Johnny’s Mental Health

My first psychiatrist typed all of my symptoms into a Macintosh, then handed me a scantron sheet that said “You’re Crazy”, and wrote out a prescription for some type of medication that I’d already taken recreationally for years

I don’t remember much about my second psychiatrist, because I was sloshed every time I saw her, and high as fuck from triple dosing the pills my previous psyche prescribed me, but I do remember her cancelling my prescription, refusing to prescribe me new meds until I detox, and that she had big, luscious tits that I chose to stare at instead of listening to her babble about personality disorders.

My third psyche was the twelfth or thirteenth Shutterstock image you see when you type “White Doctor” into Google. He was nice, but I’m pretty sure he was an android. I spent our first appointment imagining which section of the curriculum for Clinical Psychiatry taught how to sympathetically smile and properly space out understanding nods while patients tell them how they can’t be in intimate relationships because they were molested as a kid, or how they can’t take the train anymore because it’s just a matter of time until they jump in front of one, or how cocaine and ecstasy calms them down and alcohol makes them hyper, or how they can’t sleep without having horrible nightmares so they stay up longer than they should but always crash after a week, or how some days they’re so anxious that they shake and have to blame it on too much coffee so their coworkers don’t think they’re drug addicts, which they probably are. I lasted for a few months with the white doctor. He gave me sleeping pills that actually worked, though they made me gain forty pounds in three months, without me noticing, because I never look in mirrors, and the sliver of Native American in me thinks cameras steal your soul. The other pills he prescribed for my “psychological issues” properly fucked me up and introduced me to the worst withdrawals since the Vicodin days of my late teens.

I quit doctors for a few years after Mr. White. If I was going to go through withdrawals, they might as well be the result of being under the influence of good drugs.


I’m afraid this will wind up buried in my drafts so I’ll just post it and get to work on pt. 2


Eevee McHale pt. 2

This is continued character building for Eevee McHale. I think the narrator is going to be the character in the story I’m working on about a failed liberal painter who jumps on the alt right train because it’s profitable, and how he gradually becomes ashamed about selling his soul for fame and money. Eevee might be a character he created, and this might be part of the novel he’s writing. He’ll probably have a redemption arc.

Ehh fuck that.

Redemption arcs are boring.

Eevee’s childhood was perfect, and she hated it. Her parents were rich, even by SF standards. They were happily married, an anomaly in our society of skyrocketing divorce rates and marital dissatisfaction, not even giving her the common whining point her fellow well-off peers told everyone to appear oppressed. She was an only child and spoiled the fuck out of. The only nonprivate school she went to was UC Berkeley, where she graduated with an Associates in Liberal Arts.

On her sixteenth birthday, her parents bought her a new Lexus. On her eighteenth birthday, her parents rented SF City Hall for a sixties themed party. And on her twenty-first birthday, her parents paid for her to “backpack” across Europe via first class trains and trendy hotels, ironically called hostels despite costing more than the average SF hotel.

It was in Paris, of course, where she got her first taste of radical politics via the salty cum of an “anarchist”. When he wasn’t sodomizing her in the loft his parents paid for, he regurgitated all the things her professors taught her in college: the evils of the rich and bourgeoisie and anybody who profited from anything; the damage colonialization inflicts to-this-day on former colonies who now have infrastructure and two story buildings; how forcing Muslim women to wear burqas and hijabs isn’t anti-feminist; how killing animals for food is bad and abortion is good; and a slew of other things that aren’t retarded.

Unbeknownst to Eevee’s parents, her backpacking stopped in Paris. She opted to skip Rome, because it was a symbol of imperialism, and spent her remaining three thousand Euros on anarchist leaflets and made in China balaclavas for her boyfriend’s Antifa chapter.  

She decided that she didn’t want to return home to the Great Satan her Iranian anarchist friends told her about. Paris would be her new home, and from there, she, her boyfriend and his three dozen followers would start the next socialist revolution.

They took advantage of every legitimate protest by destroying stores—even mom and pop shops because they’re the petty bourgeoisie and backbone of the corrupt capitalist system—flipping cars, and beating the fuck out of evil centrists.

She finally felt like she belonged; like she was a part of something bigger than her. She felt alive and important and a bunch of other platitudes. But then her boyfriend got arrested for tossing a Molotov cocktail into a Starbucks that didn’t allow homeless people, who didn’t smell like fermented belly button juice, to take up the seats paying customers didn’t deserve.

France’s terrorism laws guaranteed that her boyfriend wouldn’t get out in years. His parents stopped paying for the loft. She was thrown out on the streets with no money, and soon learned that none of her boyfriends anarchist friends actually liked her. They tolerated her because she was their leader’s girlfriend, but behind her back, they referred to her as The American Bitch—an allusion to Marie Antoinette’s epithet: The Austrian Bitch.

Eevee lasted two nights in the Parisian streets before calling her parents to apologize for being a dumb cunt, and ask them to buy her a first class plain ticket home.


Oh, and feel free to critique and/or continue the story in your voice. Tara did a lovely job last time.

Johnny’s Recurring Nightmares (Pt. 1)

I was friends with Johnny for three or so years before I found out how fucked in the head he was. And I know, fucked in the head sounds a bit harsh, but that’s his verbiage, not mine.

“I haven’t slept in two days,” Johnny said before inhaling a line of absurdly good coke. The type of shit that flooded highbrow clubs in the late seventies. The type of shit that shouldn’t be called shit, because the slang term shit came about when dealers started to cut their coke with laxatives…but not this coke. This coke was so pure Johnny called his Guatemalan drug dealer Freud, after Sigmund Freud, who advocated for medicinal cocaine use, until he got addicted to it…or so Johnny told me–I never touched the stuff.

“Dude,” I said with a giggle. “You can’t say shit like that after taking a line. Obviously you’re not gonna sleep.”

“Na bro, this is the first substance I’ve touched in weeks. No weed, no drink, not even coffee. I’ve been dangerously sober, but I can’t take it anymore.” Johnny fired out from pallid lips. “This is it. I’ve finally lost my shit.”

Johnny oscillated between all out addict and chaste straight edge, depending on the month, season and/or girlfriend. For a frantic fellow, he was unusually regimental when it came to drug use. Summer was filled with ecstasy and cocaine, drugs perfect for pool parties and beach bonfires. Autumn was his psychedelic season; he loved to take mushrooms, go on hikes and watch leaves fall from tired trees. In the winter, benzos, barbiturates and painkillers were mandatory to keep his SAD in check. And spring — which started a few weeks ago, on the day of his birthday, March 20th–was usually spent relatively sober; what he called his Spring Equinox Detox.

“What’s going on, man? Trouble with your lady?” I asked.

“Ah, fuck her. She went to the treasure island rave with her girls. It’s not about her, though. Well…it is…kind of. But not really. It’s more me. It’s always me. She’s just making it worse. I’m thinking about ending it. All she wants to do is party, and I can’t handle that shit right now,” Johnny said while chopping up more lines, not realizing the irony in complaining about partying while chopping up a bona fide party drug.

He met his current girlfriend, Luna, at EDC last May. What should’ve been a weekend fling, turned into a volatile, near-year whirlwind of love and lust and all types of fuckery.

“What is it then?”

“My fucking dreams…nightmares man. Every time I sleep. The same three over and over again. Nightmares from my childhood. Sometimes multiple in the same night. I can’t fucking sleep. And all fucking Luna does is complain that I keep waking her up.” he said, then inhaled a line so long he ran out of breath before reaching the end of it.

“Jesus Christ, man, you’re going to have a heart attack.”

“I have to. I feel like I’m in nightmare on fucking elm street. Gotta stay awake. Gotta stay awake.”

Johnny had never asked me for any type of support in the entire span of our friendship. He was my psychiatrist. I went to him when I had trouble with my girl or work or life in general. He was a manic madman, but he’d always seem to have this strange control over his life and emotions. He was a tempest in a snow globe that soothed friends and family with free verse lyrics of encouragement and hope while perpetually on the verge of a quiet nervous breakdown.

“Alright, calm down. Everything will be alright.”

“Everything will be alright?” he asked, perplexed at my trivial statement . “Everything will be all-fucking-right? Really!? Thank you for the pleasant platitudes, but I don’t need that shit right now!” he said in a decibel level I’d never witnessed. “Sorry man. Fuck. I’m sorry. I just–I just don’t know what to do. I don’t mean to take it out on you.”

I didn’t know what to say. All I had was platitudes. That’s what most people wanted to hear. It will be alright. We’ll get through this together. After the storm, the sun will shine. I realized there was absolutely nothing I could say to console my best friend. He’d prefer me to talk shit to him. Joke around. But even that might make things worse.

“I just need someone to talk to. Someone to keep me awake. Someone to just be there. Someone that doesn’t make everything about themselves, like Luna,” he said before I could eek out another platitude. “I don’t want to be psychoanalyzed. Don’t tell me what you think they mean. I already know. I don’t need you to be Sigmund fucking Freud. Just listen.”

“I’ll listen, bro, but only if you lay off the yay. I’m serious. I’ll smoke a J with you and listen, but I can’t pay attention if you’re bumping every ten minutes.” I softly commanded.


I started breaking up some of Johnny’s top-shelf Buddha to roll up while he told me the first dream.

“This might be my oldest dream…or nightmare…or memory…or whatever the fuck it is. I’m in my childhood home picking up microscopic rocks off the floor of my room and putting them into a trashcan with a giant hole in the bottom of it. After picking up all the rocks in one spot, I pickup the trash can and move to another, oblivious to the rocks tumbling out of the hole onto the area I just spent an eternity cleaning. As I kneel down to recommence my Sisyphean task, my mother creeps in behind me with a terrifying smile. As I open my mouth to tell her I love her, or hate her, or something stupid, her mouth opens and rocks blast out like a high power pressure washer, quickly filling my room, crushing and suffocating me, until I wake up paralyzed, gasping for air as tears flow down my rolled back eyes.”

I stopped breaking up the weed, and awkwardly held a small nug for a few seconds, not knowing if Johnny wanted me to respond back.

As I opened my mouth to say something platitudinal, Johnny cut me off and began the second dream

“I started having this dream when I was around eight or nine—a few years after the other dream. I’m skipping down the sidewalk of some crowded city, likely SF, or hell, dodging lines of people coming at me like an old arcade game, while avoiding the cracks in the sidewalk. I can’t see myself smiling, but I know I am. I catch glimpses of the end of the sidewalk after dodging each line; something kind is at the end, but I don’t know what it is–I just know I have to get to it…”

Johnny stopped and looked at me struggling to roll the joint and laughed. “Ya wey, your first time rolling? Give me that shit, fool.” Johnny said, then took the notebook, his diary, I was using to break up and roll on.

“Fuck, where was I. Um, um…Oh yea…so there’s something warm and fuzzy at the end of the sidewalk; maybe it’s heaven, maybe it’s limbo, maybe it’s Oz, maybe it’s oblivion, maybe it doesn’t matter what it is. After dodging the last line, I see the end clearly. It’s beautiful…whatever it is, it’s glowing in way only possible if a million perfect rainbows converged on a perfect prismatic fractal….Hold up one sec.”

Johnny stopped speaking to apply the last coat of saliva to the joint he rolled in a dozen seconds, then resumed his dream.

“I begin to skip faster, making dangerously large strides while still trying to avoid the cracks. I feel the end pulling me. I know I’ll be safe there. I must get there. I must live there. I must die there…”

Johnny sparked up the J, took five or six micro-puffs then passed it to me.

…Right as I’m about to reach my heavenly unknown, a vantablack shadow appears, forcing me to recklessly skip off-course…the darkness lets loose a portentous cackle as my foot slams into the last crack in the sidewalk…the world shatters around me…the clouds fall like ethereal tear drops…I’m left standing on a single piece of freezing concrete, suspended in darkness.”

“Fuck,” I eek out with a puff a smoke.

“Yea,” Johnny said with a sigh. “That dream is the roughest. Every time I have it, I wake up sweating, patting at my body like I was just pickpocketed. Every time I feel like a part of my soul was stolen.”

End of Part 1


I’ll likely never finish this, but I wanted to post something.




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.

If You Don’t Have Anything Nice to Say

A few years ago I decided to become a deaf person.

It was during the height of Tumbler, when people freely self identified as wolves and fairies and other erroneous things, sometimes inanimate, which made otherwise uninteresting people feel special. If someone could identify as a non-binary, cis-gender whale shark, why couldn’t I identify as a deaf person? I’m naturally oblivious, emotionally aloof and disconnected from the world in general–not saying those are the traits of a deaf person, they just make it easier for me to adjust to a hearing impaired life.

I’d always been a quiet, soft spoken person which was often interrupted as off. “She seems off,” people would tell my parents. So much so, they mistook my disinterest in conscious life for autism. I’m definitely not autistic. I’m the opposite of autistic. I’m hypersensitive and hyperemotional, I just keep it hidden behind a stoic smirk. Maybe I am autistic. But I thought autism was present at birth? Not the response to a shitty life, filled with shitty people, doing shitty things, for shitty reasons. Maybe I had the gene for autism, if there is one, and years of malicious sensory overload suddenly expressed the gene? I’m not sure if that’s possible. Though, I still am hyperemotional, but only when I’m by myself. So, I guess it’s not autism—at least in the traditional sense. Selective autism is more appropriate.

Despite my naturally, stolid demeanor, I needed a lot of practice before going full blown deaf. I practiced first at work, to the annoyance of my coworkers and bosses, by ignoring people on elevator rides up to my office spewing mundane Monday morning platitudes. “Mondays, am I right?” they’d ask, or say, or whatever the fuck that phrase is supposed to express, and I’d respond with a fake smile and nod. Yea, that’s kind of rude, I know, so once I got to my desk I’d ping the person I ignored and tell them I had bronchitis, or a migraine, or I lost my voice at a concert the previous night. Luckily, I was a graphic designer, so most of my conversations took place via email or instant messenger. The only “real” social interaction I had at work was on those elevator rides, at the espresso machine, and the occasional meeting I checked out of anyways.

I mastered not answering to my name when I was younger, so that was no problem. My father would scream at me, What are you, deaf!?, all the time, and I’d mostly ignore him, until he flicked the back of my head, or yelled long enough. I was somewhat worried that, in his senility, he would scream that at me again, despite my sister or brother telling him I’m deaf, and I’d gleefully respond with a smile, nod, and Yes Dad, I am deaf, exposing my ruse for the lolz.

The primary threat to my future life of deafness was exclamatory scenarios. Somebody screaming, fire! Someone letting loose a blood curdling scream. A family member surprising me in person with the news that a loved one had died, or was in a serious accident. This was a toughie. Buddha forbid, a loved one dies, and I’m surprised with the news. I wouldn’t be able shed a tear, though my tear ducts dried up years ago, or make the slightest facial cue, though my face was naturally fixed in a single semi-grimace for the majority of my waking hours.

I played out these types of scenarios for weeks, months, until my brain was permanently hardwired to not give a fuck, and look like I don’t give a fuck.

In hindsight, I probably spent too much time imagining scenes that would never manifest, but I didn’t want to be one of those dolts who adopt factitious disorders before fleshing out every goddamn scenario.

After nearly a year of preparation, I was finally ready to become a deaf person. A serious ear infection would be the cause. I had multiple ear infections in my youth which left me temporarily deaf in one ear, one time both, so it was in the protest-free realm of possibility, and easily digestible for family members who’d previously witnessed it. All I needed to do was get sick. I decided riding the train was the best place to acquire the cold or flu. It was Winter, and the train was filled with coughs and sneezes—a moving petri dish.

Unfortunately, in the months preceding my path to deafness, I’d been fired from my job. You can only ignore your bosses, and exude disinterest, so long before they become fed up. This made funds tight, and the train was expensive. I quickly ran through my meagre savings, spending the majority of my money on train rides that didn’t end in sickness, and the rest on rent and Costco boxes of cup-of-noodle.

One night, I came home from one of my nightly train rides to nowhere, and found my mother, two step-sisters and twin brother, Johnny, in my house crying. It was an intervention. Not the hard drug or alcohol type of intervention though, it was a collective plea for me to get back on drugs. My bipolar drugs. The drugs that kept me relatively level. The drugs I decided to stop taking shortly before I decided to become deaf.

For the past year, I’d been in a state of mixed-mania. I’d constructed an elaborate plan to become a deaf person because I thought it would relieve the anxiety social interactions produced. I wouldn’t have to talk. I would never mispronounce a word again, and fixate on it for weeks on end while maniacally cleaning my apartment. I’d never have to lie and say “I’m alright,” when someone asked me, “How I was doing.” I’d never have to feign interest, or have forced conversations when I really had nothing to say. I would be free from embarrassing social interactions and free from the guilt that acting like I cared created. I’d feel free in general. Or so I thought. Instead, my path to deafness left me locked away from friends and family for months on end. It made the people I love think I hated them.

I cried with my mother and step-sisters while Johnny convinced me to get back on my meds. He was the only person that truly understood how I felt, because he’d also gone through these self-destructive phases. Phases where I saved him from near madness. We were always there for each-other, but during this period of destructive mixed-mania, Johnny was in a deep depression. I knew this, but I selfishly isolated myself from him because I felt like I’d make it worse. Johnny felt the same. He thought his depression would make my issues worse. He decided to move in with me that night to help me out with my issues, while I helped his.

My mother and sisters left that night, and Johnny made some tea for us. From the kitchen I heard him say with a giggle, “You really took mom serious this time, yea?”

“Huh?” I responded.

“If you don’t have anything nice to say don’t say anything at all.”


I’m not sure why I created a twin sister for Johnny. She’s kind of mean :).



Master, Sir & Please (Warning: Extremely Sexual Content)

I don’t really write erotica, but a friend of mine, who’s taking a creative writing class, decided that she wanted to write a story, or series, on BDSM, degradation, and other sexual taboos. She was having a difficult time setting the scene so I did a quick ‘intro’ for her.

Again, sexual content.

“You speak only when spoken to, agreed?”

“Yes,” his pet whispered through quivering lips.

“You are allotted three words: master, sir and please. I strongly suggest you forget the rest of your vocabulary. If any of your moans or screams or cries of pain even resemble another word, in any language, you will suffer, until you learn the words I’ve granted you…or until you learn to shut your fucking mouth completely.”

“I don’t–” his pet attempted to say before catching a mild slap.

“I don’t? You don’t what? You are no longer ‘I’–you are mine. You are my plaything. I don’t love you. I don’t like you. I will do with you what I want. You might enjoy it. You might hate it. You might feel pleasure, or you might regret you ever read Fifty Shades of Grey and think you’d like BDSM.

“Yes mast–” she eeked out before catching another slap, slightly harder than the previous.

“Yes!? her master said, now slightly annoyed at her inability to follow simple directions. ” ‘Yes’ is not one of your words. Again, you may say: master, sir and please. You will not say ‘yes’. You will not say ‘no’. You may nod your head to acknowledge you understand what I’m saying–that’s it.

His pet nodded.

“Now take off your dress.”

His pet’s body was nearly perfect when they first met a few months ago, but nearly perfect wasn’t good enough for her master. He demanded that she get a tattoo of any type of flower on her thigh, side or lower back. He also gave her the option to pierce her right nipple or both. She opted for a string of roses down her side and both her nipples pierced. She thanked her master for the body modifications and for allowing her to pick them. The only other choice he’d given her since they started dating, was where they ate on their first date–the night she told him she yearned for a master.

“Now rip off your bra and panties.”

His pet reached around her back to unlatch the bra but was again met with a slap; this time though, he followed up with a hand around her throat. “I said rip them off.”

Earlier in the evening, at dinner to be precise, her master gave her the lingerie she was wearing. To show her appreciation, she sucked his cock on the ride back to his place–all forty five minutes, in stop-and-go traffic, eventually cumming on her face, where it slid and dripped down her lips and neck, and stayed, and was seen by pedestrians as they walked up to his condo on busy Santa Clara street in San Jose, until getting inside, where he allowed her to finger it into her mouth and swallow.

She reluctantly ripped off her new bra, nearly receiving another slap for not doing so fast enough.

“Now the panties.”

She attempted to rip off them off but didn’t possess the strength needed to rip the expensive, nano-silk panties, and after thirty seconds of pulling and stretching them out, her master got annoyed.

“You’re useless.” he said before yanking her panties three or four times, producing future bruises and abrasions on her hips, until finally ripping them off.

“Now, get on the bed.”

She walked backwards and tripped into bed.

“Arms up.” her master demanded as he unrolled his straps, already connected to the bed frame, and wrapped them around her wrists–tight enough to make her slightly wince.

“Now, spread your legs.”

He tied one leg, then started the other, but just as he was about to finish the final knot, he caught a glance of her pulsating pussy–her lips glistening with cum from an orgasm he hadn’t commissioned yet.

“Did you cum?”

She nodded.

“Bad girl,” he calmly told her before walking out of the room, leaving her tied up to think about what she’d done.

Suicide Notes from a Man Who Died of Old Age

I know there’s nothing I could possibly say to ameliorate the pain I’ve caused by doing this.

I know that many of you will blame yourselves.

I know that many of you won’t recover from this for years, maybe ever.

I know that this might seem selfish–believe me, I know this…I know all of this. But it has to be done. 

Please know that the combined pain all of you are feeling at this very moment doesn’t equal half the pain I’ve felt– half the pain I’m feeling at this very moment. Please know this.

Please, please, please don’t blame yourselves. For the last five years I’ve suffered in silence, occasionally crying in class, or on lonely walks home from school, or while eating dinner with you, saying it’s allergies. Horrible things happened to me that I tried to write out here, but my hand started to shake and tremble, and I started to cry, so I’ll leave that portion of my pain out of this, but it’s none of your fault. No one who’s reading this is responsible for my pain. The people that hurt me will probably not get what’s coming to them until they’re old and alone. They’ll remember the pain, and hopefully hear that I killed myself, partly due to them, and off themselves, or maybe they won’t remember, not realizing the pain they caused. But honestly, I think I would be in pain even if I’d lived a picturesque life–it’s just me.

I don’t believe in heaven, but if it did exist, and I got in, somehow, I would find a way to be miserable in it. My souls tainted and broken, and it needs to be destroyed.

I’m tired.

I want oblivion.

I’m sorry.

I love you all.


Johnny wiped away the tears he just realized were flowing, and dropped the note back into the box his grandfather bequeathed him.

“Why would Grandpa leave me this?” he whispered to himself.

He anxiously shuffled through the rest of the box, finding note after note filled with sad words.

“Why would Grandpa leave me this?” he asked himself again, before closing the box, and reading the note written on the top of it in grandpa’s trademark calligraphy he tried to teach Johnny to no avail.

To you, Johnny, and only you. I hope this will help you through your struggles, son. I love you.

Johnny walked out of his room, down the hallway to the living room where his mom was with a glass of straight vodka, looking at a note, over a box similar to his, crying uncontrollably.

Johnny never could take the sight of his mother crying–it always resulted in him bawling harder and louder.

He walked over to hold her and cry together.

“Don’t cry, ma, please,” he said, despite knowing that nothing in existence could dam the deluge flowing down her cheeks.

“Why did gra–,” he started to ask before his mom interjected. “Grandpa left that for you, and only you. The same way he left this for me, and only me. And many others for people he loved. I don’t know why, but I’m sure there’s a reason.”

They held each other and cried for a few eternal minutes.

“I know this was a long and painful day, Johnny, but we’ll get over it together.” she whispered into his ear as her head rested on his shoulder. “You don’t have to go to school tomorrow, baby, but it’s late, and you should go to bed. Tomorrow will be a better day, I promise,”

He reluctantly let go of his mother and asked, “Are you going to bed?”

“Yes babe, in a little bit.”

Johnny walked down the hall, turning back before opening his bedroom door, and watched his mom pour another glass of vodka, down it, then poor another.

He started to cry again as he took off his clothes and got into bed, telling himself that he would never be able to sleep.

Staring up, wide awake, at his ceiling that he recently covered in glow in the dark planets and spiral galaxies and shooting stars, he remembered a trick his grandfather taught him for restless nights. He started to count the stars, then he multiplied them by ten, then divided by five, then multiplied again and again and again, calming his racing mind, until finally falling asleep.

His mom lied, but it wasn’t her fault. Tomorrow wouldn’t be a better day.

I don’t like the wording of this. There’s much to be done, but I needed to write it down. I’ll go through it and make it prettier, hopefully.

This is the first page of a short story I’m going to attempt to write about a grandfather who lived to 99, leaving his depressed grandson a box of suicide notes he wrote throughout his life. Each page, or most pages/post, will begin with one of the suicide notes, and end with moments/days his depressed grandson goes through, corresponding or running parallel to his pain in different ways, helping him realize that he’s not the only one that experiences despair.

I’m sleepy, so I’m going to go do math in my bed until I fall asleep. Hopefully I’ll wake up to some critiques.