very place we sat. The chats didn’t get too deep during those days, but they were always enjoyable and I found myself enamored by her wit. So quick to the joke, and razor sharp in her delivery. Having had someone just back out of a comedy show on me, I mustered up the courage and asked her out to see Louis C.K. (side note: this is pre-knowing Louis was whipping his dick out and wagging it at every female he could.. I’m not a creeper, but I do find that motherfucker funny). 

.. agonizingly long time between responses... 

Mallory Gruber: Oh, I can’t. I’ve got plans this weekend. (what I heard.. “you’re gross.. go away”.. as I’ve got issues with self esteem, like most of us do if we’re honest for a second)

The conversations ceased for a few days and I figured I scared her away as even an acquaintance, but as luck would have it, we were moved to desks right next each other. She asked me to meet up with some of her work friends for drinks. It was through Mallory I met some of the few people I genuinely enjoy the company of in that office. We became a clique that I coined “The Friends That End In Y” (Mallory, Lucy, Amy, Sky), complete with our own catchphrase “Friends that end in Y, drink on days that end in Y. Don’t ask why.” It was the first time I’d felt like anyone cared about me in a number of years.

Life was pretty great. I hated my job, but I had friends who I related to again. The words “Sky and Mallory” became synonymous in that office. Literally. I think everyone thought my name was “Sky and Mallory” and was often asked where Mallory was if I was seen without her. We worked together, joked together, got in far too much trouble together, ate together, and took breaks together whenever possible. It was through these breaks that I witnessed something I found odd. I witnessed my best friend picking up snails from the sidewalk and tossing them to the grass. This happened for several days in a row before I asked her why. Her response, “because people are fucking shit and they crush these poor things without a second thought”. I soon found myself joining in our snail-saving breaks. To this day, if I see a snail on the sidewalk, I toss it on the grass. The snail has become our avatar of friendship, and I plan to get one tattooed on me one day, as a symbol of our bond. 

The years moved on. We have shared many a joke, bottle, and embrace. She’s the one person I feel completely at ease with, that isn’t my family.. though in reality, she’s family. She’s my friend, sister, and spiritual adviser (as much as an atheist can have, at least) all rolled up into one person. Though smaller in stature, I look up to Mallory. She’ll tell me exactly what I need to hear, even when I don’t want to hear it. She picks me up when life has me down, and has no problem listening to my rants about the things I hate, nor the incessant ramblings about the things I love. We’ve endured many of life’s triumphs and downfalls together. There are things I know about her that I will never tell another soul and vice versa. I don’t have faith in much, but I believe in Mallory. 

Flash forward to last year. We’re chilling on her patio, enjoying the beautiful view of the sunset from her backyard when I hear this... Mallory: So we picked a date (referring to her and her soon-to-be husband’s wedding). 

Me: Dude! That’s awesome!! When!? (pulling out my phone to put it in my calendar)

Mallory: October, 6th of this year (2018).. but we have something to ask you.. and you can say no. Please don’t feel like you have to..

Me: Sure. What’s up?

Mallory: We would love it if you would officiate our wedding. Whatever costs involved we’ll...

(interrupting Mallory) Me: I’m in! 

Mallory: .. but you don’t have to..

Me: There’s no way I’m not doing this. I’d love to.

..... flash forward to October 6th, 2018....

I’m pacing around my hotel room like a man possessed.. or at least one who has to shit, except the only restroom around is occupied by a man who ate three Philly cheesesteaks, and looks to be in no hurry to leave. I’m glancing at my script for the 3,072nd time that day. I try to memorize it, just as I have for the last several months since it was written, but to no avail. “I’m going to fuck this up for her”, I thought to myself. In a moment of clarity, I thought about how Mal would handle the situation. The wedding was at Lake Tahoe and my room was right across from the gorgeous slice of nature. I ventured out to the lake for a breath of fresh air and to skip some stones.. as I thought this is how Mallory would handle the stress in my position. As I went to pick up a stone, I seen a snail. I picked it up and started to cry. It was a moment of pure clarity. I gently placed the snail in the tall grass nearby and went back to my room. 

The moment of her entrance had arrived. Neil Young’s “Heart of Gold” played as I seen my friend as beautiful as I ever had, arm-in-arm with her personal hero, her father. The sun beamed through an otherwise overcast day just before the ceremony, but her smile and elegance far out-powered our solar earth-furnace. Jitters turned to joy (okay, admittedly the jitters remained throughout, but lessened) as I watched my best friend turn the page to one of life’s grandest chapters... not only did I watch but technically legalized with the words, “it is with absolute honor, I now pronounce you husband and wife. Jeff, kiss your beautiful wife.” 

I said all of that, to say this. Find a friend who is willing to double over in laughter with you at the stupidest things, to share in your hatred of something trivial, to cry over the defeats life dishes your way, and to say I love you to in a way that is completely devoid of irony. Find a friend who shows you why life is worth living. Save the snails. 

[wordssplatteredoncement]

Birthday Deathday

The overcast skyline blanketed the hilltops in hues of veiled oranges and reds. With my left hand clutched at the top of the wheel, I hug the tight turns that weave around a mountainside I’m unfamiliar with. In my right hand is that of another. Our fingers interlocked. She has fair, soft skin that could be mistaken for porcelain. Raven-black hair sweeps her shoulders and she has piercingly light eyes. A natural beauty that is both classic, and yet uniquely her own. The faint sounds of a chill song I’m not familiar with drown out the white noise of the our jaunt through the hills. I state how tired I am and she starts poking fun of me about my age, calling me old for being so tired, so early. “I’m only thirty-five!”, I exclaim. “Thirty-six, old man.”, she says with a playful smile, followed by a kiss on the cheek. There is a genuine sense of happiness and contentment between us. As we come around a blind bend, the lights of a semi truck on the wrong side of the road face us head on. “OH MY GAH!!”, I hear the voice of the terrified angel sitting next to me as she braces for impact. 

.. white light fills my vision and the sound that I can only relate to the horrible feedback of an amplifier pierces my ears...

The next thing I see is my body slumped over the steering wheel of the car, clearly lifeless, and, what I assume to be, my girlfriend crying hysterically from the outside of the car. The view feels surreal. I’m hovering, out of body, witnessing the carnage of the wreckage.

... and then I wake up, just as I have since I first had this dream when I was fourteen years old. Twenty-two years of this nightmare where I witness my own death reoccurring at least once a week. I used to wake in complete terror. Cold sweats, tears streaming down my face, and no chance of returning to sleep. I still awaken, without fail, but it’s no longer from a sense of horror. You can only see something so many times before you’re numb to it. 

Many of you have likely heard this story from me in some form. For those of you new to it, welcome to the strange. As I recently hit the milestone that is my birthday deathday, the magical thirty-six, I figured it was worth reflecting on a few of the oddities of this nocturnal mind-plague. 

It’s hard to process even the idea of death. It’s the only inevitability that comes with living. I was raised in a home that believed you had to dedicate your life to a magic man in the sky in order to absolve you of your sins and send you into a blissful second life, with streets lined in gaudy gold. I unsubscribed to this thought pattern fairly early in life. With that, death meant the end. Nothing more. Worm food. This gave me a fair deal of anxiety as a young teenager. I didn’t like the idea that I’d just cease to be. It was through this anxiety that I created a bucket list on a sheet of binder paper, written in my scrawl with a number 2 pencil, something I still possess to this day. On it, I listed a number of people I wanted to meet, things I wanted to see/ do, and at the very top of the list the improbable (at the time) attending of 300 concerts. Over the years, I scratched every item off of this list, with the final being the concert 300 on April 20th, 2016. And, if you can believe it or not, the person I attended that concert with was the person in the passenger seat in my dream. I’ve read you can’t envision a person’s face in a dream until you’ve seen it in person.. and some details have become more vivid over time.. but this is the same person and always has been. I don’t truly know what all of this means, but I do find it extremely interesting. 

I say all that to say this. Life is strange. Death is reality. Don’t wait to live a life you hope is on the other side. Do whatever it is that makes you smile. Chase your whimsy. Don’t let fear hold you back from the next adventure. If this dream has been a psychic vision, so be it, I’ve lived a good life with few regrets. If it’s just been a sickening way to get my ass out there and try to live a better life (and deprive me of sleep), mission accomplished. I don’t chase the reaper, but when I do face him, I will welcome his cold embrace. Hell, maybe we can even share a a round of beers together and I can invite him out to one last concert before I have to go. I don’t know, but I can promise you that in the meantime, I’ll be living my best damn life until “inevitable” becomes “reality”.  

[wordssplatteredoncement]

The Threesome

Two combatants are engaged in a fierce competition. Wearing nothing more than spandex in the form of unflattering underwear, they lock-up in a pretzel of twisted, human flesh. The mixture of blood, sweat, and baby oil creating an ungodly concoction of gross. They perform superhuman feats of athleticism in a one-take, live production that happens on an elevated stage, surrounded by three ropes. It’s an amazing art form, with little room for error, yet it’s constantly criticized as “fake” or something that is for children.

Pro wrestling wasn’t always a “child’s sport”. In fact, it’s origins can be traced back to Greco-Roman styles of ancient Greece. This is when scary, fully naked men would grapple with other hideous, dick-swinging, naked men for hours at a time (and a reason we pro wrasslin’ fans are thankful for the little spandex worn). In the early 1920′s, pro wrestling was a travelling carnival act. Two outlandish competitors would compete with the winner predetermined. In the 1950′s, professional wrestling dominated the airwaves as television became a staple in human entertainment consumption. It wasn’t until the steroid scandal of the late 1970′s to the early 80′s that it came out that pro wrestling wasn’t “real” and many adults scoffed at the notion that something they watched was predetermined. (hey cunts.. ever watch a movie?) It was during this time that the shows became more family oriented. My love of professional wrestling is my earliest memory and something that sticks with me to this very day. It’s live theater, bad acting, athleticism, and improv all balled into a couple hours of insanity. I speak with others about it and they tend to have the same response, “yeah, I used to watch wrestling when I was kid”. At first, I was offended by this response, but you can only be offended for so long until you realize that you’re the odd man out. 

As I got a little older, another form of artistry really struck a chord with me. Three chords to be exact.. and a “fuck you”. When I first started going to local concerts, the shows were largely dominated by one genre. A lot of the musicians with hair spiked in a variety of ways, safety pins in every part of their clothing, and piercing any part of (un)exposed flesh. They played their instruments in a reckless, but precise fashion. The songs rarely extended beyond two minutes in length. Spit flew from their mouth and covered a shared microphone as six or seven acts would rotate in a three hour span each night. There was no need for soundchecks or restarts if something didn’t sound quite right. Instead of caring about how “good” something sounded, the attention was focused on aggression and attitude. I remember punk rock shocking and scaring me. I didn’t feel like I fit in, but when I realized that’s exactly how everyone listening to the music felt, it became an identity.

Punk’s origin in the mid 70′s melded playing a few chords faster than most other forms of rock & roll and little regard for decency. It was a counter culture movement, embracing DIY mentality, social angst, and political unrest. Born out of the anger of not feeling like you belong in any aspect of life; much like a child’s thoughts on their parents “just not understanding” (RIP Fresh Prince.. who’s still alive, but still..). No true singing talent is needed to sing in the genre. Just a “fuck the world” chip on your shoulder and knowledge of a few chords. The lower level of talent needed to perform the music, paired with the angsty teens, causes this bubble where people find punk rock early in life.. but only so many jobs will take you with nineteen piercings in your bottom lip, so many find themselves leaving the lifestyle behind. I was never one to dress the part. The most I’d do is apply some black guyliner and lipstick to hang out with my “goth” friends (which was their make up to begin with), but I still wear my punk rock roots on my sleeve, quite literally, in the form of my hundreds of band t-shirts. Years have passed and most I knew from the scene have moved on, calling punk rock a phase of their life, but I still find myself chanting “Oy!” with the punkers on a near-regular basis. I’m a corporate muppet from 6 AM to 2:30 PM on weekdays.. with a hand so far up my ass, Kermit takes pity on me. But at night, I’m often found in dingy clubs, looking for my next punk rock fix.

There’s a marriage between these two worlds that’s often unspoken. It’s not terribly uncommon to see professional wrestling matches at a punk rock show or festival. I’d never really given that much thought until recently. The conclusion I drew to is that these are two art forms that are largely disregarded by their peers. They’re bastard crafts within their respective fields. The fans of each are often feel alienated in the same way. To coin a lyric from the not-even-remotely-punk Weezer, “the world has turned, and left me here”... and that’s okay. Maybe I wasn’t meant to fit in. Maybe my place in this world is among the misfits. And in this marriage of nonconformists, I still find myself in a threesome most want no part in, but I know no other way.

[wordssplatteredoncement]

Wisdumb

As I sit in the darkened corner of a bedroom, the thought of how meaningless life can be keeps creeping through my head. Like a View-Master stuck between slides, my mind seems transfixed on the notion of how pointless everything around me truly can be. Life doesn’t come with an instruction manual. No step by step way of doing things to guarantee success.. or even a concrete way of explaining success. This has left me sitting in solitude with my thoughts; a dangerous combination, to be sure.

We, as a society, follow rules of structure. Not everyone, but for the most part, a large majority of our population follows an unwritten way of life that our society deems acceptable. Go to school. Learn a fair amount of jargon long enough to remember what to write on a piece of paper in order to get “good grades”. Graduate. Get a job. Earn pieces of paper that we agree is worth value. Exchange said pieces of paper for a roof over your head and food for your facehole. Fall in love. Start a family. Earn enough pieces of paper to stop having to work. Die... and this would be considered a successful life by most. 

I fall right into this structure. I wake up, sit in front of a computer as my mind rots away for 8 hours to make a corporation far more money than I will likely see so I can afford to keep a house and continue to feed in incessant obsession with knick-knacks that I find shiny. Eat. Sleep. Shit. Repeat. This has led me to believe why religion and beliefs play such an integral part of our life. It’s one part narcissism and two parts wanting to believe there’s gotta be more to it all than this...

.. and there is... it’s the shared smile with a loved one when a critical hit is rolled on a 20-sided die, the feeling when your favorite musician takes the stage for the encore and plays THAT song, it’s your nieces and nephew saying something unknowingly funny. Those are the moments we need recognize as the ones that make life meaningful. Instead of looking to the future that no one can guarantee you or dreading the present for it’s mediocrity, try to find those moments that fall between the cracks. Quit looking at the same pictures that have been looked at by millions of eyes and learn to find the beauty when you’re stuck between slides of the View-Master.

[wordssplatteredoncement]

A Field Guide to Convincing Others You’re More Intelligent Than You Actually Are

For as long as I can recall, I’ve been complimented on my intelligence. I, a junior college drop-out/ the guy who doesn’t like his job, but has kept it for 12+ years/ the man who has remained in a bathrobe with snot-plugged nose for the last two days... intelligent. Baffling, right? As crazy as it sounds, people truly believe this, which caused me to stop and think about why people are led to believe this blatant lie. Is it really that I’m of a higher plane of thought, or is the rest of the world devolved to the point of hopelessness? The following are my findings as to why I believe others have erroneously praised my brain power. Apply these things and, for the low, low price of 16 installments of $49.95, you too, can become recognized for your intellectual prowess.

Listen - Sounds simple, yet this is the one thing few apply regularly. In order to participate in a conversation, you’ll need to exercise your ability to shut your fucking mouth, and just listen to what someone else is saying. Even in moments where you feel like you’re two steps ahead of the conversation, or where the person you’re speaking with is completely off factually, listen to what they’re saying. The less you flap your gums, the more intelligent you seem. Give people fewer abilities to hear the stupid things that fly through your brain and allow them to have your undivided attention. Hell, you might even learn a thing or two. 

Do not fear being wrong - As I’ve grown older, I’ve found an increasing number of people who fear being told they’re wrong. They don’t take a side on any conversation. They’re somehow neutral on all subjects. This is, in fact, not true. Sure, there are things we’re all indifferent to, but you have a brain. With it, you have thoughts and opinions that are uniquely your own. Utilize these to formulate opinions. Share them when the opportunity arises. Know that you can be wrong, but that’s entirely okay. If you find yourself in a situation that you’re ignorant on, just say so. You don’t know how many times this happens to my ig’nant ass on a regular basis. As my good friend, Mr. Kendrick Lamar incessantly reminds me, “Bitch, sit down. Bitch, be humble.” Solid Advice, KL! At the end of the day, more will admire your ability to speak to something then be completely neutral to everything. 

Know your audience - This should go without saying, but you really need to know the people you’re around and formulate your conversations around them. With some, I might not discuss more than the cultural relevance of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Others, it could very well be how Trump’s MAGA campaign is a lightly masked Nazi regime, rooted almost entirely out of racism. Intelligence is the ability to apply knowledge and skills... but that’s different for every cat. Yes, we’re all multi-layered people, full of complex thoughts and emotions.. but sometimes the best “intellectual” conversations are spoken over a bowl of cereal and some cartoons. Adapt to your surroundings and watch as you impress a wider swath of people for entirely different reasons.

Live a stereotype - Seriously. Do you realize how many times I’ve been told “Oh, that explains why you’re so smart” after a person has learned of my homeschooling background? It happens far too often and is rooted strictly in an odd stereotype. Other homeschoolers I’ve met have just as wide a range as those within the public school system in terms of their ability to apply knowledge. Here’s the truth.. homeschooling is just school.. from your home. And in the case of my siblings and I, we were often left with our books to figure it out ourselves. I can’t tell you much in the ways of Science, History, or Math. I’m absolutely a dolt when it comes to scholastic endeavors. I’m a sight reader, with only the ability to learn a word and memorize.. but sound like a moron when I have to spell something out. Truth. 

Oh, another stereotype... wear glasses. Who knew that my eyes deterioration translates into more compliments of intellect than ever before? How did that ever even become a thing? That guy wears glasses so A.) he must be a nerd.. and B.) he must be really smart. No motherfucker, my eyes don’t work properly. I don’t wear these because I want to. In fact, I can’t wait to get LASIK and be rid of crutches. Until then, this is my curse to bear.  

So there you have it. Apply these few principles to your life and, you too, can con people into believing a lie. Bathe in the showering of unwarranted compliments. Bask in the glow of envy among your peers. Just be sure to make those checks out to Sky Jones, the “smartest” man you know.

[wordssplatteredoncement]

Aural Pleasure pt 2: The Reckoning

The murmuring of slurred words reaches deafening tones. We struggle to remove our shoes from the floor that has been resurfaced in spilled, overpriced booze. The excitement in the air is palpable; so heavy you can take a deep breath and immediately know that you are on hallowed ground. The house lights fade and there’s a few moments where time suspends. Conversations transform into high pitched screams of anticipation for the sonic satisfaction that will soon be transported through our body. It is this moment that we, the concert-goer, live for. 

In the darkness, silhouetted figures make their way from one side of the stage to find their instruments of pleasure. It is in these brief seconds that several within the crowd lose their senses. They push, claw, pull, scratch, and shove their way through the masses in hopes of getting a few feet closer to their messiah of the night. The stage lights illuminate to reveal an awoken collective heaping praise in the direction of these god-like beings. A strum of the strings, a pounding on the skins, a caress of the keys, and with lips pursed tightly to a mic, a sound pulsates from the altar and makes all of us weak in our joints. We hold each other up, our bodies intertwined as we struggle to stay upright. The unspoken wisdom for those of us that have been here before is that if you can withstand the first musical wave, an audible orgasm would be sure to follow. The first few bars of the chorus are projected through the speakers and, in turn, echoed by the fans. It is in these early stages of the concert that the musical pleasure-seekers break out into different positions. Some find that colliding their bodies into one another is the perfect way to reach climax, others wish to be hoisted high above the crowd, with fingers and hands running along their body as their lords play off in the distance. The majority of us tangle ourselves into a human knot of an orgy that would make the Romans of ancient Greece blush with envy, all of us hoping for a better glimpse of these creators at work.

After hours of passion-infused, sound wave-induced lovemaking, the lords of the stage say their final goodbye. They wave, bow, and bestow us with gifts in the form of guitar picks, set lists, and drum sticks. A slow shuffle to evacuate the temple ensues. A couple knowing nods are traded between those that had just participated in this percussion filled intercourse. Our bodies covered in sweat-drenched attire, often with the words of other gods scrawled across their overheated bodies. The worshipers walk away, sweaty and exhausted. For some, they escape the venue and immediately reach for their cigarettes, a clear sign of fulfillment. For the true pleasure seeker, our minds are already set on the next musical menage a trois. Here’s to the upcoming night, with the next group of strangers. I hope it will be as good for you as it will be for me.

[wordssplatteredoncement]

Anatomy of the Author

Bald head. Glasses. Black, overpriced concert t-shirt. Blue jeans. Black skate shoes. All hanging off of a spindly frame that evokes the jealousy of 8 year olds across playgrounds nationwide. While I admit, the appearance gives off a vibe of a rejected character from The Big Bang Theory, like a Transformer, there’s more to me than meets the eye. Holy hell, I just used a comparison of myself to a Transformer to explain how I’m not a complete nerd. As hopeless as this may be, give me the next few paragraphs to try and redeem myself.

Hidden under the gleam of my freshly shaven head is a brain. I know. Surprising to you too, right? Within it, daydreams dance and obscenities fly. It’s a strange and wondrous place to visit. Thoughts of who I’d like to fuck and murder live within seconds of each other. If one were to project these thoughts onto a screen for others to view, they’d likely be turned on, disturbed, gleeful, and afraid all at once. Come to think of it, if you were to see what really goes on up there, I’d likely be committed. Moving on...

I am dyslexic to life. While my spectacles help me read the written word a tad more clearly, they certainly don’t help me understand how people function. Through my eyes we are all equal, until you give me a reason to think otherwise. Once you’ve shown me your asshat card, I will treat you like the weenus you truly are. Yeah, that’s right. I’ll treat you like elbow skin. From my experience, people practice the art of hypocrisy more than truthfulness. Most of the world says they see things this way, but rarely do I see this prove true. Smiles and niceties to someone’s face, but the second someone walks away, it’s name calling and snickering. If I like you, I like you and you’ll know it. The same rules apply if I don’t. There’s no room for interpretation. 

My heart is a sad sight to behold. It’s fractured and pieces of it are missing. I place my trust in few, but when I do, it’s trust in the truest sense of the word. A limited number are allowed access to this life giving organ. Perhaps that’s why the knife wounds that exist tend to bleed out a bit more than they should. I love and express it in a variety of ways. I verbally tell my friends, male and female, how much they mean to me. So I have one favor to ask, if you get one of these pieces of my heart, try not to shit on it. If you must, kindly exit and don’t return. 

My spine is a bit of an oddity. It changes depending on the circumstance. If you’re a friend, it becomes almost elastic. I will bend over backwards if it puts a smile on your face. If you’re outside of my circle of friends, it is rigid. Despite the appearance of a slouch, it is strong and tall. Depending on the circumstance I’ll look you dead in the eyes tell that you’re beautiful or a cunt. I don’t live with regret and will always stand up for what/who I believe in.

I have a big dick. No analogy to be found here.** (alternative fact**)

Balls. This is something I have in spades. I don’t have ginormous balls in real life. That’s gross. Balls are gross. Sorry ladies and gay dudes. They are. If you haven’t picked up on the trend of this blog, I’m writing in analogies. If you’re just now realizing this.. congrats on reading this far, I suppose. Anyways, yes, I have balls! I’ll ask the girl out when others just talk about it. I’m turned down 90% of the time, but at least I’ll ask. I’ll be the sonofabitch who swings back. I might get the shit kicked out of me on occasion, but I’ll go toe-to-toe with any motherfucker who thinks they can lay a hand on me without repercussion. My balls be swangin’.

So that’s it. Five or so body parts/ organs comprise the entirety of the human body right? No? I was homeschooled. Sue me. Regardless of the deserved F+ I’d rightfully receive in Anatomy, this is how I view myself. Some of it’s good. Some not so great. If we’re honest with ourselves, I think that’s fair. We’re not perfect. Far from it. We’re human. Humans with big dicks.** (another alternative fact**)

[wordssplatteredoncement]

A Really Shitty Story

The evening started off innocently enough. After an eight hour excursion to the southern most part of our state, my dear friend and I arrived at our destination... a Halloween costume party centered around a toy company. Just two grown-ass men who have such a love of everything childish that we’re willing to invest an entire weekend to our affinity for the plastic arts; nothing sad or pathetic about this... right?! RIGHT!! After meeting up with a mutual friend, we made our way to the line of nearly 400+ other nut jobs who’ve decided that plastic art is more important to them than significant others or a social life of any kind. As we strolled to the back of the line, I seen many people dressed as Darth Vader, Mario, and other things that reminded me I was among kindred spirits. I hastily put on my costume, a hybrid of pope and pimp (or Pimp-Pope, if you will, and I insist you do), and watched as my friend found a truck to hide behind to slip into his pink dress to complete his Eleven (Stranger Things) ensemble. Adorned as a whore-leasing man of God and a 12 year old girl with mind powers, we walked through the doors of the already impressive looking building, unsure of what the night would usher unto us.

Immediately, we’re both gobsmacked by the decor. Giant framed pictures of mad scientists, chandeliers with lights that gave the room a touch of crimson red, and every employee working the party in an elaborate costume. We were handed a bag full of enough toys to make a child cry tears of joy on Christmas morning and whisked into the main hall. A couple of drinks, some good conversation, a few claimed prizes, and the party came to an end. My friend and I were invited to pizza place/ nightclub hybrid (yeah.. I thought such a thing was strange too). Not wanting the night to end, we accepted the offer and found our way to the place where dancing and pizza dough were found in unholy union. We each ordered our own personal pizza, but soon found that “personal” equated to enough food to feed half of Africa... or roughly a quarter of what my friend could eat in one sitting. After a few slices, I pushed my pie aside for fear of what my weak stomach would do to me if I kept indulging. My friend, however, finished his pizza and was helping others with theirs. “No problem, this was par for the course for my dear friend”, I thought. As we left, we were invited to a hotel that was supposedly haunted. I asked my friend if he wanted to visit the spook-filled inn and he gave me a look so intense it could have brought back David Bowie, Lemmy Kilmister, and Gene Wilder to life with just one glance. He leaned into me and with a tone that read stern, but pained he managed to expel through whispered breath “I need to get back to the hotel. I think I’m going to shit my pants.” And with that, we soon found ourselves back at our hotel.  My friend ran to the hotel with a haste I’ve never seen from his normally stationary frame. I grabbed our bags and slowly made my way to the elevator. Surprisingly, and quite unfortunately, my friend was in said elevator muttering curses or speaking in tongues. I’m not sure which. He was dancing in a way that could best be described as Native American meets smack-addict and I watched as sweat collected on his forehead while waiting for the elevator to hurry up and do one of the only two functions it was designed for; going up. When the lift met our floor, I watched as he tried to pry the elevator door open, then run for our room. I followed at a normal pace and was met with sounds coming from our bathroom that could only be described as outtakes from The Exorcist. After a bit of time, my friend emerged from his exorcism of the shit demon, but instead of the expected relief, I seen a different look of panic. “I can’t get it to flush, man!”, said my scared friend. I told him to call the front desk and explain the situation. He did, but gave me news I wasn’t ready to take in.. the maintenance guy wasn’t going to be back until early in the morning. Trying to be supportive, I told him not to worry. We only needed a few hours of sleep and would be back on the road. This is when we discovered our first problem. I’d had a few drinks and needed to piss. My friend’s multiple attempts to flush didn’t allow room for me to pee in the toilet so, through a held in breath, I urinated in the bathtub. In this moment, I hear my friend’s laughter through the walls. His laughter caused me to laugh and breath in what I can only describe as death itself. I dashed out as quick as my bladder allowed me to, ran out of that awful room, closed the door, and vowed never to return. We laughed over the absurdity of it all, took a couple of sleeping pills, and zonked out... 

until....

“OMF’NG!!!@!!! MY FUCKING STOMACH HATES ME!!!*!”, I thought as I woke in a full blown panic. This pizza hated both of us and it was my turn to “exorcise”, but was immediately reminded of lasts nights debacle. Not knowing what else to do, and afraid of the horrors that bathroom presented, I found myself quickly Googling “Public Restrooms”, throwing on shoes, and wandering the streets of San Diego. I passed many vagrants as I made the four block trek to the closest public restroom. “I wish I had it as good as you guys do.”, I thought as I seen their dirty, but content, faces asleep on the pavement. Cold sweats, stomach cramps, and a pace quicker than people trying to make their way to Space Mountain when Disneyland opens it’s gates overtook my body as I had several thoughts of doubt that I’d retain the contents of my bowels for even a few seconds longer crept into my head. When I arrived, I tried to open the door to the men’s room, but it was locked. I read a sign that said “Max Occupancy: 2″. SHITFUCKCUNTGODDAMN!! This couldn’t be happening. Just when I thought I’d lost the battle with my intestines, I noticed a man behind Plexiglas. I motion that I need in the restroom and he obliges by hitting a life-saving switch, unlocking the door. I shoulder-checked the bathroom door like a rookie hockey player with something to prove, and was met with several things that sent my head spinning. 

The room, maybe 15x15 in size, had 4 other men in it. One, a well dressed homeless man, I nearly bowled over with my off-ice slam of brutality. The other three men, also homeless, were huddled around a sink. One was tying another off. The other was injecting, what I could only assume wasn’t medically needed drugs, into the arm via a syringe. I completely locked up when I seen this, but my stomach quickly reminded me why I was there. My head spun around to find the most horrific sight of all... only one urinal and a single stall that was occupied. “This is it”, I thought. “This is the moment I’m going to evacuate last night’s mistake into my blue jeans”.. but then the sound of a man screaming at the top of his lungs was coming from the stall. “AAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!”... a few beats... “AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” was reverberating from the walls of the restroom/ crack house. It scared me enough to keep my mind off of things until a man emerged from the stall. He had a ton of things in arms, including a cell phone. He said nothing, walked between myself and the well dressed homeless man, and threw everything in the trash. He held up one finger as if to say “one minute”, walked back into the stall, and reappeared with an armful more of belongings. These items once again met the bottom of the bin and the man left. I looked at the well dressed homeless man, and he said “You clearly need this more than I”. I thanked him and bolted for the stall. 

To say this thing looked like a horror scene would have been making this stall sound more glamorous than it should be accredited for. Some kind of substance was oozing down the walls (yes, plural), and used toilet paper was balled up along the ground. Whatever. I was here and there was no turning back now. I went to close the door, only there was no latch. No way of keeping the door closed. This wasn’t a standard sized stall, but one that allowed for handicapped patrons use as well (i.e. - I wouldn’t be able to keep the door closed from the toilet as it was out of arms reach). The time had come, I couldn’t worry about such trivial things any longer. A handful of toilet seat covers, a quick chant to whatever god within earshot, and I was on my way to finish the mission I’d set out to accomplish. Just then, the door swung open. “Oh sorry.”, said someone I hadn’t seen before and he quickly closed the door. No sooner than ten seconds later and the door was greeted in a way that told me this guy was also in the NHL (National Hockey League for those of you a bit puck-deficient). The door smacked the wall with a “THUD!”. The man, clearly out of his mind, just stood there. We locked eyes... a tragedy that cannot be felt through text, but suffice to say, you never want to stare in the eyes of another soul while trying to relieve yourself. “It’s taken!”, I shouted, in hopes of ending this uneasy feeling, but he just kept locked in his gaze. After a few more agonizing seconds, he slowly walked away, but the door was left wide open. A third man emerged at to what can only be described as the “Portal of Shame”. He said something to the effect of “Oh, are you going to be long?”, before he wandered off. 

My stomach, partially relieved, was now in full shock. It wouldn’t allow me to finish the job. A quick scrub of the hands and I was Ubering to another public restroom. Locked! Walked to another. ALSO FUCKING LOCKED!! This continued until I found my way into a place with a punch code for employees. I slipped in behind someone attempting to leave, and completed the task. I shamefully called for an Uber to take me back to my hotel after my friend sent me a few worried texts. 

I recently told this story at a party. Expecting laughter, I was only met with “That’s it?! That’s where the story ends?” What can I say, it is a really shitty story.  

[wordssplatteredoncement]

Forging a New Faith

Disclaimer: If you take any of the following seriously, I take pity on you. There’s nothing here but a person trying to amuse a few of his friends. If you are offended by anything found within this post, find the nearest electrical outlet.. did you find it? Great! Okay, now get to a point where your mouth is level with one of the sockets. Were you able to do that? Perfect. Now insert your tongue into an open socket while uttering your last prayer. In other words; Get fucked. Alright, now what we’ve weeded out the dolts, let’s have some fun shall we?

A bit of background before I delve down the rabbit hole. I grew up in a very faith-filled household. It was early in my life that I started to fall out of grace with my beliefs in a named entity. There’s a large part of me that wants desperately to believe in a God in some form. I honestly can’t say with one hundred percent certainty that there isn’t a God. What I can tell is that I’ve read a lot of religious texts over my few years on Earth and they share a lot of similarities. Try to do the right thing. Try not to fuck up. If you fuck up, there’s an undo button through prayer or mindset of some form. BUT IF YOU FUCKING BELIEVE IN ANOTHER GOD YOU SHALL BE CAST INTO DAMNATION, CEASE TO EXIST, OR OTHER FAIRLY BAD SHIT!!! For a lot of “Unconditional God’s” this seems like a rather large condition to me. But what do I know? I’m just a mere mortal.  

I think that faith is a good thing. For many people, it helps them through some troubled times or gives them something to place hope in. Most of the people I know, and love dearly, have some religious beliefs and I respect those beliefs greatly. They truly have good intentions and only want what’s best for them and those around them. It’s in this sentiment, that I can relate. I only want the greatest things for my family and friends. Most of you can attest. I’ve traveled great distances, spent large sums of money, and sacrificed a ton of time with nothing more than hopes of placing a smile on your face. But for those few “faithless heathens” of the world, I thought it’d be fun to create a new set of commandments. If L. Ron Hubbard, a science fiction writer, can create Scientology and have tons of followers.. I figure I’d throw my hat in the ring and see how I fair. 

I. - Don’t be a dick, pussy, or an asshole. Assholes and pussies get fucked by dicks. Nobody likes a used up pussy or asshole. Stand up for yourself, but be respectful when you do. As for the dick, it eventually becomes a shriveled up, useless cock. This is my way of saying “Be excellent to each other.” ~ Bill S. Preston Esquire & Ted Theodore Logan (Also “Party on, Dudes!”)

II. - Live everyday as though it’s your last. You truly don’t know what tomorrow will bring. It may never come. Don’t be that person who lives with doubts or regrets. Kiss the girl/guy. Jump from the plane. Spend time with those you love in a meaningful way. There’s no promises of your next gasp for air. Live.

III. - Feel. I don’t mean this in the generic sense. I mean to feel every emotion in it’s rawest form. Love someone. Tell them you love them. Express it. Hate. Use the word and know it’s destructive power, then let it go. Happiness, sorrow, fear, disgust. It’s amazing how much we repress these feelings to remain socially acceptable. You’ll never know the truest sense of these words until you allow them to completely manifest. 

IV. - Be yourself. Fuck the haters. Your opinions, thoughts, beliefs, the quirky way you walk.. they’re your own. Quit trying to fit in. Instead, find those willing to embrace you as you are.

V. -  Question everything. Never take anything at face value. You have a brain. Use it. Except this of course.. this is your new religion after all.. 

VI. - Listen intently. Quit thinking about what you’re going to say next and start truly paying attention to those you’re having a conversation with. You’d be surprised at how much shared wisdom is wasted as you’re trying to think of what you spew out of your mouth. 

VII. - Quit caring about the Kardashians. Seriously. Stop. 

VIII. - Take care of the planet. Earth is the only home we’re assured of and we’re taking a giant shit in the middle of our home. Be mindful of your choices and know that they can have long term consequences. 

IX. - Find your art form. I don’t care if this is finger paints, music, interpretive dance, carpet trimming.. just go out there and find something you love to do and do it as much as possible. Unless your thing is murdering children. Words Splattered on Cement does not condone murder. Especially that of a child you sick fuck. 

X. - Don’t believe in everything you read off of a website. Anything can be written. It’s up to you to be responsible enough to discern the bullshit found in this world. Websites are full of lies. (except this one of course) 

XI. (that’s right, ours goes to eleven!) Read Words Splattered on Cement. Take it all in. Binge read that shit. Do it again. Naked. Tell your friends, dogs, kitties, and deceased relatives through a Ouija board about this blog. It will make you a better person, skinnier, your dick longer and (your team here) will win the Super Bowl if you do. Go forth my faithfulless. Preach the word of WSOC. 

[wordssplatteredoncement]

Freedom Isn’t Free

Sweat dripped from his brow as he cracked his knuckles and went through his ritualistic breathing exercises. A deep breath in through the nostrils, followed by short bursts exhaling out of the mouth. With the weight of the world pressing down his shoulders, Freedom “The Conqueror” McSweeney looked himself over in the mirror. “Look good. Feel good.”, he expressed as he admired his appearance. Freedom’s hair, freshly permed, albeit drenched, reflected in a golden red hue as it draped down just past his shoulders. Several “gold” necklaces of questionable quality were roped around his neck. On his right forearm, a bald eagle (that looked more like a winged wiener dog) was crudely tattooed. A holey Hooters tank top clung to his less-than-impressive frame. His hands, squeezed into lime green crocheted fingerless gloves that were two sizes too small. A fanny pack filled with dollar store magic tricks, loose beef jerky, and other random items hung off of his hip. Zebra printed parachute pants covered his spindly legs, while faux snake skin boots completed the ensemble. “Sir, it’s time.”, said the janitor of the establishment. The janitor’s voice snapped Freedom out of his trance-like state. Destiny awaited.

Freedom spun away from the mirror and he reached for one of his necklaces. Clasped in his hand he held the chain that had the words “CRUSH PUSSY” spelled out in bold lettering. He gave this most prized possession a kiss. “This one’s for you, Dad.”, Freedom softly spoke. “Thanks son!”, yelled a loud, grizzled voice from one of the bathroom stalls. “I’ll be out as soon as my stomach let’s up. Word of advice, stay away from the nachos!”, howled Mr. McSweeney. “Thanks father, but I make no promises”, retorted Freedom. “Sir, you truly need to get out of the bathroom. I’ve warned you three times today, this isn’t a dressing room.”, said the janitor, in an exasperated tone. Freedom unzipped his fanny pack, pulling out a pair of knock off Oakleys and a stick of beef jerky. “Bodyguard! Escort me”, demanded Freedom in the direction of the janitor, but the custodian just kept mopping. “Pfft… I don’t need you anyways.”, muttered Freedom and made his way towards the bathroom door. Freedom picked up the cassette player he had left on the ground just outside of his “locker room”. All in one swift motion, Freedom ejected and flipped his tape, then pressed play. “KSTART MY HEART, GIVE IT A START!!! WHOA!! YEAAH!!”, echoed the anthem of the Motliest of Crues through the tinny speakers. “Oh shit. Sorry guys. I gotta rewind to the beginning.”, Freedom admitted. Boos belted from the dozen or so patrons of the bar. Shouts of “Just get up there, asshole!” and “You fucking suck!!” could be heard from the few people still conscious enough to know what was happening within the dimly lit building. “My fans can’t wait any longer”, Freedom thought to himself as he waved with one hand, the other clutching his Casio boombox, as he made his way towards fate.

As Freedom approached the stage, a couple of half full dixie cups were thrown, narrowly missing his head. One female near the stage sat unimpressed, flipping off “The Conqueror” as he looked in her direction. “I’ma fuck that”, thought Freedom as he made the step onto the foot tall platform. On the stage, his opponent impatiently waited. “Let’s get this over with dickhead!”, shrieked his burly foe. A referee came between them. “Let’s keep this clean gentlemen”, stated the official. “On three”, declared the ref. One! Two! THREEE!!! And with that, the two men clinched fists and stuck down simultaneously. RO!… Another synchronized motion.. SHAM!! … One final gesture and their balled up hands revealed their destiny. BO!!! Freedom showed the dreaded “scissors”, but his opponent wielded the, seemingly, unbeatable “rock”. Freedom fell to his knees. A dream would have to be put on hold. He wouldn’t reach his goal of Ro Sham Bo champion. No, Freedom had to settle for 17th best in the world. His opponent yelled to the crowd.. “Motherfucker only throws scissors. 3 years in row and nothing but scissors.. what a dumbass!” As Freedom walked away, shoulders slumped over in defeat he saw his Dad approaching. “That’s okay, Freedom. You’ll get ‘em next year.”, his father ensured. “Fuck yeah, I will. Fuck yeah.”, proclaimed Freedom with a renewed sense of confidence.

Credits.

[wordssplatteredoncement]

Anthropomorphic Metamorphosis

They say to stop growing, both literally and spiritually, is to die. If this is true, I’m living enough lives to make a feline jealous of their nine life limit. While I sit in my same shitty chair and punch away at my same shitty laptop, it occurs to me that these are two of the only familiar aspects I’m surrounded by. The walls adorned with video game characters have been replaced by... well... other video game characters, but the walls themselves are different. I recently moved from an apartment to a home closer to my work. To my left is a desk veiled in a thin layer of dust. On it, the computer where I do the devil’s bidding (ie: work) resides. That’s right, I live closer to work than I did 3 months ago. I literally am within two miles of “Auschwitz 2″ and I still opted to work from home. I’m that bastard. I’m no longer the only soul in my place of dwelling; my brother has made the mistake choice to move out with me. Wait, if I don’t have soul, but he does, is that one soul loving here or two? I’ve never been great at math... As you can see, the times, they are a-changin’. 

Editor’s note: I’m not sure what I have and haven’t written about. So just nod and follow the bouncing ball as I recall the events of the last few moths... as best as a weed-impaired brain can.

Residence: My cuntnut of a landlord at the apartment gave me a 60 day notice that my rent was being increased by over 25% at the end of my lease. That’s right. You read that correctly. Two-motherfuckin’-five!! When I read that notice, I had to take a drag off of a joint.. because I like to smoke after getting fucked so hard. When I tried to confront Mr. Cuntnut about this injustice, he ducked me several times until I cornered him in his office. With nowhere to run, I asked him his justification for his raping of my wallet. His answer, after a ton of stammering, “Well, uh, people are willing to pay it.”. What an arrogant explanation for screwing over his tenants, right? This sent my mind into overdrive as I wanted to burn the place down and piss on the ashes. I threw a party to wave goodbye with my middle finger... the only problem, I didn’t have another place to live in. My parents graciously extended an offer to move back into their home temporarily. I knew this was always a backup plan if things went awry, buuuuuuut no. I couldn’t imagine living under the same roof as my parents again. The thought alone scares me so much that I just pissed my pants a little. Using the threat of moving back in with the parent-fok as my motivation, my days at work had me looking at places to live online and my time after work was spent relentlessly calling, emailing, and scheduling walkthroughs of potential pads. Panicked and desperate, I spoke with my brother about potentially moving in with me. Thankfully, he was on board with little convincing. With the extra financing that my brother provided, we scoured the internet in search of a hobble to call our own. Several weeks passed and we weren’t getting any closer to finding a residence when, out of nowhere, we received a call from the voice of a angel (actually, she had the raspy voice of someone who chains smokes and blows dudes for sport, but for this story, she’s an angel)... we were the 2nd choice for the owners on a home we hopelessly wanted to move into. Turns out the 1st selection turned down the offer to live there at the last second. Sometimes being coming in 2nd place pays off...

Co-habitation: I’ll admit, this has take some time to get used to. You don’t realize how much freedom you have while living alone until you’re masturbating with the bedroom door open and here the footsteps of something other than the usual demon that’s roaming for a midnight snack. While it’s been a slight adjustment, I feel like it’s better for us both overall. He’s finally out from under the parents roof, and I’m no longer (only) talking to myself. My brother’s always been one of my closest people in my life and the transition back to roommates has been a relatively painless one. I’m sure I annoy him with my insatiable lust to see the bottom of the chip bag or my constant need to make a joke about a serious situation, but he hides it well. I look forward to the fun and mistakes we’ll run into during this period of our lives.

Work: Always a favorite subject on ol’ Splattered. There’s seldom a day that doesn’t remind you that there are plenty of bridges to jump off of when you work where I do. On the day I received a call about being selected as the renters of my new home, I also found out that my job was changing completely. Normally, I’d find something awful to say about such a transition but, since the changes haven’t gone into effect, I’ll reserve judgment for another day (I know, mature as shit, right?!). The other giant shift that’s taken place at my workplace is that I now work from home. No more having to view stupid ass supervisors pretending to care, but showing otherwise. No more bullshit meetings in person where you’re talked to like a child about a job in which you know more than the speaker. No more seeing my best friend everyday... That last sentence is the one that stings. She’s been my partner in crime for a good deal of time now and I miss her dearly. We’re still friends, but it’s just not the same. I hate that place so much, but she somehow made it bearable. The only reason I became a telecommuter is because she was selected to go home and I couldn’t imagine dealing with that place without her. She will forever be the keeper of a million secrets I’ve only told her and the bearer of dozens of inside jokes. Hopscotch Shoe will take off one day, friend!

Concerts: I did it. The goal of 300 concerts was met and in grand fashion. I seen the artist Grimes with someone who holds a special place in my heart. The night was as perfect as could be. Everything went off without a hitch and I’ll never forget that night, as it was one of my favorites in my blip of an existence. What started as just an arbitrary number that I threw out a number of years ago as a ,seemingly, untouchable bucket list item, became something that a good deal of people would ask me about on a regular basis. “Have you met 300 yet?” and “What’s the concert count currently at?” were questions often posed to me. It’s dead now, but my hunger for live music is not. I’ve been to 4 more shows since “the big one”, but you know, who’s counting?  8^)

... and now we’re caught up. Sorry for the long delay in posts. As you can see, I’ve had a bit more on my plate than usual. I’ll try to be more diligent about writing more my crazy thoughts onto a webpage for all to see (The next one will hit before 2017, I promise!). In the meantime, I’m going to try and roll with the changes that keep coming my way. This ugly duckling’s becoming a butterfly.. or some such shit. Until next time...