Rainy Day Rambling

I haven’t posted in a few weeks, I think, so I guess I should ramble a bit.

This post shouldn’t have any grammatical errors since I’m sober and have been for the last week or so due to the Flu. Fucking Flu. I tell myself each year that I’m going to get a shot, but I never do. I fucking hate needles. “But you have so many tattoos,” people tell me, somehow thinking that a big ass needle filled with fluid is the same as a couple dozen micro needles dipped in ink. It’s not even a pain thing, I have a high pain tolerance, it’s feeling the needle break through my skin…fucking gross. Next year I’ll finally get the shot, though. I have to. I get sick every fucking year despite my awesome immune system. I commute via train every day so getting sick is inevitable. The train’s a goddamn moving petri dish. There’s no escape.

Besides the Flu, I’ve been doing good. I just got home from a two day stay with my lover in SF. She’s wonderful. Broken and wonderful. I fucked up last night by telling her, “One day you’ll hate me.” No one wants to hear that shit, but it’s true. I’ll eventually sabotage this relationship like I do with every other. I can only take so much love; so much affection; so much kindness before I snap. I have to. I hate myself. Us self loathers eventually reject all forms of love, however pure. I tell myself I don’t deserve love and affection. And I’m right to think that way.

She calls me her cuddlefuck. I call her my plaything. We’re not together, nor will we ever, but we’re good friends. Friends who fuck each other every hour or so we’re alone together. Unfortunately, my dick stopped working recently. Fucking meds. She says she doesn’t care, and I believe her, but it’s still humiliating going soft inside her after a few minutes. It’s even more sad when she asks, “Is there something wrong with me?” Fuck, I never thought about how ED makes your lover feel; like they don’t turn you on enough to keep you hard. It’s not a libido thing, I’m always horny, my tongue and fingers can play between her legs for hours, all while my cock is shriveled up like a preop transgender on hormone blockers. Maybe I’ll just started poppin’ molly again. That’s stupid.

Speaking of Molly, one of my sisters called me last night high on a quad stack my nephew gave her.

“I’m fucking rolling hard,” she said with a giggle.

“Where are you at,” I responded with a giggle.

“Home.”

“Fucking weirdo.”

She’s going through a divorce right now with her former high school sweetheart. He’s a real scum bag. He knocked a girl up two months after they broke up. Now my niece and nephew have to see their stupid fucking dad with a new kid and new bitch, while adjusting to the divorce. Who fucking does that? I told my sister that she should request full custody. “I already did. The judge doesn’t care that he had another kid so quickly.” The system is fucking broken. Too bad she’s not in Cali still; judges here auto take the woman’s back. She’d have full custody and alimony, but she chose to move to Vegas. I guess the divorce process there has to be different since so many people get drunk, then married, then divorced. Maybe, I’m not sure—I’m not a fucking lawyer.

Anyways, she thought it was a good idea to pop a pill and chill by herself. Bad idea. I love rolling, but I don’t even by myself. I can pop a pill, go out for a bit, then come home and chill by myself for a while before taking sleeping pills so I’m not tweaking until sunrise, but doing the whole ride by yourself is no Bueno. Plus, she’s going through a break up with a guy she started dating recently to forget about the mess of a divorce, so I know she spent a few hours texting I love you(s) and I hate you(s) to him.

I hated my sister growing up, and she hated me. I’m the youngest, and the only boy, so I had a special relationship with my mom and dad. It didn’t help that I have the type of personality that made me easy to raise. My sister would fuck up and blame everyone else. I would fuck up and blame myself. My sister would sneak out, get caught, get angry for getting caught and not talk to anyone for weeks. I would sneak out, professionally sneak back in, not getting caught, and do my chores the next day. I think I just learned from her fuck ups. My sister used to steal my mom’s car, smoke in it the entire night, then wonder why she got in trouble. She’s not stupid so I think she might’ve been doing it on purpose, for the attention.

I’m not exaggerating when I say we hated each other. We got into fist fights all the time. I broke two of her fingers one time because she thought she could slap me twice and get away with it. She got the first slap in, but I caught the second, and twisted the fuck out of her fingers.

I love her now though.

Oy, my tangents.

I’m home for the weekend. I need some time to myself. I enjoy being with my lover, but I can’t spend too much time around anyone—that’s a sure way to make me hate them. How fucked up. But it’s true. How sad. But it’s true.

It’s been storming here for the last week or so. I don’t hate the rain, but I hate prolonged raining. After three days, I’m done. I do hate people who say they love the rain but spend all their time inside, regardless the weather. It’s easy to love the rain when you hate sunlight. How stupid.

I just found out that I agreed to go to another Friendsgiving tonight. Boo. That means I’m going to get obliterated tonight. Mexican Friendsgiving = tamales and tequila.

I really shouldn’t complain. I’ve been spending a lot of time in SF with my lover, so my friends know I’m not in one of my antisocial moods. They’ll think I don’t like them if I don’t go. I love them. My friends put up with my bullshit. “That’s just how you are,” they tell me. Fuck, that’s depressing. I’d happily spend time with each of my friends individually, but groups freak me out. There’s too much going on; too many conversations. I know someone is going to bring up my lover tonight. They’re going to drill me.

“So what’s up with J? Are you guys together?”

“No, we just like to fuck each other.”

I’m a very private person in general, but especially when it comes to sexual relationships. I’ve never been the type of dude to kiss pussy and tell.

I need to try to not get too fucked up tonight. I really want to finish a story tomorrow, and I definitely won’t if I’m recovering from a night of tequila. I could just pop a bunch of my Gaba and hope I won’t mix it with booze and blackout. Oy, that’s not going to happen. El Jimador it is.

My sister in law’s niece, my niece, is spending the next two weeks here while her Mom and Step-Dad are in London. She has downs syndrome and she’s fucking beautiful. She’s inside folding my new baby niece’s clothes. It’s going to take her a long time to fold all the clothes because she hugs each piece of clothing before folding it.

I guess I’ll end this with that beautiful thought.

 

Fuck, I ramble too much. I’m not going to proofread this. I already forgot what I said.

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Sex…Then Suicide

Do you want to know how fucked in the head I am?

I just had the most amazing sex of my life.

How amazing?

The type of sex that would make the devil and god mutually masturbate to…That amazing.

My new lover is a freak–even by SF standards. She has four and a half hard no’s, while I have a solid five, so I’m the prude of the relationship.

Her lip’s bleeding, and she’s walking with a limp; my frenulum is sprained, and my back looks like a Vietnamese Catwoman gave me a massage.

I have to go to the hardware store tomorrow to buy spackle and paint because the back of her head put a dent in two of the walls in her apartment—serves her right for saying I couldn’t be too rough.

Shit, she’s knocking on the door the door to see if I’m alright—I can only pretend like I’m taking a shit for so long.

Alright…so me being fucked in the head.

Her apartment is on the eleventh floor of a tenement surrounded by homeless people using shopping carts for barbeques, and gutterpunks shooting up. I think she said it’s two grand a month for her one bedroom “box”. Fucking crazy. SF, man—it’s nuts out here. “At least you have a living moat of homeless drug addicts to keep the hipsters at bay,” I told her. She laughed.

Fuck, she’s knocking again. “One moment, the chile rellenos fucked my stomach up,” I said. She laughed.

Fuck, where was I..Um…um..rambling…rambling…….OH, so she’s a freak. She likes pain and pleasure and hate and love and cuddling and scratching and biting and fear; she likes a lot of things most girls would consider nightmarish. She knows that I like to write; that I have an overactive imagination; that I’m a doll-hair away from being as freaky as she is, so she always asks me to create new dark scenes for us to reenact. I said that I’d break into a cemetery with her, find a grave of a person with an interesting name–maybe Malachi–and fuck her on top of it while she screamed their name.

How ugly.

She thinks it’s pretty, though.

“For real, B?” she just said.

Fuck, I need to backpedal to finish: me being fucked in the head.

After covering every square-micron of her room in our sex sweat, she pointed towards her open window, grabbed my dick like it was the handle of a little red wagon and pulled me across the room. “Fuck, it’s cold outside,” she said as her nipples rested on the windowsill of her eleventh story apartment.

“Fuck me, B,” she said then…and just said now through the door of her bathroom.

She said faster, so I did; she said harder, so I did—her moans blanketed the streets of SF in a coat of ethereal pleasure.

“Come inside me, B!” she screamed.

As I was about to cum, I looked out of the window, down at the sea of unfortunate souls living in this sad paradise, and Imagined jumping out of the window. I imagined my lover reaching out to me as my nude body falls to heaven. I imagine cumming at the exact moment I splat against the cold concrete of the city I used to love.

That’s how fucked in the head I am.

 

 

All City

My friends and I were drinking forties at a park by my house when we decided it was time for me to hit my first billboard burner. I’d been doing graffiti for about a year, busting tags across my city with racked markers from Michaels, spray cans from OSH, and custom made, multi-colored mean streaks my friends and I constructed while chain-smoking Kools we bought by the carton from a dude named Wino Juan. My other two boys had already broken their billboard cherries—now it was time for me to get down.

“I say you hit that plastic surgery board off Capitol, towards Milpitas. There’s little to no lighting, and cops patrol less on the edges of the city,” Blend told me and my boy, Giant. He was the seasoned graff artist in our crew, KILL THAT NOISE, or K-10 for short, so we usually followed his lead. He was also the most talented. His older brother went All City a decade ago, and he taught Blend everything about graff: how to 3d and shade, how to one-line and throwie, how to rack supplies and mix streaks. Blend was busting tags on the benches of our elementary school while I was still drawing Ninja Turtles and Power Rangers.

“Na man, Capitol is hot right now. That cat from tops, M4ker, got caught up there a few weeks ago. His first time needs to be in the cuts. Dude will get spooked every-time a car passes. He might fall off like Just-us did,” Giant laughed and nudged me.

“That shit’s not funny. That dude broke his tailbone” I said.

“Ah, fuck that fool. He crossed me out at Hellyer,” Giant said

“HAHA, that was hella long ago,” Blend said.

“I don’t give a fuck how long ago that shit was. He’s lucky I never ran into him. Dude would’ve gotten smashed. I’m glad that shit happened to him. Aaand he was crossing out another dude on that board. Karmas a bitch.” Giant responded half angry. He was always ready to funk. He liked to fight more than paint, but he was just that type of dude. His entire family banged, and despite him not clicking up with the gang, he still sometimes acted like he was a banger, instead of an artist.

“Calmate fool, you take shit too serious…but he kinda did get what he deserved. Could’ve been worse, though—he could’ve busted his ass, then get busted by rollers, then get his ass busted in county,” Blend said with a snicker, causing Giant and I to crack-up.

“That’s fucked up, yo,” I said, still laughing.

“You got a spot in mind, Abel?” Blend asked me. “Giant’s probably right. It should be a board in the cuts. How bout one in Morgan Hill or Gilroy? I know there’s some on Monterey, and Morgan hill don’t got shit for cops.”

“The fuck, how would we get there? I asked. “There’s no bus stop out that way, and we can’t trek out there. Three dudes wearing back-packs and hoodies walking down the shoulder of Monterey–the fuck outta-here with all that jazz. And I’m not trying to hit up some farmer’s board. You know the rules.”

The three of us created our own graffiti code of conduct. One of the rules was that we couldn’t hit up property which caused private businesses to lose money; except for ones we didn’t like: the plastic surgery board, for example, or advertisements for lawyers or fast-food or anything political—basically things we felt were detrimental to society. We also never tagged on playgrounds, or anything kids had direct contact with. Our crew used to have another dude in it, but we kicked his ass, then kicked him out of the crew for covering a slide at my park with ugly tags. The code made sense at the time, but we didn’t figure in the tax money spent on cleaning up graffiti, and the indirect impact that had on people we tried not to affect.

“I could hit up Lexus. She’d be down to drive us out there,” Giant said. “She’s been on my dick since Sum1’s party.”

“Ya wey, you and your groupies,” Blend said. “Sometimes I think you only paint for pussy and funk.”

There was an abundance of graff groupies, as we called them, that orbited around the scene. Girls who’d fuck you just because they could say they did with a cat that caught city fame. Blend and I didn’t fuck around with these girls–too many of them were shady and/or annoying–but Giant partook liberally. He had a Myspace account dedicated to girls he’d fucked, and dozens of half-naked pics with Giant tags covering their bodies.

“You guys are gay,” Giant laughed. “I can hit up Lexus, have her drive us out there, throw up, then we could go back to her pad and take turns fucking her.” he said, absolutely serious with the proposition.

“Fuck that,” I said. “That girl’s fucked half of San Jose. I’m not trying to catch herps.”

“Ditto,” Blend said. “But I’m down to have her drive us. Does she know about the crew?”

San Jose had recently changed its Graffiti Laws. Crews now caught gang charges if there were three or more cats in it, and recently a kid new to the scene got caught up with a black-book, and snitched out dozens of cats from a bunch of crews. Some of the artists caught charges that put them up in Elmwood for six months and thousands of dollars in restitution fees, just for graff, so the scene was real hush hush about crews, not talking about them in the vicinity of civilians. We were only known by our individual names to reduce the likelihood of catching heavy charges. Blend had already been caught up once, but with his old name, Jest, getting him two-hundred hours of community service and a five-thousand dollar fine that his grandma was still paying off.

“Na man, she doesn’t know shit. I think she still thinks I’m Mad1,” Giant snickered.

“Cool, hit her up,” Blend said.

While Giant called his beezy, Blend and I planned the bomb.

“What are trying to bust?” Blend asked. “It’s your first billie, so you should probably bust a throwie you’ve done before. That one you did at Hellyer earlier today was clean and simple. It would only take a few minutes to do the whole deed. Fifteen seconds to climb up, and a minute, tops, to bust your shit.”

“Na, I think I want to do something new. I’ve been doing that throwie for the last few months. It’s old and boring. I’ve been working on a nu-mark,” I said while breaking out my mini black-book.

“Yoooo, that’s fresh,” Blend said after grabbing my book and peeping my new piece. “Look at you all stylin and shit. No lie, this is the best I’ve seen from you. You’ve really come up, man.”

“Thanks bro. Not to ride my own jock, but I think it’s on point with your shit.”

Whoaaa tiger, calm down. It’s dope, but I’m grey death,” Blend responded with a phrase I think he just made up.

“Alright, it might not be on the level of ‘Blend‘,” I said with air quotations.

“HA HA,” Blend responded straight-faced.

“I play, I play,” I snickered. “Alright, what cans did you bring?”

“I got two white and two black Rustos, and one brand fucking new red Montana.”

“Ayeee I haven’t used a Montana before,” I said excitedly. “Let me see that shit.”

Rusto was a good graff spray can, but Montana was top shelf shit—aerosol created solely for graff. Regular cans you’d toss after using them up, but you always kept Montanas. They’re the graffiti equivalent to trophies. Blend had dozens lining every flat surface in his room.

“Cool, so white fill, black outline, with a Montana stamp?” Blend asked rhetorically. “You got the initial outline in white, I follow behind you with the white fill, you come back around with black outline, I clean up any light spots with white, then you finish with the dirty, Montana red stamp.”

“Fuck yea,” I responded as Giant got off the phone with Lexus.

“Yoooo, she’ll be here in twenty,” Giant said. “And she wanted me to tell you, Abel, that’s she’s already wet.”



End of part-one.

Somehow I woke up today, after sleeping ten hours, oddly refreshed, considering my three day drug and alcohol binge. I feel fantastic and inspired and creative, hopefully it continues. I plan on being happy for the next few days. My sister made a surprise trip out to see me, and she’s bringing my niece, so that should extend my good mood, at least until they leave. I’m going to go have sushi with them, maybe catch a flick, but I’m going to finish up this story tonight or tomorrow. The title’s tentative—I couldn’t think of another one, but something will come to my mind as I work on part two.