Oh Yea, That’s What This Was Supposed to be About

A few months ago, I moved back to the city I was born and raised in. We didn’t plan on moving back to SJ, we just wanted to move from the house we were renting for three thousand dollars a month, with a pedophile landlord who we’re currently in litigation with because he unjustly withheld our deposit after telling us in person that the house was fine, the day before we moved out, with just a few stains to clean up on the carpet he had to replace anyways since we were there for seven years. He’s a fucking scum bag. We were kids when we moved in, and he thought he could take advantage of us, which he did via making us pay for plumbers every winter because the pipes were shitty, likely fucked up by tree roots or previous earthquakes rocking the fifty year old house.

We responded to the letter he sent regarding the withholding of the deposit professionally. His letter was so arrogant and rude, it only helps our case.

In one of his letters, he claims my brother and I tried to intimidate him…bullshit. We’re big guys, but we just walked around and said yea, yea, cool, alright—nothing at all considered intimidating, unless he was just intimidated by our natural state; if that’s the case, he’s a giant pussy…and he claimed to be in the CIA. We found out that was true. What a fucking bitch.

We’re going to get eight grand back from him; I only wish I could see his stupid fat face when he realizes he fucked with the wrong tenants.

Anyways, I didn’t intend on talking about my landlord in this post. Typical me, typical rambling, typical write about something I didn’t intend on and because of it, I get bored and cut the post short.

Oy vey.

Home, moved, how do I feel?

I’m right across the street from the drive ins. My family started going to it when you still had to put the speaker(?)radio(?) machine on your window. I remember watching the first Austin Powers there, and begging my mom to stay for the second movie, the scariest movie of all time: Kazaam. Still gives me the creeps. I also remember seeing the first Pirates of the Caribbean. I know we saw a lot more as a family, but I can’t remember.

The real fun started when I was around fifteen, when my friends and I would go with girls and booze. It was only six bucks per person, but we were broke kids so we stuffed everyone in the trunk. One time, I was stuck in a trunk with three girls. They said that being in the trunk made them extra horny—kind of weird, like a rape fantasy, I think—and my friend opened the trunk to me making out with one girl while another one jerked me off. I’m a slut.

We went almost every weekend. When we couldn’t stuff everyone in the trunk, some of us just hopped the fence to get in. Twenty people, two cars, hilarious. We never got in trouble, surprisingly—not because we were smart, the employees just didn’t care. During the summer though, a lot of cops were stationed outside of the gates of the actual drive ins. They were there to prevent drunk driving, reduce the likelihood of shootings and stabbings via gangs, and probably just to watch a free movie occasionally. On those days, we paid full price.

Fudge, that’s what I wanted to talk about: gangs.

I grew up on the south side of San Jose, only a few miles north of Morgan Hill. The neighborhood I grew up in wasn’t really dangerous, it had a few no go col-de-sacs, but they were only dangerous to outsiders. I knew most of the gangbangers via playing ball at the park, and they were always cool to me…but only because they saw me beat the shit out of a kid fucking with sister when I was twelve or so. A few did call me white boy too much but not in a derogatory way. One of my best friends shared my name, and was black, so white was an easy descriptor to use. But there were a few dudes who’s call me white boy in a derogatory—white boy basically means bitch—and I’d have to fight. I have a good fighting record but have been fucked up a few times: off the top I think I got fucked up three times, not including the three times I was jumped—they don’t count.

I lived in that neighborhood until I was 18, then moved into a hotel for a month. Yea, a hotel haha. After that, I decided to move into the mobile home my mom and dad bought. I lasted there six months, I couldn’t take it. My mom and dad hated each other, for what feels like, all my life; I think I only saw them kiss once. My dad bought the mobile home, and let my mom decorate the entire thing, foolishly thinking that would patch things up? I’m not sure, she ended up getting half of it when they divorced a few years later.

Oy vey, this is longer than I wanted it to be.

Speed up, speed up.

After leaving my parents house, I moved downtown with my girlfriend. We were in love most of the time we lived there, often having these pure conversations after taking ecstasy. Despite being a slut, we both were, we had more fun talking to each other on E than having sex…though the later was amazing. We’d have mind sex, go down to the courtyard and smoke an insane amount of menthols. Good times. We’re not with each other any more, she couldn’t take my personality. I felt horrible, as I always do, but especially in this case because she moved back from university in San Diego to live with me. I’m a piece of shit. Now I know, via my diagnosis(6years after this) that I was on the downside of a bipolar bender, and when I’m down, I don’t want to be around anyone. I’m not rude or mean, I’m just cold…almost apathetic. I hate myself.

Ehh fuck her. She’s a tattoo model who tried to entice me with her model pics not realizing I despise models—a hard thing not to know after being with me for years. Go ahead and model, but don’t act like you’re anything special…sorry rude. We’d talk every few years, and I’d get annoyed by how she changed, call her a cunt and ghost her. I’m a piece of shit. Now we don’t talk at all anymore, even if we run into each other. It’s for the best; I hope the dumb cunt has a beautiful life. Just kidding, she’s not a cunt, she’s just annoying, and I’m not just being a spiteful ex, she’s objectively annoying.

Geez, off topic again…what was this supposed to be about? I forgot. My homes throughout my life, gangs, exes…ah fuck it.

It was fun living downtown. Once I came out of my funk, I started partying a lot again, and at the time, I had a lot of friends throughout the city, most being graffiti artists or affiliated, a few bands and bouncers, older friends of my sisters. As a result of this, I was able to get into two clubs at nineteen. They snuck me in the back, told me to never go to the bar, they’d bring me drinks, and I could only drink beer. Good times. My girlfriend never went with me, it was at about the time we started disliking each other.

Best part about downtown is it’s the only place in the city you can walk place to place, seemingly infinite amount of restaurant choices, art shows held across the street. It sucks we weren’t twenty one at the time, but It was for the best.

My GF and I decided to move from downtown to the west side with my brother. He was looking for a place to live, we three got a place together. He’s not my blood brother, but he’s more than a best friend, blah blah blah, all that jazz.

My lady and I grew further a part; my best friend was in a deep depression so I focused on him more than anybody. We lasted a year there than her and I called it quits. She moved back to her mom’s house, and my best friend and I moved back to his fams house, where I slept on the couch for a few years. It’s a humbling experience. Having no room to retreat to, especially considering my anti social behavior. My Nonna woke me up every morning via loud coffee making. She was always a grump until noon; I made it worse by displaying an appallingly happy demeanor. She loved it deep down. She did so much for me. She treated me like blood. Fuck, I’m about to tear up. She fought cancer twice, but a year and a half ago passed away. I miss her. One of the most interesting and caring people in the history of humankind. Love you Nonna.

Fudge, still rambling…almost done.

From there I moved—again with my brother, but now his GS—to the house I just moved out of. It was perfect for three early twenty somethings. One of the first things we did was pass out envelopes to our neighbors asking them to come to us if we’re making too much noise……and fuck, we made so much noise. Parties every holiday, raves every other weekends. They hated us at first, but towards the end we all got along because we stopped partying at home. Too much work cleaning up, and no one was helping. But fuck, so many good times. So many good drugs. Surprisingly only one one night stand with a forty year old Asian woman, and some girl I met somewhere, can’t remember. Good times. I’m glad those days are in the past, I’m an old man now.

And now we’re here, back to the south side.

Oh yea, fuck, this post was supposed to be so short, I’m such a rambling mess.

I went to order a refill for one of my prescriptions via the app, and I realized I can never have it delivered; no doubt someone will swipe it—one of the worst neighborhoods is literally on the other side of the tracks, about a mile east. One of my sister’s friends got shot in the head while pulling out money at the Wells Fargo that shouldn’t be there. I was robbed for my phone and empty wallet by some dude who creeped up on a friend and I acting like he knew us, until he pulled out a pistol and stuck it in our faces. Having a gun in your face is surreal, it changes you forever. Two of my other friends also got robbed, maybe by the same dude.

We’re safe in my neighborhood, but the Trees(name of neighborhood) is close enough where shit left outside of your house is guaranteed to get stolen.

So I can’t have my meds delivered here. That’s all I wanted to say.

I’m a weirdo. Enjoy ye Sundays. Sorry if you got to the end of this.

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Reno Vacation…Don’t Gamble

Jesus Christ, I started this post like I run a goddamn travel blog.

I’m fucking beat…that whole vacation from a vacation thing applies to this weekend. I just need to relax, maybe drink some beer, play cards, and not get trashed since I spent a week getting trashed 18 hours a day.

I feel stupider and fatter today than when I left—pretty much how you’re supposed to feel if you truly had a good time.

Oh, and I’m darker.

Oh, and broker. A lot broker.

I don’t gamble much, unless you count unprotected sex and drunk driving, but I decided that I would this time because my mom and uncles enjoy it.

Well, I lost two hundred bucks the first night playing blackjack. Fucking shit. The goddamn dealer was getting 21 on 15 and 14 non stop. I don’t gamble, but as a kid I learned how to play blackjack from my grandpa, who was a card counter, so I have a good grasp on the game. I can’t count cards, but I know when it’s advantageous to hit and stay, and I know progressive betting based off the cards already used in a single deck—none of that mattered, my mom and I got raped by this dealer. It wasn’t fun at all, though I could’ve been winning and I still wouldn’t have fun; gambling is just stupid—casinos exist because they make more money than lose. Enough Said.

I lost another two hundred dollars playing slots.

I’m done gambling.

 

We spent most of our time at the pool drinking and watching the kids play. My cousin had a room on the bottom floor, next to the pool, so we just kept a few gallons of vodka and rum stocked, and had the kids feed them to us throughout the day.

Two bad things happened:

1)My racist uncle said porch monkey around my sister, who has two black kids, and I nearly killed him. My mom had to hold me back. She told us the usual, “that’s just the way he is”. FUCK THAT. I’m not having it. That was his one. Never again.

2) Someone stole my medication. Fuck. Had to file a police report. Upside: the hotel is going to call me for compensation. Maybe I’ll get a few free rooms.

Other than those, it was amazing.

I took my mom out to a fancy dinner at a place called Bininis. Her and I shared a 40oz tomahawk prime rib—it was divine…expensive as fuck, but divine.

I chose to sleep early the last night, and guess what, everybody won; not just win though, they made 6 thousand dollars between four of them.

I just have bad fucking luck. If I were there they’d be down.

 

And then I went home. There’s probably more to say, but I’m bored, and my brother bought tequila. Adios.

The Fuck if I Know What This Means

A man without sight sat down to write at a table his brother made with holy hands.

His spirit was half empty, and he couldn’t poor some more because his father locked the pearly cabinet doors to his liquor cabinet.

The double sided candle burnt out and the table went up in flames.

Only his eyes survived the conflagration.

Now he sees but can’t speak.

But he had nothing to say anyways.

I Gotta Get Outta This Place…

…if it’s the last thing I ever do.

When I’m free, I’m going to start hating Fridays and loving Mondays.

Or maybe I’ll forget the days of the week altogether.

Maybe the months too.

Who needs them?

How much time do we waste fixating on time?

Oscar Wilde was right: punctuality is the thief of time.

How many minutes do I waste figuring out how long it will take me to get to x from x? Then I spend more time figuring in the multitude of variables that could prevent me from getting to x by the correct time, so I leave early, getting to x too early, wasting additional time waiting, just to waste more time doing whatever the fuck unnecessary thing I scheduled.

I want a lazy life.

Gasp! Lazy! The one unforgivable sin in an economic system.

Doing nothing.

Giving nothing.

Laziness gets a bad rap.

In primitive cultures, laziness is a sign of success.

Tribesmen in the Amazon can spend one day successfully fishing for the entire village, then spend three days lounging around on the banks of pretty rivers, talking about the sky, and how Xxiyacha fell off a canoe while pulling in what he thought was a massive fish but turned out to be a log.

One of my favorite books is called Don’t Sleep, There are Snakes.

Brief summary, off the top of my head: It begins with the author telling us how he met his wife while attending UCLA(I think) to become a linguist. She was a Christian, a real Christian, who wanted to spread the word of Christ. He wasn’t really religious at the time, but he fell in love with her, then Jesus, and decided to become a missionary. He graduated, and signed up to travel to the Amazon to convert a tribe that Catholics and Christians had failed to convert for centuries.

He lived with them for years, quickly learning their language, but failed to convert them.

They loved the stories in the bible but saw them only as stories. They thought the crucifixion was stupid. They thought god was stupid. They laughed at stories that were supposed to be serious.

They had a simple religion, I think, I don’t know if he actually spoke about their beliefs; they were likely animists, like most primitive tribes.

He stopped trying to convert them, but decided to stay regardless.

I remember the author telling the tribe about his mother committing suicide. They laughed, and (basically) asked if she was retarded. That really stuck with me. Depression as a form of retardation in primitive life.

Another story that stuck with me involved a man dying in hunting accident and his “wife” dying while giving birth. Without parents, the baby would die eventually, so the tribe attempted to leave it out in the jungle. The author and his wife were horrified at the thought, asking if so and so could take care of the baby along with hers, but she said no; her baby wouldn’t get enough nourishment, and even if she could take care of the baby, why should she, her extra milk and affection should be given to her own blood.

It’s sad, but that’s primitive life, not all primitive life, but it’s a regular occurrence, and, unfortunately, a natural occurrence.

The missionaries took care of the baby, but it died a few months later.

Sad.

I can’t remember why I brought up the book, outside it being one of my favorites—I need to read it again.

Never mind, it’s because I’m depressed again and want to leave to some place simple so I can be happy; but I think I’m too far gone.

I’m going to try regardless, just a few more years.

A major death in the family will be the reason, and it makes me sad to say that I already have a death in mind to allow me to be free.

That’s fucked up.

I should leave on my happiest day. Whether it’s leaving this place or leaving the world altogether, I want to do it on my happiest day. I don’t want to

I have dreams about committing suicide via propelling into a blackhole. I wonder if I’d be alive long enough to see the past and future simultaneously.

Or maybe my depression and self hatred will become so dense and unstable that my prefrontal cortex has no choice but to collapse in on itself, creating a mini blackhole, devouring everything around me.

Depression. Black holes. What a banal metaphor that could easily be used for a slew of other psychological disorders.

How boring.

I think if you were to keep tally of all the adjectives I’ve used in all of my posts, boring would be numero uno, by far.

How boring.

I can’t stop.

Boredom is fascinating. How it’s subjective and relative.

I’ve been high as fuck on an assortment of feel good drugs, cock buried down the throat of a girl way out of my league, in a suite I couldn’t afford with a week’s pay, and still be bored.

I need to get out of this place.

I need a hut, with a hammock and modest library, in Uruguay or Argentina. I say this too much.

If you notice that I stop blogging for a long time, know that I’ve either left to South America, or I’ve killed myself.

Either way,

I need to get out of this place

if it’s the last thing I ever do.

 

I’m Getting Tired of Titles

I was supposed to write an article tonight about some stupid cologne, but instead I got drunk.

Fudge.

What a retarded article for me to choose.

I barely wear deodorant.

What the fuck was I thinking, I actually despise cologne, despite my French heritage, or in spite of my heritage, I’m not sure. The French could suck my dick, but I’m sure they’d like it, so they can eat my ass, but they’d like that too.

I always found it funny how GIs coming back from that one war in our history books would tell their GFs that they wanted to do it The French Way. I think that often meant a blowjob, but I know goddamn well a bunch of dudes used it as way to sodomize their women. Is it bad that I think that shit’s hilarious. Probably.

The French Way now is a threesome now, I think—it’s second base, at least.

Oy.

I don’t think I’ve ever fucked a French woman or dude. I’ve probably kissed a few, and probably just for being French; I’ve done a lot of things just to have the experience. I once grabbed a transgender woman’s cock at some particularly weird after hours bar in the city. She was nice and hilarious, but I still washed my hands after.

Fuck, I’m uninspired.

Tell me to write about cologne, and I’ll write about the collective stench of a tent city on the south side of the city.

Or I’ll write about anti cologne.

Or I’ll write about how the natural musk of human beings plays an important role in sexual selection; how my natural musk might smell like Hade’s asshole to one person, but smell like Apollo’s dick after fucking Aphrodite in the back of his chariot all night long, and how that’s important, because attraction to distinct musk/pheromones allows two people with slightly different immune systems to fuck and produce a kid with a stronger immune system than them…or something. I could be making this shit up.

But probably not.

I’m sabotaging myself. I could be making money by regurgitating simple sentences about simple products for simple people wanting simple lives.

I sound jealous, and I am.

Fuck, I want something simple. I want to be simple.

I’ve always been distrustful of people who say, Be yourself. Maybe I shouldn’t. Maybe they’re onto me. Maybe they see through my feigned cynicism and misanthropy. Maybe they’re stupid. Maybe I’m stupid. Maybe maybe is a stupid word.

I’m getting tired of the fetishization of weirdos and eccentrics. It bugs me. It seems so fake. But maybe people look at me the same way. I’m just desensitized, I think. Living in one of the weirdest places in the world will do that to you. Weird to me now, is seeing a happy family with a white picket fence and a dog named spot. Ew. Happy families are so gay. How stupid. The mom and dad aren’t swingers? Or divorced at all? The daughter doesn’t have green hair and a septum ring? The son doesn’t smoke pot all the time, chill with kids in a different socioeconomic class than him? Ew, that’s gross.  How abnormal. Happiness? Weird? No one in the family has been to jail or does drugs or has babies with multiple people. Gross. Get that shit out of here. I’ll stick to my mundane debauchery. How hipster.

The pejorative “Hipster” is used too often; some people just see a world they hate and choose to do everything to not be a part of it. Or they see unpopular things as pure. But many of them try too hard to be different while appearing exactly the same. Fuck. It’s all stupid.

Cest la vie.

How do you say everything is commodifiable in French—I’m sure those existential cocksuckers have a phrase for it.

I relinquished the article on cologne.

Fuck that shit.

I’m not going to shower for three days in rebellion.

I told my lover that I wouldn’t claim another article until I’m with her.

I can’t write at home.

I get bored.

Then drunk.

Then high.

Then I go buy a carne asada burrito.

Then I watch bootleg movies that I never remember. Repeat.

At least at her house, I only smoke weed and eat her pussy.

I exchange retarded Netflix shows for Tool and Portishead, and I have a pretty, naked canvas to cum on and write about.

She asked me what inspires me. I told her humming birds and drug addicts and sunsets and blood soaked thorns on sapphire roses.

It doesn’t matter what inspires me. It’s all been said, it’s all been done.

That’s my main issue: I don’t want to do anything that’s already been done. It’s partly due to my intense hatred of the world around me and existence in general, and part congenital boredom.

What I’m supposed to do, like every stupid person like me, is create weird sci-fi worlds, but even that is boring. Aliens are probably just as boring as we are, as I am, and even if they are different, some asshole alien has to be complaining about something.

When I think of the future, I’m not scared about some dystopian hellscape of big brothers and thought crimes or a Skinnerian utopia filled with perfect drugs and never ending orgies—I’m terrified at the thought that civilization will continue down the yellow brick road to banality….then bam, we’re all one AI hive brain.

How boring.

Fuck. I’m steadily becoming a luddite.

I really only have two options at this point in my life:

Find a pretty place to kill myself.

Find a pretty place to escape to.

They’re kind of the same though.

Fuck.

See, that shit’s boring.

There has to be another way.

There has to be something different.

No there hasn’t.

Infinity doesn’t allow different.

Why bother

When will RedBull sponsor someone jumping into a blackhole?

It doesn’t matter. Some hipster Alien will say that’s boring too.

When will we create another universe?

It doesn’t matter. Some pretentious god will say that’s boring too.

Everything is boring.

Kill yourself.

How boring.

 

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.

 

Escúchela, la Ciudad Respirando

So, I was going through my posts and found this. I think it’s from mid December last year. It’s really disjointed; I’m not sure if I typed it all at once or tried to add more to it later.  I opted to post it instead of trash it—might as well. Fuck it, yea?

 

The title of this post is from an amazing song—easily in my top 1000 favorite songs—by Black Star, featuring Common, called Respiration. Black Star consists of Talib Kweli and Mos Def. Most of you reading this probably don’t know who Talib Kwel is, but you might know Mos Def from a few movies; my favorite being Be Kind Rewind with Jack Black. It’s a great flick, check it out. Common also does a lot of acting now, but the only one I can think of off-the-top is Smokin’ Aces. I haven’t gotten the chance to so see Black Star perform, or Common, but I did get to see Talib Kweli at a now-closed club in downtown San Jose. It was my second favorite club back in the day. I got jumped outside it one time for dancing with a pretty Viet girl who, unbeknownst to me, had a gangster boyfriend looking down from the balcony of the club as she happily grinded on me. Him and two other dudes crept up behind me while I was smoking in the alley next to the club. I got my ass beat, but it could’ve been worse. I managed to rock one of the dudes with a right hook as I got up from the initial punch to the back of my neck, before catching a mean punch to my temple, putting me back on the ground for them to stomp the fuck out of me. Temple shots are mean; a perfectly placed punch causes blindness for a few seconds—every fighter knows this. Temple, nose, jaw: those are the knockout points My Marine father taught me. Temple shots hurt like a bitch, but I rather that than nose or jaw. I’ll take a hard kick to my dick over a massive jaw shot. Even if it doesn’t dislocate or break it, a hard hit to the jaw will force you to eat applesauce for a few weeks. Luckily, the jumping didn’t cut or break anything, but it fucked up my ribs for a month. My bestfriend’s Norteno cousins offered to help me find the dudes who did it, but I said na. I was grinding on his girl, I would fight me too—though jumping is pussy shit. It was my third jumping, and fifth or sixth time getting my ass beat. I’m not ashamed to say I’ve lost fights—if you fight enough, you’re bound to lose some. I actually think it’s good for you. Geez, this makes me sound like some type of tough guy. I’m not. I’m stupid.

Fuck, I’m rambling again. I always fucking trail off, digress, fuck up the rhythm and intentions of my posts. I wish I was able to write structured posts or articles. The Do’s and Don’ts of Fucking Killing Yourself would be a good one.

Anyways, the title of the post…it roughly translate to: Listen to her, the city is breathing. It was nearly my first tattoo, but my dumb sixteen year old self was smart enough to decide it was a bad idea to have a homeboy, who just started tatting, attempt to blast the quote across my collar bone. Fuck, that would’ve been bad. I have a couple tats done by homeboys that came out fresh, but garage tattoos are a gamble. One of my nephews had a Oakland crip tat the San Jose Sharks logo on him; It’s a horrendous tattoo, and it’s huge—about  1′ x 1′—the type of shitty tattoo requiring an artist who charges $500 an hour to fix.

See, again, me digressing. How annoying. Fuck it, I’m just going to write everything on my mind…maybe it will somehow connect at the end.

On Friday night, my lover’s good friend put on a one man show at the Randall Museum of Science. It’s a pretty spot sitting on a hill in central SF—a short, though steep, walk up from Castro St., the gay capital of the world and perfect place for her friend’s show: Just a Gay Jewish Boy Living with His Parents.

We were thirty minutes late to the 8 o’clock show because she wasn’t dressed when I got to her place at 7:30…literally not dressed, unless you count the nipple clamps.

It was 8:01 by the time she swallowed my cum. We threw on our clothes in 93 seconds, and I ordered an Uber as we walked to her building’s elevator. On the ride down she lifted her skirt and told me “Whoops, I guess I forgot to put on panties.”

Fucking shit I’m being over-descriptive. My apologies, I’ll spare you the sordid two paragraphs about the 11 minute Uber ride I fingered her in, and the funny paragraph about how we couldn’t get into the museum because they lock the doors after a show begins to prevent people from interrupting it…like we did.

Alright, so we got into the place after security caught us on camera shaking locked doors. They laughed at us, then directed us towards the auditorium. We stopped by the mini bar and had a few glasses of complimentary wine. I left a twenty in one of the glasses. There’s a special place in hell next to murderers and boring people for those who don’t tip properly.

I was sloshed already, drinking nearly a pint of hundred proof on the thirty minute ride up to the city, and my lover was stoned, and slightly tipsy off wine and cum, so we literally stumbled into the packed auditorium filled with the worst type of SF art snobs—the type of fart huffers who’d spend a few grand on a canvas painted white. A few people scoffed at us as we loudly creeped down to the last two seats in the front row. Before sitting down, I scratched the corner of my eye with my middle finger, and stretched a bit, before being pulled down by my laughing lover.

I wish I remembered more of the show. It was truly amazing. The only performance art type of show I’ve ever liked. Not only did he have an amazing voice, he interacted with the crowed so naturally I forgot other people were there. It was mesmerizing. A few tears even dripped out of my normally desolate ducts when he spoke about his grandmother, and her surviving the holocaust, and the current discrimination of the economically efficient populous.

The only part I didn’t like regarded current politics. I don’t want to hear that shit. I know it’s important, but people seem to be exponentially more irrational these days when politics comes up. Everyone is hypocritical: for me but not for thee type of shit, if you know what I mean. And California has the worst types of these people. The people in that auditorium probably cry about racism and bigotry, yet think giving a few dollars to a homeless black guy makes them better, all while living in gated communities, never setting foot in the neighborhoods they act like they care for. Yea, that’s it—that’s the most political I’ll get.

After the show, we stayed long enough to tell her friend how good the show was. He was just as bubbly and personable and goofy in person as he was on stage.

It was still relatively early so my lover and I decided to take a walk down Castro. It’s a beautiful street, filled with beautiful people, all having fun. The clubs were filled with topless men and women grinding on each other to EDM, high off molly and coke. Neither of us wanted to party. “I’m too old for that shit,” I told my lover, which basically means “I’m not trying to do drugs tonight”.

Instead, we went back to her place to play with some of her new toys….I never finished this part, sorry. I’m sure our night was brimming with debauchery, but I can’t remember the specifics and don’t want to just make something up to fill in the gaps.

I hate sleeping with other people, in the literal sense, not fucking, but I enjoy sleeping and waking up next to my lover. She’s a beautiful, broken soul…my type of person. I let her sleep while I chopped up some veggies and fruits and beat some eggs for omelets. She still wasn’t awake after I got done prepping, so I sat down with my coffee and stared out her window. Her tenement is located in the asshole of the city, but the view out her window makes up for all of the junkies and gangbangers and dealers. I took the featured from this window. In the background, you can see the SF City hall.; it’s a pretty building filled with ugly people. People out-of-touch with the average citizen. Liars and charlatans, all of them, regardless the party they’re in—though some are worse than others. Politics represents another aspect of life that forces me to choose the lesser of two evils. Dog shit or cat shit. Place your vote. I’m apolitical now. Who cares. I read an article recently about how native San Franciscans are moving out in droves. Want to know the reason? The top two are: It costs too much and it’s too dangerous. How the fuck does that happen. Shouldn’t the city be safer if it costs more? SF is the most expensive city to live in the US. It overtook NY City in the last few years. I’ve never been to NY, but it looks terrible. My lover and I like sitting in the Civic Center Plaza. We chain-smoke and talk about movies, books and sex toys. Smoking ciggies in SF fucking sucks; most people look down at us living chimneys like we just got done punting a kitten, some still smoke because they think it makes them look cool, and the rest are homeless people who will collectively bum an entire pack in an hour unless you say no.  The best thing to do is keep an extra pack with a single smoke in it. “Sorry man, I only have one left,” I tell them. “Oh, can I still get it,” they respond. Fucking rude. We were sitting in Civic Plaza recently when a homeless man came up and asked us for one. I gave him my usual response, and you know how he fucking responded? “I hope one day you’re homeless and aren’t given a cigarette.” I wasn’t mad, well kind of, but I was more perplexed and annoyed at how fucking stupid that sounds. You asshole. You don’t need a smoke. Get a job. Haha.

Oh, and the title of the post. I love to sit down in front of my lover’s window and listen to the city breathe. The sirens, the yelling, the dealers barking offers for every drug in existence, the honks and horns from shitty drivers on their way to do something that doesn’t matter, the sounds of new apartments being built that my collective family couldn’t afford to live in. All of it. I love it. Though, I’m a masochist.

I think my life is boring, but whenever I talk about it to people living elsewhere, they think it’s exciting. I think I’m just desensitized. I’ve done everything. Now I’m living a life of mundane decadence.

 

This was a weird post. I wish I remembered more about what happened. Interesting though.