“Civilization was created by few, built by many, and given to most.” (Chain Story)

Civilization was created by few, built by many, and given to most,” my father told me from his deathbed. “It was given to my generation, and we destroyed it, now it’s time for you to create a new one.”

I’ll do it” I had said half-assed before he closed his eyes and passed away. It took me months to revisit that moment in time when I sat next to my dad in his deathbed at the hospital. I had tried to block it out; just like almost everything that comes my way in this shitty city during my walk to work. Like that overfilled trash can, or the hobos who ask for food, money, drugs, or alcohol, or attention, or just anything that you can give them. Scums of the earth. I’m a scum of the earth too, as I kick that trash can on my way to the office. The leg of my pants get stained. It was a start to just another god damn miserable day.

I go to the men’s room and try to wipe it out with a soaked paper towel. Now there’s a seemingly obvious wet spot on my gray pants. I get even angrier as I walk out.

Because I’ve been in a bad mood, work was especially dreadful. My interactions with people were quick and dry, my motivation was low, and my morale was tainted. I hated everything about work; I hated everything about this city. I hated my life and I hated myself. Back in my apartment, I look at the mirror before I head to bed. I brush my teeth just to feel a bit more human. What disgrace I see in the mirror before me. I had ungroomed beard stubble and there were bags underneath my bloodshot eyes. I couldn’t comprehend how on earth women found me attractive, but they did. And because I hate myself, I hate them for not despising me. It’s like the analogy of a puppy in a pet store; you’re standing there thinking it’s so cute, but it’s miserable and it wants out or it wants to bite your face off.

In the limbo of the next day; I stand outside my apartment balcony in the morning and look at the sunrise as it slowly creeps up and starts to blind me. The concrete jungle sprawls before my eyes, and it just sickens me even more. Everything sickens me about this place. My dad, in his delusional Alzheimer filled last days, wanted me to create a new civilization. I promised him I would. I spat the mouthwash on the flower pot and headed inside. I had gotten up, dressed up, and now planned to show up to work. I looked at the hoards of sheep-like people before me, who looked just like me, dressed just like me, and behaved just like me. Anger and frustration in their faces; just like in mine. We were all zombies who lived and thrived in this concrete city.

Start a new civilization” said my dad. I spat my gum on the gray sidewalk and disappeared in the force and momentum of the moving crowd.

If there was one thing I had, it was time. Had? Already discussed. Needed? Not necessarily. I knew what he said, I knew what had to be done, but in the tangled rubber band ball of a “plan” in my mind, nothing discernible could be found. When one doesn’t have a plan, what else is left but time?

I step on the metro.

See this peon’s face in front of me. See his slack jaw and hear his loose tongue, in your mind. See him hitting on women at bars and then getting belligerent at them for not sleeping with him. See the role model in front of you.

I turn on my phone.

Look out the window. Watch a few skyscrapers claw their way past the train (relativity?) before the deadly blackness of the tunnel consumes its prey. Look out. Always look out.

I look at the time.


The commute was little over 45 minutes long. I’m lucky, by relative standards. I’m a lucky bastard. I’m lucky I hate women. Attention begets violence, begets loneliness, begets death and nothing but death. Possibly debt on the way. Am I in debt? The groggy morning mindset finally hits me full in the face after another restless night of sleep and I realize once again who I’m working for. Beside my useless education, Talk Corp–a combination social media/phone/talk buddy corporation. Who knew it took so many peons to run a company that helps people… well, talk? What kind of world do we live in where people can’t just talk anymore? I hate it. I hated it then and I hate it now. The flashbacks start to show up and I block them out once more…

Talk Corp Incorporated, the megacity of the social media scene. The unofficial monopoly of smartphones and smartphone bills. (Because of course the government won’t lay a finger on what keeps its citizens in check.) And of course, the inventor of the talk buddy. What Amazon started and failed to fulfill, Talk Corp raised the ante on and won. Government statistics state that approximately 47% of all citizens owned a talk buddy. They popped up in Japan, but were a bit one-dimensional and only a niche market for the lonely 20-30’s business-nothing wanker.  Then came the soccer moms: How do I deal with my passive aggressive husband who doesn’t pay attention to me except when I’m cooking and stealing his children’s attention? Honest questions. Honest answers. At least, that’s what the company strived to provide. I stretch my mind and remember a Kurt Vonnegut book about it but block that out, too. Too much history before a day of psycho-suicide isn’t good for the lungs. I haven’t decided whether I’ve started smoking, quit, or started again yet.

I… do not own a talk buddy. And it shows. If there’s one thing I haven’t lost, it’s my attitude.

And the one resource I do have, I notice, is slowly slipping away as well. The train arrives at my company’s stop. A city in and of itself. But this time, a faux-eutopia rather than a dystopia. The kind where the murders happen hidden in the minds of the victims behind closed office doors and livelihoods are ruined over typos in thousand-page reports on labor law influences in the married couple’s talk buddy relationship. Let’s talk together! I almost say, “I wish I could talk to my father one last time…” but block that out before it enters my prefrontal cortex, too.

I step off the train.

Time. Time for another miserable day. And another. And another. Time time time. Time to drain, decay, and segue. Do I have time on my hands?

Time to think of a fucking plan, you idiot. Argh. I fall irritated with myself. Perfect mood as I step into my cubicle and start the daily routine.

From an outside perspective, I’d appear lazy, but that’s far from the truth. When I’m not having my soul drained at work, I spend my time being semi human: I walk aimlessly, exploring new places, intentionally getting lost, using nothing but my senses to get home, while others go place to place in a car they take an annoying amount of pride in, using map apps that get them to destinations they’re taught to need to be at “on time”, defying one of Saint Oscar Wilde’s many absolute truths: “Punctuality is the thief of time”; I cook the proper amount of food I need to fuel my antisocial activities, avoiding overcrowded and overpriced restaurants, and fast track to obesity food, burning the calories I consume through natural activities, not eating tiny portioned meals with pretentious French names that never satisfy your hunger, resulting in midnight binging on half a box of Famous Amos cookies, or triple bypass burgers with fried diabetes that likely have some unknown nicotine like alkaloid the CIA has fast food restaurants add to keep drive throughs backed-up with lazy people lining up to consume cheap foods that kill, just to prepare them to line up later in life to buy expensive medications their insurance barely covers, if they have insurance at all; I go to the gym, but mine is free and natural and welcome to anybody who wants to go outside and walk or run or climb, and it’s not filled with narcissistic meatheads or vainglorious airheads. The only natural human activity I don’t partake in is socializing, unless you count the conversations I have with my husky, Hendrix, or the small talk I unwillingly engage in through grinding teeth while trying to get the coffee I desperately need after a sleepless night, or telling homeless addicts to fuck off.

“I really need to get out of the city,” I whispered to myself as I logged into my computer and clocked in.



Two amazing writers have thus far worked on this chain story, with them putting in most of the words, and I’m having a fucking blast. To me, it’s hard to tell who wrote what, it flows really well so far.

This is the 4th post.

The original post: https://prettywordsforuglythoughts.wordpress.com/2019/07/26/who-wants-to-write-a-chain-story/

The second post: https://samasyatapasya.wordpress.com/2019/07/26/civilization-was-created-by-few-built-by-many-and-given-to-most/

The third post: https://burndoubt.wordpress.com/2019/07/26/civilization-was-created-by-few-built-by-many-and-given-to-most/comment-page-1/#comment-2003

To partake in the chain story please comment on the original post so two people aren’t working on it at once. Though, feel free to write out some ideas, share notes, character names, whatever you think.

Here are some notes I came up with while writing this post. Feel free to use them, go off them, whatever. I wrote this portion from my phone because I unfortunately have some mandatory events today, and I didn’t want to horde the fourth installment. And writing on your phone is a real bitch.


Name of the city, maybe? Silicon City stretched from the Golden Gate Bridge to the Gilroy garlic fields, the Santa Cruz Mountains to Manteca, lovingly called Mantweaka, the meth version of San Francisco, but with fresh air. It was America’s first attempt at a gigacity, only created to keep up with China, who had two gigacities before Silicon City even got congressional approval. The Republicans fought to prevent the city from being built; they had an insane, and probably racist and fascist, position that San Francisco, and the rest of the cities, needed to be cleaned up before combining them together. They held out for months, but slowly but surely, they started to vote yes. Interesting enough, those Republicans now own mansions overlooking the city.

Possible character names? Elijah LaRue (Elijah was a prophet and a miracle worker who lived in the northern kingdom of Israel during the reign of King Ahab) This might be a good name since this story might(?) take place in the bay area?

Jimi Morrison

Eevee McHale

The boss is an African American Jewish woman with one leg.

Some lines I didn’t include, but could be added somewhere, maybe:

Build civilization? Why? That’s what I should’ve asked my dad. Maybe he was fucking with me. One last troll for his second favorite son.


Who knew civilization would eventually decivilize man.


The progressive stack was on the verge of tumbling down. It wobbled a little after taking Asians out for being too successful. It barely stood erect after the removal of gay white men. Now, every minority who isn’t a democrat, or left leaning, is slowly being plucked out. Any day now the final bloc will be removed, and I’ll be there to laugh hysterically and scream Jenga.


I don’t understand why people fear the singularity, we’re already automatons—all we need is one last program…and my company will probably be the one to develop it.


The small minority with the loudest whines and cries will be the ones to raze civilization, then sow our sad paradise with salty tears.


Petulant children standing on the shoulders of giants, throwing rocks at their feet, too stupid and ignorant of history to understand…


They scream we have nothing to lose but our chains while rocking Apple watches. You are not a revolutionary, you are annoying.


Oscar Wild was right: punctuality is the thief of time, from a label’s there’s no escape, and people know the cost of everything but the value of nothing. 


I sold my car once I was able to register my husky, Hendrix, as a service dog. Driving in a big city is hopeless and inefficient, so I take public transportation everyday. I only needed a car to drive to the beach to take Hendrix for walks in a place that had less H needles than the open air squat house the inner city turned into after legalization. 


Geez, I think I have more notes than the actual portion of the story I added haha. Sorry about that, guys—like I said, phone + writing = no bueno. But I like the notes. They add to the story, they just have to be added somewhere. Feel free to if you feel fitting while writing your portion—what’s mine is yours.

Let’s continue this! Please please please, you’ll have fun.


Who Wants to Write a Chain Story?

I’ll start:

“Civilization was created by few, built by many, and given to most,” my father told me from his deathbed. “It was given to my generation, and we destroyed it, now it’s time for you to create a new one.”

If you want to play, create a new post with the above lines, and contribute your vision. I guess the topic would be something along the lines of changing/rebuilding the world, which could go a lot of ways.

My comment section will be the hub for each part of the story–just post the link to your post.

The name of the story can be figured out at the end of it, but feel free to post suggestions.

Not sure if anyone will want to do this haha…but fuck it.

Writing My First Test Article….About Golfing

I need to make some extra cash, so I decided to sign up for a freelance writing site. I took the writing test, passed, now I have to write a 250-500 word sample article…about golf driving ranges. Oy vey.

I think it might be too irreverent.


The driving range contains a wonderful mix of people from different backgrounds all trying to do one thing: hit the hell out of a ball with a semblance of skill. I’m here to provide a few tips on how amateurs and professionals alike can have success at the driving range.

Strategically Choose Your Tee Box

Don’t take the first tee box you see. Walk down up and down the aisle, watch a few swings from other golfers, until you spot the absolute worst—that’s who you should practice next to. Whenever you savagely slice a ball into the protective fence, take a minute, and watch your neighbor miss the ball completely, and get back to practicing knowing you’re better than at least one person. “At least I’m not as bad as that guy” is the perfect defense against demoralization; you will never get better if you think you suck, so watch other people suck instead.


Everything is better with a smidge of booze, and everyone performs better with a smidge of booze, so bring a little something to sip on while you perfect your form. BUT DON’T GET DRUNK. There’s a thin line between that guy who has a few beers and (thinks he) plays like Tiger Woods, and the hammered man who misses the ball repeatedly, swears at his club like it just hit on his girlfriend, before chucking it down the range further than any ball he’d ever hit.

Have Fun

Unless you’re a professional golfer, or a masochist, you’re at the driving range to have some fun, maybe release a little stress, so start your session with a little silliness. A few Happy Gilmore swings are just as fun as they look, and they give you the opportunity to unload your anger on a nonliving object without caring about your horrible form and slicing—or going to jail for battery.

Learn From the Best

It’s 2019, you shouldn’t even be reading this article, you neanderthal. Here are six simple steps to maximize your performance at the driving range.

  1. Take out your phone

  2. Open the YouTube app

  3. Type in “How to get better at the driving range

  4. Watch the video with the most views

  5. Emulate what the instructor does

  6. Repeat the previous tip until you are Tiger Woods

I used to not enjoy golfing, despite my love for hitting things, especially after a few drinks, but by following my aforementioned tips, I unintentionally became a fantastic golfer. I’m not on the PGA tour, but I compete in the occasional charity tournament; I’ve even placed a few times, all because of my tips on having success at the driving range.

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 :).


Is the name of my favorite sushi restaurant in my city.

And it kind of sounds like Sunday, so I’m going with it.

Hello beautiful people. I am not totally smashed off brandy and sangria.

I had a great day. I woke up early—despite drinking too much last night—drank a few gallons of coffee less than normally and got some reading in. I’m already behind this year on my reading—I think I’m about two years behind in total—but I’m going to make up for it. I have a dozen new books that I haven’t gotten to yet. I chose to start IQ84 by Murakami. I have a few books from him, but I decided to start this one first because it’s dystopian, my favorite genre. He’s an amazing writer. I’m ashamed I haven’t read one of his novels yet. BUT, I did read one of his short stories.  A super short story. And one of my all time favorites called: On Seeing the 100% Perfect Girl One Beautiful Morning. It’s sappy and cute, and kind of sad at the same time. I’ve read it a few dozen times, and it still makes me smile.

After reading for a few hours, I took my two huskies, Luna and Aeris, on a walk. The former is white, the latter is black, and when they lay together on their doggie bean bag, they look like the Yin and Yang symbol…at least to me. I’ve been spoiling them too much lately: left over steak and chicken, one fiji apple every night, along with all the standard dog treats and rawhides.

My pretty walk with my pups inspired me to come home and write. I added more to a couple of my drafts, did some character building, but then got bored and uninspired.

What happened next was shocking: I went back and started to revise my previously published stories. Shock and awed? Me too. And it was fucking fun. I’m working on one of my favorite stories, Luna C. Soledad, and I’m hoping to republish it within the next week, along with the part two I’ve been struggling with. I’ve quadrupled the amount of words for just the first iteration of Luna, and I’m not finished. I always considered that story just an outline that needed a fuck load more detail to properly display my girls.

I’m surprisingly optimistic regarding my writing recently. I feel like I’ve almost broken through my need to write the way I’m supposed to…and find my own voice.

My writing got cut short because a friend popped into my garage out of nowhere. I love him, but I really wanted to write for four or five more hours.

“I miss you, B,” he said, breaking my heart. My friends put up with my antisocial shit, and I love them even more for it.

“That’s just how you are,” they say, pulverizing the pieces of my heart.

Shortly after he came over, my other friend came over with his baby, then another friend and their baby, then my housemates came home with their baby. It was beautiful. Three innocent souls, who can’t even talk, pulling on my beard and giggling at me making funny faces. I’m a piece of shit, chain-smoking alcoholic and recreational drug users, but I fucking love kids, and they love me, because they know I’m just a six foot two child.

I wish I was able to have children. I know I wouldn’t be a good dad, and I wouldn’t dare risk them inheriting my mental issues, but the primary reason behind my antinatalism is my appraisal of our fucked up world. I can’t bare bring kids into a world this fucked up, but maybe one day I’ll afford enough to build a pretty ranch in Colorado, or somewhere else away from the toxicity I engulf on the daily living in a coastal city. Ehh probably not going to happen.

I had to cut out from the baby shenanigans to go get my haircut.

I fucking hate getting my haircut.

I don’t like being touched, or worse, confined to a place where I can’t runaway from social interaction.

I go to the same Viet lady every time. I swear, I’ve watched her quietly cut dozens of people’s hair, but she doesn’t shut up the entire time she cuts mine. It’s insane. Today, I spoke to her more than all of my sisters combined in the last month—it was horrifying. She’s nice though, but her heavy accent makes it impossible for me to respond with anything besides: oh, really? Yea, that’s weird. Damn. Wow. Yea, I think so too.

And she cut my hair too short this time. I went from six inches of aubrown loveliness, to an inch or so. Ehh fuck it. Hair grows back. Short hair is easy too.

Now, I’m back home, chilling with some booze and music, trying to decide if I want to cook Bourbon chicken with a tarragon and mushroom  cream sauce, or pork tacos with my Spanish rice, or  a steak, baked potato and asparagus—I’m leaning towards the latter.

Tomorrow night, or the next, I still have to check, I’m going up to the city to see my lover. She’s a lovely broken soul, and she’s falling for me.


I’m not a good person to fall for. I’m a good person to fall with. Does that make sense? I don’t know.

We’re better off as friends who debase each other, in the prettiest of ways, on an hourly basis when we’re together.

We don’t only fuck, we listen to Tool and Deftones and Portishead and Incubus and Smashing Pumpkins and a bunch of other music. She doesn’t like hip hop, which is kind of a downer since I’m a hip hop kid through and through, though she does love classics like Passin Me By, but she loves pretty much everything else. I introduced her to a dude name Puma Blue, a cool ass low fi blues musician, who we’re seeing in a few weeks on her dime. I hate that she bought tickets. Luckily, I’m a cheap whore, so the 34 bucks they cost gets her before the show sex, during the sex clit flicking and fingering, after the show ravaging, after shower slow fucking to Puma Blue, a night cap fucking, and  the best type of  in the morning fucking.


There’s nothing like first in the morning sex. I’ve woken up to my dick already inside of her mouth, or her downstairs place………just kidding, her pussy.

Morning sex is the bees knees.

“The best part of waking up, is a hard as dick to fuck.”


The best part of waking up, is big ass dick in your butt.”

Which one is better? Poll

Anyways, she’s an amazing fucktoy. She knows exactly what she wants, and she wants me to fulfill every fantasy of her’s.

Being a hasbian, she has quite a few things she needs from a man; I’m lucky to be that man.

The one thing I can’t do is rape fantasies. She loves them, though. I can’t even understand how I can fulfill it, since I’m a person she wants to fuck, and always wants to fuck, right? I don’t know. I understand it’s a fantasy, I just don’t understand the dynamics. I don’t think I can do it regardless. I don’t like it. I have my own experience with sexual abuse, and I’ve known many others, mostly women, of course, who’re scared from some type of sexual assault. Not to kill the sexy talk.

Instead, I told my lover I would write her a short story about a guy raping a girl, and her falling In love with her assailant. I feel creepy writing it, and I probably should, but I love taboo subjects, and I love making my lover happy, so I’ll fulfill her fantasy.

Wow, this is far too long.

Here’s the beginning of my lover’s story. It could actually go a lot of ways.

I think I’m going to call her story: I Never Said I Love You

I learned her name a few days ago. I knew it would be something pretty.


It’s a good name. Very fitting.

I guessed Rose, so I was kind of close—they’re both flowers, but her name doesn’t really matter anymore. She’ll never see me again.


Oy Vey

I started another story…fudge. Without looking, I think I have thirteen started. I really need to learn how to finish things and not be an erratic mess of a wannabe writer.

My attention span and tendency to despise everything I work on is a real bitch that I’m having a hard time putting in check.

I know writing shouldn’t be easy—at least good writing—but should it really be this hard? Am I doing something wrong? I don’t know. It’s probably just me.

I think my unpublished drafts contain some of my best writing, but I can’t publish them; likely because it’s too me, too raw, too revealing, which is kind of interesting since many of the people who read my posts say that they like me because I’m raw. Imagine, my current posts are raw, what can be in my drafts? Maybe you’ll find out.

Anyways, the new story is about a failed artist, who previously did anti-war, anti-conservative, generally progressive art, who jumps on the new right/alt-right wave and becomes famous, but feels fake(they are) and dirty for going against their morals for fame and money. I’m not a very good synopsis writer, but you get the gist. Maybe I’ll post the first few paragraphs today.

Bury Your Past. Never Dig it Up…Unless You Want to Get Dirty

I wanted to give you the world

all of it yours

but all I had was sweet nothings

So you turned your back to me

decided to leave


once learning

you lost something



one of a kind

Too precious for you

pure and refined

                            a diamond in the ruff

                              another one buffed


touched up

Now I shine

with a beautiful mind

That you will never have

She loves me for me

Lives to please

My beautiful beholder

All I have for you now

all you’re allowed

is my hot head and cold shoulder

Soon you’ll be forgotten

A slice of my past

Putrid and rotten

Too nasty to taste

Love and hate

are too precious to waste

on those not worthy

So leave me the fuck alone.



I’m not very good at poetry….but I tried :).