Constructive Criticism or Just Criticism

Well, I’ve been up since 2am.

Goddamn insomnia.

I stayed in bed, watching flat earth debates, until 7am, then decided that I’d hit the bag and lift weights until I got tired enough to sleep until noon.

Didn’t work, it just gave me energy—what the fuck.

Feeling mentally exhausted and physically amped fucking sucks. It’s such a head fuck.

Instead of going back to bed to watch more flat earth videos, I brewed a gallon of coffee and got to reading; an activity that usually helps my mind wind down enough to go to sleep when I’m tired….but nope, still wide awake.

So then I decided to cook breakfast for the house. I kept it simple today: a jalapeno, mushroom, calabaza and spinach scramble with bacon and English muffins.

I usually don’t eat breakfast because food makes me incredibly tired, but today, that’s what I wanted, and guess what? Didn’t fucking work.


So I started writing.

First, a satirical listicle called: 5 Tips for a Guiltfree Suicide

I probably will never publish it, but it was fun to write, and it helped release a lot of anger I have for banal listicles about mental health.

Then, about hour ago, I started back on my second draft of the first story I published on here: Luna C. Soledad

I deleted everything I worked on last week because I’m a self loathing bastard. I’m about to do the same thing. The insomnia is amplifying my already roaring self loathing, and my sleeping pills are no longer working. It’s rough.

Anyways, here’s what I’m on the verge of deleting—tell me if you like it, hate it, loathe it, despise it, abhor it or any other synonym for vehement disgust.


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

My night started at a company party held at SF City Hall, which I only attended for the open bar. The people who organized the party really fucked up by not choosing the type of booze that would be sold, resulting in myself, and my fellow underpaid coworkers, skipping the dinner, opting for hors d’oeuvres in between taking shots of the type of aged scotch you’re supposed to sip on throughout the night, committing booze blasphemy, and destroying the chances for even a ‘beer only’ open bar at future company parties.

It was around eleven when the bartendress told us that the bar was closing up. She was a short Asian girl with a collage of tattoos running from wrist to shoulder and a lip piercing she played with in a way that made every man she served think they had a chance with her. I properly tipped her 1/5 of what I would have spent. Bartending’s a rough job, right below Public Defenders and Sewage Treatment Workers, so tipping them well is mandatory, especially at an open bar. She saw the Franklin and poured me one last full glass of scotch while biting her lip slightly different than I’d seen her  do the rest of the night. She wasn’t just playing with it; she was inviting me to play with it.

I went for it, “Did you get that piercing to satisfy your oral fixation.”

She softly ran the tip of her tongue up the inside of her lip, pushing out the piercing slightly, answering my question without words, then asked,  “How did you know?” with feigned innocence. I knew what type of girl she was. A hot flash of all the lovely debauchery her and I could do all night long filled my mind: whips and chains and vibrators and ball gags and scratches and bruises. 

I snapped out of my nightdream after cumming on her face and said, “I used to have one when I was a kid. My oral fixation had me playing with it to the point my lip would swell up.”

She glanced at my lips, and we both imagined her biting them.

Before I could ask about the other piercings I imagined she had hidden beneath pretty lingerie, a man from across the bar yelled, “Are you just going to stand around and flirt. You have glasses to wash and the counter to wipe down,”

She grabbed a napkin, and wrote her name and phone number on it.

“Give me a call sometime.”

Before walking away, she plucked a cherry off the counter and handed it to me.

“What’s this for?” I asked.

“For your oral fixation.”

She sashayed away, looked back and tongue fondled her piercing one last time for me.

I sat in front of the bar for a few minutes to allow my erection to settle down, then walked out of the building to an oddly warm San Francisco night.


I think the bartender is going to be another Luna in the part two I’ll likely never finish :).


I Can’t Finish Anything

I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I can’t finish shit. I start writing, get into it, then realize I have no fucking idea what I’m writing about, or why I’m writing at all. I keep adding to my drafts, occasionally adding a sentence here and there, but nothing ever gets completed. I know it’s me, but I don’t know how to fix it. I know it’s because I hate everything I do, and not finishing reduces the amount of shit I talk to myself because it’s hard for me to talk shit about something not yet completed, something that might eventually be good. But nope. I hate every post I have on here, but I have hope for every draft. I don’t know. This sucks. I suck. Maybe I need to go back to school and learn how to properly write. I don’t know.

I made it to February sober with the hopes of being able to write after a stretch of not destroying my mind via substances, but my mind is fucked regardless of the shit I ingest.

I think I’m just going to continue to post shit that I’ll never complete. Maybe you all can take it, and make something better, or add onto it to give me inspiration, because, as of now, I feel completely uninspired.

I haven’t started to drink yet, and I know I definitely won’t get shit done if I start to. Maybe getting drunk and spewing on here will do some good. Or maybe I’ll just post a bunch of shit that I’ll wind up deleting manana.

I started writing about a character named Eevee McHale—I’m not sure where I was going, and I’m bored with it:


Eevee hated her apartment. It was old and overpriced and surrounded by homeless people cooking stolen steaks on shopping carts, and gutterpunks shooting up in the corners of boarded up shops they shit and pissed on the previous night. Ambulances and cop cars scream up and down the street on a Sisyphean loop, allowing drug dealers to loudly whisper offers for meth and coke and H and every prescription pill on the market to lost tourists staring down at their phones, nervously typing “anywhere but here” into Google maps, not realizing their phones were broadcasting a signal to every fiending addict in need of cash to feed the gorillas on their backs, until a rare kind soul living in the hood tells them to, “Put that shit away, walk north down Turk St, take a left and walk a block or so until you reach SF City Hall, it’s relatively safe there.”

Eevee knew all this before moving in, but she had no choice—it was all she could afford, and barely afford at that. It took nearly a year to properly furnish her shithole; she saved up to buy an occidental futon requisite for studios, a Persian carpet to cover the petrified wooden floors, wrapped canvases and framed posters to cover the dents and scratches and stab marks in the walls, a fancy retro microwave to ensure the food she attempted to cook in the ancient oven was fully cooked, and a slew of rocks and crystals and incense, she bought from one of the hundred new age stores in the city, to place at the openings of both her doors and one window to protect her from the evil spirits and vengeful ghosts that had to have been dwelling in her murder prone tenement. It was still a shithole, but it was her shithole, and after proper furnishing, it actually resembled the bedroom of one of the two million dollar Victorian houses that every person coming to SF dreamed of living in.


I went through all of my saved drafts this morning to consolidate and/or delete them. I got rid of about half of them; now I’m down to 97, and I’m feeling hopeful that I might be able to publish a story, or something creative, instead of pitiful ramblings.

I need help though.

I found one draft that I forgot about. I like the beginning of the story, but it might be shit. Can you beautiful people tell me if it’s something worth finishing, or should I just scrap it?

I have two other stories open today to work on here and there, when I’m stuck with one, so it’s no biggie if I delete this one.

Please be critical—any  advice is much appreciated. Love you all :).


It felt more like a rough track transfer than a vehicle collision. A few casual riders looked up to see what was going on, but the nine-to-fivers kept banging out code and emails, or shuffling up and down social media feeds, itching for likes and loves and retweets, or loudly talking on their phones with relatives from India or Korea or Japan, all secretly smuckling at those who don’t know the ins and outs of train travelling; how trains often stop because the train ahead is running behind because the one ahead of it is running behind because a train eight hours ago experienced engine troubles, fucking the entire day’s schedule; or because an old folks home decided to take twenty three octogenarians in electric scooters on a field trip up to the city, forcing the conductors to hoist each of them up, one-by-one, via the painfully slow handicap lift, resulting in a forty-five minute delay, and another reason to hate old people.

I was drunk, as usual, with headphones in my ears blasting Deftones, oblivious and indifferent to my surroundings, trying to forget the last nine hours I spent at a job that I hate, with people that I hate, in a world that I hate. As long as I had booze and music, I didn’t mind patiently waiting for the train to start moving again. I cracked open another shooter of Jack, downed it, and went back to staring out the window at a fence covered in pretty pieces of graffiti, when the main lights suddenly turned off.

“Please remain calm,” a conductor said over the loud speaker. “Leave your belongings and begin to walk towards the back of the train.”

Intro to a Story…Blah

How many times can one come to at three in the morning, after inhaling Buddha knows what off a Lionel Richie record, surrounded by a group of unfamiliars sitting indian style with jaws swinging to the hard house beat of an All Night Long remix?

How many times?

I don’t know, but I did it again.

“Don’t look at me, Lionel!” I scream after locking eyes with the singer’s fixed gaze, tossing a few hundred dollars worth of noctilucent lines in the air to float and fuse with all the other party particulates to permeate the stuffy, hipster hovel.



I really wanted to finish a story or poem this weekend, but I’ve been a mess lately. I added about twenty drafts to my backlog, most of which only contain a sentence or two of paranoid rambling, but nothing post-worthy–outside the one “Mantra”, but I’m getting tired of those.

I’m going to keep on writing tonight, but I can’t guarantee I’ll produce anything. I’m also a drunk again, so that doesn’t help. Or it might, I don’t know. Getting drunk these days is a hit or miss or bullseye.

Anyways, I started the story above. I like it, but it might be shit.

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.