Mood Swinging to My Favorite Beats (Draft Cleanse)

I’ve met people who didn’t listen to music. This post should end there, so I can go end myself.

I like to ask people whether they’d choose to be deaf or blind. Surprisingly, most would prefer to be deaf. Oh, nevermind, now that I wrote it out I understand why. Sorry folks, if you’re new here, I try to write my stream of thought, without deleting what I previously wrote(minus words) so I contradict myself and answer my own questions a lot.

I understand being blind would be much harder than being deaf, for the average person, but being deaf would be impossible for me, I think—I could be wrong.

I can’t make music. I have a person with ADD’s attention span. I hate when people with shitty attention spans say they have ADD. Sorry, stream of thought.

Shit, I just remembered that I’m horribly self loathing and prone to racing thoughts; I’m not sure music would be able to soothe that when I’m staring at nothingness. But fuck, if I didn’t have music, what would block out the voices.

Alright, slight change: would I less likely kill myself if I was deaf or blind?

Still going with blind.

My paintings would be shit, unless I could annoyingly label them as homages to Pollock. And biking. Fuck. I wouldn’t be able to bike.

Who the fuck am I kidding? I’m on the verge of killing myself as is, I wouldn’t survive either.

Oy, where was I going with this post? Something about music.

We all have a song, or playlist, we go to when we’re feeling down. My go to is a rare acoustic version of Jimi Hendrix’s Angel. I never knew how rare it was until I lost the CD it was on. I can’t buy it anywhere, it’s not on Youtube, which is my main music source, and for a while, I went without it. Sad times. But I found it on soundcloud recently. I’d take this song over a rough fuck with Marion Cotillard…really, I would. But nobody understands why I love it so much. The reason is simple and silly: Hendrix hits the wrong string about 1/3rd of the way through. My love for beauty despite imperfection.

I’m not sure why I never posted this post—it was basically done.


Sunday et Fin

Post wise, it was a fairly good weekend, though nothing too creative.

I’m happy to be back and interacting with the lovely folks of WordPress. I hate social media, always have, but this community is so pretty and inspiring and encouraging—it’s kind of surreal how much I like it. I’m a cynic and a pessimist, so I tend to look at every good thing expecting the worst or searching for a catch, but I’m happy to say, I don’t need to do that here. I’m still suspicious of the kindness and support towards me and my writing, but that’s just because I’m a chemically unstable, paranoid asshole, though I’m learning to believe all of your kind words, and all of the kind words I receive in my real life, and kindness in general.

I learned a weird thing about me today: I don’t wear boxers most of the time. Yes, I free-ball. How did I not realize this? I have no fucking idea. I’m neurotic and obsessive and hyperaware, yet I’m also an oblivious ditz. What’s weirder is, none of my past lovers have ever mentioned my lack of underwear. Maybe it’s a new thing. I don’t know. I do develop weird quirks out of nowhere, often having to do with things I deem unnecessary—so maybe that’s what happened. Again, I answered my question shortly after posing it to myself. I’m a weirdo. And there has been some head and/or ball out oopsies while cycling. Yea, I’m a moron. I knew I often go free-ballin, I just have horrible short term memory. This is my thinking process, folks. A dumpster fire, yea?

Hmm I actually feel like writing more.

Some new things in my life: I changed roles recently at work, with an embarrassingly small raise that makes me want to firebomb my building(that’s a joke, NSA, not a threat), but I’m kind of stuck at my job right now because the healthcare plan they provide is amazing—a must for the amount of therapy/medication I require to half-way function—but I really need to start looking harder for a new job, preferably telecommuting and independent contracting. Anyways, I’m now a Graphic Support Coordinator; it sounds fancy, and definitely looks good on a resume, but it basically means I coordinate our Graphic Support team (duh) to fix live designs and root designs on our marketplace, work with engineering(who are crazy smarter than me, and autistic…I think) to fix issues in the tools/programs we use and propose updates and fix/report glitches. I do a lot of shit on the side, writing instruction manuals for our tools and processes is probably my favorite task, that I do despite having a team that could do it for me—I guess that’s just my love for writing. I’ve had a few “that email was fantastic, I want you to write all mine,” which is pretty funny, to me. I love writing epic emails, that, unbeknownst to the people I’m sending them to, is just me mocking the company, and my bosses, via verbose explanations for inane processes that could be explained in two long sentences. I find it hilarious, but again, that might just be my weird personality.

Alright, no more work talk. How about some spicy stuff: I met a new girl, one that my lover will love once I surprise her with our new plaything. She’ll be the super freak in the equation. Some of her fets involve fire play(scary) rape play(I’ll never do, not my thing) extreme dominance(I’m down) being fucked on top roses, thorns and all(kind of interested in, but I don’t like wasting pretty flowers) double domination(down, but my lover is not very dominate) cutting(ehh no) watersports(the name is creepy, but peeing on girls in the shower is funny, not sexy) and a bunch of other interesting fets, many I have never heard of, nor will ever likely try. I’m still the vanilla one, but I love to please, so I’m pretty much down for anything, as long as it doesn’t creep me out. Dominance is a weird thing for me; I’m able to be a dom, but I’m such an easy going, you do you, type of person, that it makes it hard to tell a girl to shove her ben wa balls in her ass then lick my cum off my boots(yea, TMI? sorry). I’m a novelty whore—I love trying new things in all aspects of my life—so I’m constantly looking for new ways to get my rocks off, and the number one thing that gets my rocks off, is getting another person’s rocks off. That makes me a good lover, I guess.

Hmmm what else? Ohhhhhhhhhhh I bought a new bike. Fuck, she’s amazing. Her name Is Cabrini Green. She’s a mean 24 speed with disc brakes and an incredibly sexy lime green frame. Fuck. My lover got mad because I describe Cabrini like she’s a gorgeous woman. Sorry, I’m a cyclist :). I can’t wait until spring. Currently, I bike 30 miles a day, but once the weather gets better, I’ll double that, on average, and likely triple it more days than not. I fucking love riding; it’s so fucking fun; it makes me feel so fucking free. One day, I’m going to disappear on my bike. Head south down the coast, into Mexico to chill for a bit, then smash through the rest of the shithole Central American countries(sorry, they suck) except for Nicaragua, it’s beautiful, then skip the first two countries(?) in north east South America(?) and go straight into the non shitty countries, then Brazil, and settle in Uruguay. I think that itinerary is correct haha. I’m fairly knowledgeable geography wise, but I got drunk while writing this.

Uruguay will be my home one day, maybe Argentina, though I’ll be outwardly anti Che Guevara if I live in the latter; he was an asshole, murder, and hypocrite, the last being the worst. I can’t stand people who like Che Guevara, it’s fucking annoying. Yes, he had an enviable life, but as a person, he was shit. A failed capitalist turned communist; a doctor that enjoyed killing people; a homophobe; a possible rapist; he was a slew of shitty things people ignore because he was hot as fuck. HOT AS FUCK. I’m not gay, but I’d bend him over. Jokes, kind of–I’d let him suck my balls.

Simon Bolivar is a real Latin American hero; the George Washington of South America, the liberator of five(contemporary) countries, an amazing leader and thinker, up there with the founding fathers of America. The US really fucked up by not assisting Bolivar in his revolution. South America would be so much better if the US had assisted two hundred years ago, not turn most of the countries into banana republics. Ew, I’m getting into politics.

I want to move into South America, only a few handful of countries, because they maintain Eurocentric values(people might not that I call it that, but it’s true) that mesh well with my personality. America in a vacuum is lovely, and perfect for me, but I hate the mechanics that keeps it as the world’s soul mega power. Fuck, politics again. I’ll leave it at, I’m proud of being an American, and despite all the shitty things it’s done/does, it’s still an overwhelmingly positive force today…though, it might not(probably not) won’t maintain it’s position for much longer. Hopefully, it goes down the route Sweden made: a former empire(small, yea) that turned isolationist, and created a self sufficient economy(I can’t remember the term for that). FUck, no more politics. I’m drunk and rambling haha.

Oy vey, 1200+ words of me saying nothing—I’m a platinum rambler. I’ll leave this at, I love all of you. Thank you so much for reading and liking and commenting and being you. There are so many unique souls on here—it’s quite comforting. You all make me feel weird and normal at the same time. Thank you. I hope everyone had a great weekend and have a great week. Good night.

And ehhh I’m not spellchecking or going over this again at all, so sorry if there are any errors. Blah blah blah, I say this every time, you know what’s up.


Poetree….Or Maybe Just a Weed

                                                             I don’t know if I make any sense

         but I like digging in my couch to collect a few cents

             to buy some booze

                                            a black and mild or two

                                                                                    maybe a tiny bit a shrooms

                                                                                       and eighth of an eighth

                                                    Gobble them up

                                               upchuck my thoughts

                                                                                 wake up in a puddle of my past

            My third eye’s mascara is running

let me go to the little boy’s room to powder my nose

                                                     reapply my psychological make up

I need to find a pretty girl to love

                                                          and lust

                                                      and break up

                                                        my dreams

             Shattered thoughts

                                             I need a punctilious princess

                                                       to pick up my pieces

                                                                                           and forge a kintsugi mind

                                                                 to stare at

                                                            and be proud of

               and show off to her friends

             and add to the crystalized museum in her head

Maybe I don’t make any sense right now

                                  but my sixth sense is high off an eighth

                                      Smoke and music floats above me

                                        as I make ash angels on the floor of my garage

Maybe this doesn’t make sense

Maybe I’m rambling.

Maybe I’m in shambles

Maybe I need a revolver and a bullet

                                               to make a gamble

                             Middle finger on the hammer….pull it

                                                       Blow my brains onto an empty canvas.

                         Brain fragments

                            Blood spatter

Does it really matter?

How my loved ones feel?

                                             once I’m gone

I’ll leave a pretty note

                                      written in music notes

                 A sad song singing how I don’t feel like I belong

                                                                                     How I long for acceptance

                               but hate the person people see me as

I hate my past

I hate my wrath

                            I hate that the only thing that’s definite is math

Why do I feel this way?

Why do I feel like a stray?

                                         The runt of a mutt stuck in a muddy rut

What am I?

Who am I?

Where am I?

                     Does any of it matter?

     Am I just a random collection of matter?

I’m rambling again.

Take your pills, B.

Go to sleep, B.

Don’t worry, B.

Tomorrow will B the same.

It’s a Beautiful Night

Once upon a love, under diamond studded skies draped in nimbus negligee, two lovers drank cheap Moscato in a park overlooking the city, chain-smoking Kools and flicking the still-lit butts towards downtown hoping a strong west-wind would pick one up and drop it on the silk dress of some floozy who just got done saying like for the 47th time, setting her dress aflame as douchebags, who’ve blown hot air at her and her ilk all night, fan the flames, setting off a chain reaction that travels down each alley, each smoking section, into each bar and club, setting the city’s night life ablaze for days, until all the ego and vanity burns away.

“It’s a beautiful night to watch the world burn,” his lover says before taking the last sip of Moscato and smashing the bottle on the ground.

“I love you,” he replies.

Luna C. Soledad (Slightly Sexual Content)

I met Luna in the back of a grungy goth club on Haight Street.

I stumbled in drunk from a company party wearing dockers and a overpriced white dress shirt. It was the only club I’ve ever been to that nearly refused entry for being overdressed.

Heavy industrial music played from a giant single speaker while pale people wearing leather overalls and JNCO jeans angrily two stepped to a violent beat over white noise. I went straight to the bar, ordered a gin, took a Klonopin, and watched the nightwalkers dance half expecting Wesley Snipes to break in and go to town.

Through the somber scene I saw a girl in a neon green romper undulating like kelp in a soft cross current. She wore a smarties necklace and ring pop that she suggestively sucked on in between sips of a blue drink…likely an Adios Motherfucker. She either came straight from a rave or was IRL trolling the all black, colorphobic, denizens of the Frisco underground.

I’ve never been the “Can I buy you a drink” type–I thought it was corny–so I went over and complimented her edible jewelry. She stuck the ring pop in my mouth and one of the wireless headphones, I didn’t realize she was wearing, in my ear. Jefferson Airplane’s White Rabbit was playing…then The Doors’ Riders on the Storm…Then Pink Floyd’s Comfortably Numb…then Nights in White Satin. I found myself rocking back and forth with her, vibing to the music that built the street we were on.

“Let’s get out of here,” she said.

We meandered down the street towards Golden Gate Park, talking and giggling, looking for our next kick.

Drum circles had consistently existed in Golden Gate Park for half a century. We found a small one, half a dozen people or so, and made new friends. They passed joint after joint around, and we got silly high. A lesbian couple named Sunshine and Moonbeam asked us how long we had been together. She said forever, and I said all our lives.

“Let’s get out of here,” she said.

We walked out of the park hand in hand, down the street, and up a steep hill.

“This is me,” she suddenly said, pointing to a vibrant Victorian house.

She kissed my cheek, walked to the door, then turned around and said, “See ya around, yea?”

I nodded and walked away.

Yea, that’s how I met Luna.

Or maybe I met Luna at that one used bookstore just outside downtown San Jose.

Twenty bucks there could get you half a dozen books, if you shopped right. I bought a special edition of Oscar Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Grey two years ago or so, but lost it to an ex who had me wrapped around her little clitoris. She never read it. She was the type to have a bookshelf of classics and avant-garde titles she never read or planned on reading–a vanity collection she showed off at every chance but only managed to memorize the synopses of–but enough about her.

I was scanning the old titles, a section dedicated to The Romantics: Coleridge, Keats, Wordsworth, Shelley…and the prince, William Blake. I don’t like the idea of favorites, but goddamn, Blake gets close to the elusive title. A dope painter and writer. The first lines of Auguries of Innocence still gives me chills when I read or recite it:

To see a World in a Grain of Sand

And Heaven in a Wild Flower,

Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand

And Eternity in an hour.

Fuck, it’s just too amazing–the type of skillful, beautiful writing that makes you want to quit writing and write more simultaneously.

I grabbed another collection of Blake’s poems, even though I had six or seven different books that collectively contained everything he ever produced.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw a short girl reaching up on her tippy toes, fingering the base of a book on the top shelf, trying to get it to fall down, to no avail.

She caught my wandering eye, walked up to me and asked, “Can I borrow you for a second?” My Irish skin flushed as I imagined all the things she might use me for, momentarily forgetting that she was just trying to grab a book. “Sorry to bother you, but can you grab a book for me?” she said with a flirty laugh, snapping me out of the sexual soiree swirling around my psyche.

I hope she can’t read minds.

“Of course,” I said.

She guided me over, pointed up and said, “That one, Civil Disobedience.”

I pulled it down and stared at it for a bit, remembering the deep well of joy Thoreau’s writing had brought me over the years.

“He wrote a beautiful essay called The Art of Walking,” I stutterlessly said, displaying a rare semblance of sociability.

“Yea? Let’s go for a walk and talk about it,”

She paid, and we walked out of the book shop, but as we got to the sidewalk, the owner ran out and asked me if I was going to pay for that. I forgot to pay for the book of Blake’s poems.

“I’m so sorry,” I pleaded contritely.

“It’s okay,” the shop owner said with a smirk. “I can see you were distracted. I would be too.”

“Do you steal often?” she said as we walked out of the shop.

“Only hearts and minds,” I confidently said, again surprised by my non-gauche response and speaking which was usually filled with stammering and awkward non sequiturs.

I told her that Thoreau manufactured a beautiful etymology for the word saunter. An etymology that I had only just found out was the product of his mind, not the actual origin of the word.

“Centuries ago, in Paris, poor Christians walked the streets asking people for money to make the pilgrimage to Jerusalem, the holy land. The French word for holy land is sainte terre so after a while the Parisians began to call the prospective pilgrims sainteterres, eventually evolving into the word saunter, which means to walk slow and aimlessly. To Thoreau, and I, every walk was a journey to the holy land.”

She listened and absorbed every pent up word and topic my reclusive mind had to offer. I spoke to her more than I had spoken to anybody in the past few years–even more than myself–and she just giggled and asked for more.

It began to get late, and I knew we would have to part ways soon so I asked, “Can I get your–.” “Of course,” she said. “Give me a call. You can take me out to sushi. We can drink sake, get silly drunk, and go saunter again.”

She caught an Uber. I walked around a bit more, gazed at the moon, then caught an Uber too.

Yea, that’s how I met Luna.

Or maybe I met Luna on Tinder.

We had a tepid date, filled with the usual micro-talk, at an overpriced seafood restaurant on Santana Row. She drank martinis while I drank water and coffee. I had quit booze again but needed some type of kick so coffee would have to do.

She got drunk and I got jittery.

We had absolutely nothing in common–outside the basic hierarchy of needs living things have, which fortunately includes sex.

I didn’t want my roommates to meet my drunk date so we went to her place. Her two roommates were watching Keeping up With the Kardashians. She sat me down on the couch, next to the two girls, then sat on my lap. They gossiped about Kim and Kourtney while I debated whether or not pussy was worth listening to the drivel coming out of their mouths and television.

Just as I was about to throw her off me and storm out she said, “Alright, we’re going to bed.” She led me down the hall to her room as the roommates snickered and commenced to gossiping about the things we were about to do.

Her room was offensively pink, but my annoyance was quickly quelled once she ripped off her dress, exposing her perfect tear drop breasts with nipples, and panties, that matched the color of her walls.

The only good thing about sobriety is that I’m a fantastic lover when boozeless. Whiskey dick was an embarrassing component of my alcoholism. Good drink helped me smooth talk many women to bed just to say sorry after a few pumps. But that night I had an erection since the oyster appetizer.

I threw her on the bed, got on top and held her arms back.

She asked me to choke her, so I did.

She asked me to slap her, so I did.

I ran my hand down her neck and cupped her breast softly before squeezing hard. She gasped and moaned and told me harder. My index finger continued down her stomach, tracing the line of her pelvic bone until I reached her panties, ripping them off in a single lustful swipe.

“I just bought those,” she said before I stuffed them in her mouth.

I ran my tongue from lips to lips, hip to hip and tit to tit, covering her perfect, model body; the type of aphroditic body I previously only had the chance to masturbate to via online porn.

I didn’t fuck her, and I never came. I knew that cumming would result in immediate regret. I would put all my clothes back on in a rush and shamefully walk out, passing her annoying roommates, out the door, just to continue to run the gamut of online dating until I knocked a random girl up, or lived to die old and alone. So I decided to stay.

She took off my shirt to lay on my bare chest and kiss it, and asked me why I didn’t fuck her. “I wanted tonight to be about you, love.” I lied and went to sleep.

The next morning I woke up to my cock in her mouth, my balls in her hand, and love in her eyes. She returned last night’s favor with furious strokes and spitting and deepthroating.

I came in her mouth, she swallowed, and I fell in love.

Yea, that’s how I met Luna.

Or maybe I met Lu—I looked up and realized I was talking to myself again, in my empty garage filled with sad music.

Maybe it doesn’t matter where I met Luna because she’s gone now.

This is my first draft. I’m hoping for more wonderful feedback. I started this piece this morning and just got done so I’m going to take a nap.

Negative feedback, as always, is most appreciated.