tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-64020549817773772992024-03-13T07:38:42.862-07:00Morbo2000Fables, Myths and Legendsm2khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16897729559077244089noreply@blogger.comBlogger86125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6402054981777377299.post-7763447104081411352018-01-30T18:56:00.001-08:002018-01-30T18:56:21.321-08:00Thank youGot a tax statement from Amazon. I'm still blown away that people are buying my Kindle releases. Thank you all so very much.<br />
<br />
And I'm sorry I barely respond to your messages. I just don't know what to say. <br />
<br />
But if you are caught in that loop, I wish the best for you. You can free yourself - if you want to.<br />
<br />
I reduced both books to $.99 because I can't actually give it away for free. One of you guys made a pdf and shared it with others. I strongly encourage this.<br />
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Thank you. <br />
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<br />m2khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16897729559077244089noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6402054981777377299.post-25061186794419746602017-04-05T14:54:00.000-07:002017-04-06T14:46:19.936-07:00Pieces of Paradise<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">La'aloa beach. White sand, </span></span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: verdana, sans-serif;">a tropical sea, </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: verdana, sans-serif;">perfect weather. He knows a lot of the people on the beach. They mingle with faces he doesn't know. But at least everyone's local. No damn tourists. Such a beautiful day, he thinks. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">And he's been waiting. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">No idea how long. Like time is stuck. Sometimes his watch beeps. But it's broken. When he looks at it he can't tell what time it. When it stops, a glow of approaching euphoria slips over him. His body sags, warm and content. So sleepy. He closes his eyes and can hear the soft hiss of waves kissing the beach. Trade winds rustle through palm trees above.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Hey."</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">He looks out the window and sees her. Zoe. His daughter. His life. A sweet relief like washes through him. Tears come to his eyes but he blinks them away and gives her the same cocky smile she grew up with.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Hey," he nods. "Girl, what took you so long?"</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Me?" she asks innocently. Same laughing eyes she had as a baby. Dark brown, full of sunlight and mischief. "Dad, I've been waiting for you."</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Well hell girl, get in," he says. "Been too long." </span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">Zoe shakes her head. She steps back and smiles. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">A sad smile? </span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"No Dad. You need to come out to me."</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">Sol realizes he's still in his truck. Without a second thought, he opens the door.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Ok girl," he shrugs. "But I still want to go surfing with you. You still remember how to surf, right?"</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"I never forgot any of it, dad," she says. </span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">He steps out and straight into his daughter's arms. The sun is so bright. And Zoe is little again. Her face is buried in his stomach. He feels the warmth of tears as she hugs him fiercely. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Hey," he says softly, "everything's ok."</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">He smiles and closes his eyes.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">~~~~~~~~~~~~~</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="color: #222222;">In the dripping, morning gloom of a cloudforest, a digital watch beeped. When he killed the alarm, the ringing songs of crickets filled the air. Piercing notes from coqui frogs piped in. In the trees, roosting myna birds chirped and whistled. Down the mountain, a rooster began to crow. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Sol stared dully at the tent fabric. It's still dark in the outside. Still cold. With a groan, he crawled out of his sleeping bag and wrapped himself in grandma's quilt. Still smelled like her cheap cigars. Crazy old Molokai woman. Sol unzipped the tent, stretched and looked at the camper. As usual, she's already up. He can smell fresh coffee, toast and her shampoo. </span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Love. He opened the door. </span><span style="font-family: verdana, sans-serif;">She looked up from her phone and smiled.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">"Hey."<br /><br />"Hey," he nodded back. <br /><br />She returned to her phone, laughed and tapped the screen. Sol sat down. Music from the mainland played from wireless speakers. He leaned back and looked at Zoe. </span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Their haole genes are strong. </span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Like the music, her style is from 2500 miles away. Forever dressed in black, Sol knew she got picked on. But nothing phased this kid. Always finished what she started. Always top of her class. Hyper competitive. Sometimes Sol sees his brother's intense glare in her eyes.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Danny. Last time he saw his brother was when he first met Zoe. He was putting his surfboard into his truck when a convertible rental car pulled up and honked. He looked over and saw a baby standing up in the passenger seat.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">"Soledad Tomo Sakai!"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Sol looked at the driver and grinned. He knew his brother had a kid but Danny lived in Oahu. Kid had no mom. She went back to the mainland. His brother didn't know where. He's not even sure about her name. She called herself Crystal but Danny thought that's just her stripping name. Or maybe because she liked meth. </span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Just another crazy haole from the mainland. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Danny yanked a beer can from a six pack stringer between his legs and tossed one to Sol. Then he opened the passenger door. The baby peeked out. Uncombed hair, dirty face and filth stains on her clothes. Grubby. Like no one gave a shit. But neither did Sol who laughed when his brother asked him.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />"Me?</span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">" Sol asked. "Wat? You crazy, brah?"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />The baby scooted out the door, grabbed the seatbelt and carefully lowered herself to the ground. Then she stood up, casually looked around and walked away.<br /><br />"Call a hospital or a cop or something," said Sol. "Not me, brah. No way."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">"No one else I can trust Sol," said Danny.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />True. Their parents were dead. Grandma's dead. They knew the names of a few blood relatives on the mainland, but never met them. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">"Yeah?" </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">For a moment, his brother looked pensive. But then his usual asshole grin popped back up. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">"Yeah, brah. Zoe's smart. Potty trained herself! No need no teacher. She just needs love. Like mom and dad kine love"<br /><br />Sol looked at his brother. </span><span style="font-family: verdana, sans-serif;">Fucking Danny. Moves to Honolulu, bangs some crazy stripper and comes home with a kid. </span><span style="font-family: verdana, sans-serif;">And Danny was serious. His older brother always did what he wanted and left others to deal with the mess. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />"Where you going?" asked Sol.<br /><br />"Away," shrugged Danny. "Sol, just give Zoe a chance. She's good. Special. You'll see."<br /><br />Sol nodded. He looked over at the baby. Now she was on the beach. She tripped but caught a papaya tree before doing a header into the lava rocks. He looked back at Danny.</span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />"You ever coming back?"<br /><br />"C'mon," smiled Danny. </span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">They watched the baby squeal and point at a sea turtle that surfaced for air. </span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Danny leaned back in his seat and pointed his beer at the beach. "Who'd give up that?"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />But that was exactly what Danny gave up when he put the bullet in his brain. <br /><br />Zoe was his kid. No more dad. Never knew mom. Man, what a couple of dumb fucks, think Sol for the millionth time. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">"Oh, hey," said Zoe waving her phone. "I need your card."<br /><br />Sol sighed. Damn thing costs $70 bucks a month. Connects Zoe to the world. Not sure if that's good, but she says it is. And it does have good surf reports.<br /><br />"Mm," he nodded digging out his wallet. "What's the surf report?"<br /><br />"Northswell. 3-5 feet. But forget Pines" she said squinting at the swell map. "More west. Try Lymans or Kahalu'u."<br /><br />He frowned. Not much Zoe does bothered him. But her squint bothered him.<br /><br />"Eh! Where da glasses?" he demanded.<br /><br />"Do you mean," asked Zoe slowly as if addressing an imbecile, "where are my glasses?" <br /><br />He rolled his eyes. Zoe speaks the same way his mom from San Diego spoke to him and Danny when they were her age.<br /><br />"Yes. My apologies," he fake smiles. "But you appear to be neglecting the use of your corrective lenses. And as you may recall, Dr. Wu was most insistent that you wear them when looking at your phone.</span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />Zoe laughed and slapped the table. "Brah! You talk li one dumb fuckin' haole!"<br /><br />"Just wear the glasses, Zoe. Damn things cost a fortune."<br /><br />"Yeah, yeah" she said digging them out of her backpack. "And father, it is good we can converse like this."<br /><br />He looked up, suspiciously. "Why?"<br /><br />"CPS interview next week."<br /><br />Anger and misery flash like a storm over the sea. Sol closed his eyes. Goddamn Child Protective Services again. He looked at Zoe.<br /><br />"Already?" <br /><br />"Yeah," said Zoe. "Got the letter."<br /><br />He looked at the folded, piece of paper. An innocuous looking thing. But it's a knife. A knife that cuts things apart. He rubbed his eyes and looked at his watch. They have to leave in six minutes to beat school traffic. But his mind is here. Now. No decent clothes for the interview. No steady job. No shoes, no socks. No birth certificate. All he had was this perfect kid. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Zoe put on her glasses and slid away the phone. She crossed her arms and stared.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">"Should I be worried?"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">"Nah" he smiled. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">This happened every few years. His surfer buddy was a lawyer. Their guardian angel. But the kid needed more. So they came up with an escape plan. It soothed Zoe's nightmares when she was little. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">"Ok," Zoe frowned. "But remember what we said, yeah?"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">"I remember," nodded Sol. "If anything happens-"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">"-just run away. We'll meet at La'aloa," they finished together.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />~~~~~~~~~~~~~<br />She looks at his urn. She can tell it's carved from an 'ohia tree because the artist left a band of natural bark. Leis woven from flowers, orchids and maile vines are draped over it. Floral scents from the jungle mix with the tang of the sea. Kahalu'u beach. Water so clear, she sees a school of yellow fish from her chair in the pavilion. Tourists in snorkeling masks explore a calm reef while surfers ride the waves outside. An auntie who's name she has forgotten finishes her speech and shouts something in Hawaiian. Enthusiastic clapping, hooting and hollering erupts from the audience. <br /><br />And now it is her turn.<br /><br />Stuck in a dream, she walks up to the podium. Fear of speaking in front of crowds, fear of relatives she left behind, fear of fucking up trembles through each step. But as she gets closer, a wave of calmness spreads over her. Soothing love, aloha. It holds her gently, like a child. She begins to speak.<br /><br />"Grandpa. I owe you everything. For my life in Hawaii after mom died. For the life I have today with my children."<br /><br />After those words, her speech was forgotten. How many times did grandpa take her to this beach? How many bento lunches did they eat here while he told her stories about mom as a kid? Her past returns. Like the waves on the beach. She was sixteen when she moved. She didn't want to. But everything changed the day mom never showed up. She remembered getting bitchy. Talking shit about mom to other kids. But when the police car showed up, her life in California was taken away. Traffic accident. Simple as that. She never had a dad and now she didn't have a mom. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">But she did have a grandpa. <br /><br />People called her mom Dr. Sakai. She was a director of media. Forever on her phone, forever staring at screens. On any given day, mom might be compiling code, drafting a press release or kissing her goodbye before flying off to China for a conference. Everything revolved around tech. But for every vacation, they'd fly to Hawaii. Grandpa's house had no TV. No wifi. None of their screens worked in his tin-roofed, jungle shack. Nothing to do but sit on his lanai and look at the sea. And talk. Mom and grandpa had their own language. <br /><br />"Eh, girl" said grandpa. "You like go surf, or wat?"<br /><br />"Shoots" smiled mom. "But I need sunscreen." <br /><br />"Sunscreen?" frowned grandpa. "How you figgah?"<br /><br />"Well father," she winked at me, "scientific data backs up sunscreen as a viable preventive for various forms of skin cancer. To go without UV protection beneath a tropical sky is crazy."<br /><br />"Ahh," nodded grandpa looking at me. "Health concerns. Wise. Yet you work 60 hours a week in a cubicle for some soulless corporation. You never see the sun and look like a cave fish in your bikini. Now that, my dear Zoe, is crazy."<br /><br />"Eh! </span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">No make fun. You da lolo,</span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">" huffs mom. "A</span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">re you still drinking yourself into a stupor each night, dear father?"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />"True dat," grins grandpa opening another beer. "Ah, Zoe. How I've missed you!"<br /><br />Her words poured out. When she was done, her face was streaked with tears. Her kids looked up at her nervously. They didn't know Hawaii. They never knew this part of her life. But the audience began their rowdy cheers and foot stomping. As she stepped down, a cousin she actually remembered stood up to hug her. Kaleo. The jerk that hid geckos in her clothes and laughed at her mainland accent.<br /><br />"Beautiful, Honey Girl," says Kaleo hugging her. <br /><br />"Honey Girl?" grins her eldest child shooting a look to her brother. </span></div>
m2khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16897729559077244089noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6402054981777377299.post-26607932831226802292017-01-22T16:13:00.000-08:002017-01-22T16:13:01.237-08:00Hey thanks!<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">First off, I am fine. Healthy, hardly productive and very happy. Mahalo for the concern! </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And I am seriously AMAZED at all the emails I still get from you guys. Or that people still read this blog. Or buy the books. Crazy.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I'm sorry if I never responded to your email. I've always been a bit of a recluse so forgive me. Because I am lazy, here are the answers to the questions I get asked the most.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>Will I write again?</b> Technically, this is writing so, Yeah. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>Will it be Tracks 2?</b> Not for awhile, if at all. But I won't give a definitive Yes or No.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>When will you write a new story?</b> Maybe soon? I have stories in my head but probably not what you would expect...</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Take care out there and Aloha,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">m2k</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span>m2khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16897729559077244089noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6402054981777377299.post-56761179577031365552016-08-04T10:32:00.000-07:002016-08-04T10:32:39.799-07:00Group Therapy Girl ~~~~!Also get a FREE book!<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Hello!</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I got so many nice messages, I forced myself to make time to write a story. Is that vain? Anyways, I've been slammed with life so I thought I'd make <u>Stories From the Moth People </u><b>FREE</b>. Download it for free on <b>August 5, August 6 and August 7</b>. </span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Aloha,</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">M2K</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<a href="https://www.amazon.com/Stories-Moth-People-Morbo2000-ebook/dp/B01GSHCEJ8/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1465658690&sr=1-1" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;" target="_blank">Download Stories From the Moth People </a><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/s/ref=dp_byline_sr_ebooks_1?ie=UTF8&field-author=Morbo2000&search-alias=digital-text&text=Morbo2000&sort=relevancerank" target="_blank">Review it on Amazon</a></span></div>
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<a href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/14427301.Morbo2000" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;" target="_blank">Review it on Goodreads</a></div>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "times";"></span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>NOTE</b>: International readers must use their own country's Amazon. Like Canada uses www.amazon.ca or UK uses https://www.amazon.co.uk/</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Group Therapy Girl</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">Jeanette sits in a circle of empty chairs. She stifles another yawn and rubs her eyes. It's been a long day at work and now this crap. Since it's only Wednesday, she tries not think about it too much. Wednesdays. The asshole of the work week. Mondays and Tuesdays are tolerable. Thursday has Friday to look forward to. But Wednesday? </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">Ugh, she sighs.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Hi Jenny! Here's roll call! See you at the follow up!" chirps Cassie the unbearably joyful boss of this hellhole. In Jeanette's professional opinion, Cassie is completely insane. Never trust ridiculously happy people. </span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">She glumly accepts the clipboard and mutters, "It's Jeanette", but Cassie never hears her. She's already fluttered off to the other grumpy counselors. Jeanette looks at her list and sees six CMs, three MPs and one V. The usual mealy lot of losers. Most of the names are familiar but two are new. The CMs are Court Mandated, hence roll call. Jeanette has to take roll call twice. At the start and after the coffee break. It's not uncommon for CMs to go out for a cigarette and never come back. When this happens, Cassie will cheerfully pass the news on to their parole officers. The MPs usually make it through the whole session. They have incentive, for MP stands for Methadone Program. To keep their doses coming, MPs are forced to sit through group counseling just like the CMs. </span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">Cynically, Jeanette thinks counseling is why a lot of CMs and MPs sneak off. Not only are they forced to be here, but group session is a hornet's nest of relapse triggers. Tale upon tale of wistful euphoria. No one pays attention to common sense or cautionary tales of depravation. But when someone goes on about heroin in pornographic detail, everyone leans forward eagerly. Must be a potent poison, thinks Jeanette. So many of them are willing to go back to jail for just one more hit.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">The V's are voluntary. Mostly people who can't afford rehab clinics. They hope to discover the cure in this Salvation Army storage room. But Jeanette knows that help is minimal and probably not very helpful at all. For example, Jeanette is a professionally trained marriage counselor. Only the terms of her parole keep her here. If it wasn't for the third DUI and community service requirements, she would be at home, sipping her wine. The closest Jeanette can relate to heroin addicts is she once took two Vicodins after spraining her wrist. The only addiction recovery training she received was a manual from Cassie. It looked suspiciously similar to the manual in her court mandated traffic/alcohol education class except the word 'alcoholic' was replaced with 'addict'. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">Initially, Jeanette was assigned to alcoholics like herself. But the library needed the room back for senior citizen bingo. The drunks were moved to the rec center and Jeanette was transferred to the Salvation Army. Now she works off her community service surrounded by dope fiends. After the initial, shocking glimpse into their lives, Jeanette grew bored. Heroin addicts are like lemmings stuck in a loop. Somehow they always find their way back to the cliff. Jeanette sat through story after story. Always the same story. Always the same cliff. They are doomed because most of them don't actually want to quit. They just got caught.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">It's enough to make you want to drink, thinks Jeanette. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br />It's 5pm. The mopey drug addicts shuffle in. Many seem to have an aversion to soap and water because the room fills with the reek of unwashed humanity. Everyone looks depressed except Cassie who kicks things off with an inspirational speech. Jeanette stands with the other glum counselors as Cassie leads the room in prayer. None of the counselors bother to bow their heads. Dr. Maven, a psychologist who was arrested for tax fraud, openly glares at Cassie. Jeanette sighs. Time for another round of lemmings that never learn.</span><br />
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Cassie herds the addicts into groups. This should be easy, for the court assigns them a group letter. Group A, Group B, etc. But there is always confusion and ten minutes is wasted getting people settled. Jeanette makes eye contact with everyone in her group before she begins. Time to introduce herself and do roll call. <br /><br />"Good evening" she nods. "Most of you know me. For the new faces, my name is Jeanette Peters. Welcome to group therapy. First order of business is roll call. Then we will briefly share our recovery progress. At 6pm there is a fifteen minute break. Meeting ends at 7:30pm. Any questions? No? Let us begin."<br /><br />She places the clipboard on her lap, looks down and frowns. An unfamiliar CM with a foreign name is at the top of the list. Her first hassle of the night. She clears her throat and gives it a try.<br /><br />"Kahj-Kad-"<br /><br />"Don't hurt yourself" interrupts an irritated voice, "just say Kym."<br /><br />Jeanette looks up into the face of a girl wearing too much makeup. Thick outlines of black eyeliner frame blue eyes. The girl looks hostile and frowns through glossy, blood red lips. Sheesh, thinks Jeanette, how long does it take to cake all that makeup on? Beneath the girl's black leather jacket is a dress that reveals her bust is powdered to match her face. A long brazen slit opens from her thigh ending in ridiculously high platform heels. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">A slut, thinks Jeanette who ignores the interruption and continues.<br /><br />"Kaaa-hadja Ameeree?"<br /><br />The girl grips the armrests on her chair, leans forward and swivels her head back and forth like a snake. "K-y-m" she says slowly, "Amiri."<br /><br />An unfamiliar man sitting next to her chuckles. Without turning to face him, the girl suddenly lashes out and punches him. As he doubles over, Jeanette realizes they are a couple. And he is the V. Jeanette studies him for a moment. Filthy, greasy jeans, black combat boots and a tacky orange shirt that says 'I got lei'd in Hawaii!'.<br /><br />"If you're gonna fuck around" growls the girl, "then fuck off!"<br /><br />"Well, I'm sure I'm sorry" responds the guy insincerely while squeezing her knee. She slaps his hand away but cracks a tiny smile.<br /><br />"Ok, ok" says Jeanette who drops into her professional counselor voice, "let's stay focused. We have simple rules. No judging and definitely no hittin-"<br /><br />"Can't we just start?" demands the girl. "Why do we need names? I mean isn't this supposed to be secretive?"<br /><br />"Anonymous" corrects the guy in the orange t-shirt.<br /><br />"Whatever!" says the girl. "I'm here because I didn't want to go to rehab AGAIN! So my fucking dad called the fucking cops! I got pulled over and went to jail for two days! Can you fucking believe that shit?!"<br /><br />"Wow. Two nights? That's fucked up" says a CM shaking her head. "I'd lose it if my dad did that to me."<br /><br />"Actually it was only one night-" starts the guy in the orange shirt again.<br /><br />"Shut UP!" commands the girl elbowing him. "Like you ever had to shit and puke in a cell! I took like ten shits in 24 hours!"<br /><br />Jeanette grimaces. The way drug addicts frankly discuss their bodily functions never fails to disgust her. She clears her throat, "Okay now-"<br /><br />One of the MPs leans forward and points at the guy in the tacky orange shirt, "Dude, kicking in jail is NOT easy. It's freezing in there, the guards suck and it smells nasty. It's pretty harsh."<br /><br />"Yeah!" chimes in the purple haired girl. "And they impounded my car! Who knows when I'll get it back?!"<br /><br />"Damn girl" says another CM shaking his head. "Your dad's an asshole."<br /><br />Jeanette frowns. Group session is not going well. The new CM hijacked the meeting. Hmm. Look at the way the foul-mouthed harlot dresses. She obviously loves the attention. Another narcissist defending an eggshell ego. Let's give it a poke, thinks Jeanette.<br /><br />"How do you feel about this the rocky relationship with your father?" asks Jeanette. "Do you feel he is disappointed in you? He was forced, after all, to call the police."<br /><br />"Rocky?" snorts the girl. "We're good. He's just like, super old fashioned."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"So..." says Jeanette pausing for effect, "You feel betrayed by his disappointment? How did you feel when you found out it was your own father that called the police?"</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"The cops? Shiiit!" laughs the girl. "Where my aunt lives, if they catch you with drugs, they'll shoot you and charge your family for the bullet! I'm just bitching because this is supposed to be group therapy right, Jenny?"</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"Yes" agrees Jeanette with a thin smile. "Through our group discussions we find common ground, including pain. And it's Jeanette."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"Yeah ok whatever" continues the girl waving her hand in a dismissive manner. "If anything, I think all drugs should be legal."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"I think that's a terrible idea" says the guy in the orange shirt.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"Why?" asks a CM twirling her hair. "At least people would be better informed about what they're getting into. I've seen some nasty, preventable wounds on the street."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"I think we're straying-" begins Jeanette but the girl with purple hair talks loudly over her.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"Like Fat Pete!" she blurts out. "You ever see that guy in the park? Skinny hippie guy dragging a swollen leg around?"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"You guys ever get an infection from skin popping?" asks a MP. "Leaves pus holes."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"Eww!"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"Ok" says Jeanette using a firm tone. "Let's get back on-"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"Hold on Jenny" says the purple haired girl, "you're gonna love this one. I once saw an abscess on this grimey train kid...and it was as big as a fucking lemon! I shit you not! The best part is he popped it on a dare! I was like five feet away and it totally smelled like sweaty ass crack and cheese! I puked strawberry Boone's all over the place!"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Jeanette leans back in her chair, throughly disgusted with her life. She looks down at her watch. Fifty more minutes to go. Then maybe a twenty minute of follow up with Cassie. Goddamn Wednesdays, she thinks looking at the dope addicts. They're all smiling and laughing like the doomed little lemmings they are. The guy in the orange shirt is the only one not participating in the girl's repulsive narratives. He looks up at Jeanette and their eyes touch for an instant. He shrugs and turns back to the girl. <br /><br /><br /> </span></div>
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<b>Stories From the Moth People</b> is now available on <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Stories-Moth-People-Morbo2000-ebook/dp/B01GSHCEJ8/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1465411114&sr=1-1" target="_blank">Amazon</a>!<br />
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<br />m2khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16897729559077244089noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6402054981777377299.post-50207526427349943632016-07-24T16:42:00.000-07:002016-07-24T16:42:30.756-07:00Morbo and Me<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Hello!</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">First off, let me assure any worried people I am A-Ok. No, I did not relapse something awful and crawl into another hole. I went on vacation and got super busy with life. So I was pleasantly surprised when I checked in to see so many messages! That was really touching and neat so Thanks.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The Morbo thing is kinda toxic because I'm clean and trying to move on. As many of you know, that can be a monumental struggle. So when I went off to surf and hang out with my family -I left it all behind. Then I decided it's time to move! Again. So now that fills my days as I look for a new life in a new land. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">To be honest, I wasn't sure if I would/could write anymore Morbo stuff. I enjoy writing but some of the messages scared me. I am not pro-drug. I am not anti-drug. Historically, people will do whatever they want to do regardless of me. That is life. But I worry. I see Morbo stuff as tales of love set in random universes. Not a manual on bad behavior.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But they are fun to write. I enjoy putting in connect the dot stuff in stories to make it all one tale. I have a few ideas I never explored. So maybe soon?</span></div>
m2khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16897729559077244089noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6402054981777377299.post-31714099597117215952016-06-23T13:19:00.000-07:002016-06-23T13:19:01.313-07:00The Marketing Scum Relapse<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">I awake to the embryonic hum of fans. Without any good drugs, I need the white noise from a box fan to sing me to sleep. The ceiling fan soothes my body temperature spikes while sleep purges my poisons. The fans also makes the puddle of oily sweat beneath me cold and uncomfortable. How long did I sleep this time? Maybe two hours? Three? I look at the clock. It says 7:27. This means nothing to me so I pick up my phone. 7:27pm, Tuesday. I did it. I slept for six hours. Healing sleep without heroin. Looking back, each withdrawal I go through is more intense. This one was insane. I almost called 911 more times than I almost called the Gargoyle, who is my dealer. When I wasn't shitting or puking, I exercised until I started shitting or puking. In between I guzzled Sprite, beer and Nyquil. This was one of the worst withdrawals I have ever experienced. But hell, I say that each time I get hooked again. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">I haven't done dope in six days. I am clean.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The physical withdrawal is pure agony but I'm no stranger to pain. Pain from shattered bones. Pain from not having medical insurance. There are worse things than pain. The real struggle is in the mind. The taste of euphoria lingers forever like the memory of love. But I don't think about that. I tell myself how easy it is to kick while I make another peanut butter sandwich. Yes, I have an indomitable will. I feel pretty good about myself as I mechanically chew the food. After I eat, I get sick almost instantly. The ordeals I face in the bathroom leave me exhausted. I stumble back to bed to hibernate some more. I feel like crap again, yet I'm smiling like a madman. Each time I wake up, I am stronger. It won't be long now. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">~~~~~~~~~~~~~</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">She approaches the door. It looks like all the other doors in the condominium complex. Dull gray paint, peephole, unit number. This door says #13. Some people add a potted plant or tree to showcase their individuality. The only unique characteristic for #13 is on the ground. Long, black smears of cigarette ash mixed with spit. The bush where the butts are kicked into is wilted and sickly looking. Sera opens the door with his spare key.</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Hello...?" she calls out politely as a wave of air conditioned cigarette smoke hits her. </span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">Sera walks in with a gift under her arm. A painting wrapped in brown paper. She kicks off her work shoes, sets the gift by the door and dumps her handbag on the console table. She has been away for five days. Three days at Burning Man with her old college friends and a work conference in San Jose. Naturally, he did not want to meet her friends, much less go to Burning Man. And he never called back about San Jose. Sera looks around and whistles.</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">Empty Gatorade, water and cough medicine bottles cover the dining table. The recycling bin is full of beer bottles and Sprite. A jar of peanut butter and bag of bread are on the counter. Sera can't decide what's stranger. The empty Cheez-It boxes stacked neatly on the couch or the empty Pepto-Bismol bottles that form a pyramid on the floor. And the coffee table should just be swept into the trash. The ashtray is so full of butts, it caught on fire. Again. Since the whole thing is clumpy and wet, he doused it with either beer or soda. Sera sniffs it. Definitely beer. Work clothes are strewn all over the room like he danced wildly and stripped off his garments one by one. And oddly enough, an exercise ball and two 15 pound dumbbells sit in the only clear space on the floor. Quietly she walks towards the bedroom. The door is open. She peeks inside and sees him curled up in a fetal position in the exact center of the bed. The comforter is wound up beneath him like a discarded cocoon. The sheet kicked to the floor. He's sweating, nude and completely passed out. </span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">Well, </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">thinks </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">Sera, I'll ask him later. </span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">I feel good as I walk down the hall to shower. Had some fucking crazy ass dreams. Talking statues, deserted malls, owls. Without opiates, I am so out of it I fail to notice my condo is clean. Fresh air, not a nicotine fog, breezes in through open windows. Hm. My bathroom door is closed. It opens. A nude Sera walks out wearing only her glasses. </span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"Oh!" she blushes. Sera always wears glasses because she is legally blind without them. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"I didn't know I had company" I smile. The rest of the conversation takes place in the shower, in the bed and finally on the couch.</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Oh my god, I missed that!" says Sera loading up her bong and taking a hit.</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Me too" I lie. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">I actually haven't missed anything but being high. But why mess with her good mood? Plus, after six days of opiate withdrawal, my animal nature has returned.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br style="color: #222222;" /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Oh!" coughs Sera looking at me, "I got you a present! Hold on! Here!"</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br style="color: #222222;" /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">She hands me the bong which has a loaded column of smoke. I inhale. She comes back with a paper wrapped square. I tear away the paper and pull out the picture. Two angels resting on their elbows. Alas, I am a philistine. I don't get it or care. But I know I've seen it before.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br style="color: #222222;" /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Wow" I say because my penis was just inside her. "Thanks."</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br style="color: #222222;" /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"It's a detail from Sistine Madonna by Raphael. Their far away eyes remind me of you."</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br style="color: #222222;" /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Yeah it's..." I struggle to think but without the pills, the false compliments come slowly, "very nice. Yeah."</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br style="color: #222222;" /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Can we hang it over the couch? It's the perfect spot and the unstained, maple frame matches the leather."</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br style="color: #222222;" /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Sure" I agree. "Yeah. That'd look good. I'll hang it up later. Court says I can't be naked and wield a hammer."</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br style="color: #222222;" /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">Sera squints at me confused for a second and then smiles. "Oh, ok" she laughs. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br style="color: #222222;" /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">Then she leans against me. Her body sags into mine as her arms fiercely encircle me. I hope she doesn't say it. Sera is too dear to lie to. Those three words she offers up every now and then...but she she just rests there. Finally she sighs. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br style="color: #222222;" /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"I have a favor to ask you" she says.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br style="color: #222222;" /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Yeah?"</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">~~~~~~~~~~~~~~</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">Sera is an executive admin. Good money, easy job because her boss likes her. But she has a nonsensical notion of getting into the dark world of marketing. Marketing is an even lower form of life than sales. But Sera is good to me, so I agree to go to a dinner hosted for all the job candidates. Unlike most dinners at fancy hotels, this won't be enjoyable. I can feel it in my bones. Not sure if Sera realizes this is another test because she's happy. But then again, she's always happy. It's kinda weird.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br style="color: #222222;" /></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">Thinking about Sera's dinner, I discover I'm nervous. This is usually not me but these are unusual times. My guts are still purging toxins from the withdrawal. Shitting like a seagull at any given time is a curse that lingers for at least a month after you quit. Trying to quietly pass gas could lead to horrible public shame. My bowels are uncontrollable. Sera walks in wearing tight silver pants with a wide, garish belt. Her blouse is too small these days and the buttons are stretched in protest. When she turns sideways, I can see her bra and belly. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br style="color: #222222;" /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Does this look ok?"</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br style="color: #222222;" /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">My guts twinge. I need to get to the bathroom. But before I can stop myself, I blurt out, "Only if you want them to laugh at you."</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br style="color: #222222;" /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"What?"</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br style="color: #222222;" /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">I rub my face. What the fuck is wrong with me? I look up and smile. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br style="color: #222222;" /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Sorry Sera. Still grouchy from my uh, stomach flu" </span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I say quickly while wincing from intestinal pain. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"But this is not a friendly dinner. You guys are on display so they can study you. Wear something more grown up...Uhm, more formal." </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"Ok" she shrugs as I lunge around towards the bathroom.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">On the toilet, I shit out my soul again. Mostly Cheez-Its and cookies. My soul is a piece of processed crap. I crawl back into the shower to remove the filth. Jesus. I can't do this. My tongue is black from Pepto-Bismol, I keep breaking out in a stinking, oily sweat and I'm so sleepy, I might pass out. But I said I'd go. Plus on paper, I'm a decent date. I have a business suit disguise and since I work in sales, I am an accomplished liar. But how? I select the one clean suit still in the garment bag from the cleaners and stare at my shaking hand. Jesus, I can't do this. Or can I?</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">And it happens so fast. Just like that. No second thoughts, no regrets. I leer at the twisted face in the mirror. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br style="color: #222222;" /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"How's this?" asks Sera. Now she's wearing some sort of two-piece purple office suit. If I recall, this is about as formal as her wardrobe gets. I fake smile.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br style="color: #222222;" /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Good. Hey can I use your car? I gotta make a quick stop before we head out."</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br style="color: #222222;" /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Ok, but-"</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br style="color: #222222;" /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Don't worry" I assure her. "Just get ready. I'll be back in time."</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br style="color: #222222;" /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Well, ok" shrugs Sera handing me her keys.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br style="color: #222222;" /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Oh and can I borrow like $200?"</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br style="color: #222222;" /></span></span>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">~~~~~~~~~~~~~</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">It was a complete disaster. Sera felt humiliated. The other job candidates were dressed to kill. They either flaunted athletically sculpted bodies in tiny dresses or strutted around confidently in expensive name brand suits. Most were blond and all were better at the game than poor Sera. There are three openings for Marketing Directors at the magazine. It was obvious Sera was not going to be one of them. At the condo, I pour her a coffee cup of whiskey. She holds it in her hands and stares glumly into the amber liquid.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br style="color: #222222;" /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"To you, Sera" I smile toasting her, "the only 100% human who applied."</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br style="color: #222222;" /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">It was a pathetic joke about the other applicants. They were fake. Fake hair, fake tits, fake smiles. In short, they were much better suited for a fashion magazine job than Sera. So I rub her back while she sulks because I am in a GREAT mood. The Gargoyle hooked me up with my old friend Roxicodone. One 30mg pill completely erased all the pride I harbored for kicking my habit. For the poppy spoke to me. It planted this seed in my soul and said, 'Yes, you can quit anytime but what do you want to do right NOW? I wanna get high. Higher and higher. So I took another on the car ride over. To push myself to the edge of the dream, I snorted a half pill in the restroom. As my head whipped up from the lines of powder on the toilet tank, I gasped with greedy, orgasmic pleasure. My meat is so weak but my soul soars with the sky. As I checked my nose in the mirror, a tiny, insignificant voice in the back of my skull buzzed in anger. Outrage at all the pain and work down the drain. Or up the nose. But fuck that guy. Fuck the world. Fuck you. I'm high... </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br style="color: #222222;" /></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">Back in my element, I worked the room. Not sure how Sera felt about that one. She didn't get introduced to the executive team that hires. But I did. I shook Ed 'The Guru' Dalton's manicured hand. I schmoozed behind my mask that glowed with that euphoric energy unique to oxycodone. The prime rib was good, the drinks complimentary and I enjoyed myself thoroughly. I had to tear myself away from the fake conversations so as not to abandon my frumpy date in her ill fitting clothes. She never moved from our table. Her mouth was a thin line. When I saw tears edged around her purple eyes, I knew it was time to go. </span></span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Sera left my condo when I showed her all the business cards I collected from the bimbos and executive jerks. I don't think I was showing off, but maybe I was. When you're in sales, this sort of behavior becomes second nature. But it was rude. Especially the phone numbers from the women I met under vague business pretenses. </span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I know how awkward Sera is around people. She misses social cues in conversations and can't read faces at all. She's just Sera. While she majored in marketing, I don't think the plastic life is for her. She's far too innocent.</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="background-color: transparent;">So I sit alone as my high grows dim like a fading star. I miss her inane chatter but maybe my empathy is kicked into overdrive because of the pills. Unconsciously, I reach into my suit jacket and remove the tiny plastic bag to study the contents. Still only two pills left. Maybe next time the Gargoyle will have some black tar I can buy. But my bank account is empty and payday is not for a week. I already owe Sera money, but I'm tempted to ask again. I pour whiskey into my body hoping it enhances my high so I can sleep. I sit in the silent gloom and think. Tomorrow I'll visit Sera to feel her out. If I can't get money, maybe I can get some of her painkillers. I hope she feels better. Maybe we can go eat brunch or do one of those stupid Sera things like walk around a flea market. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">Ahh, poor Sera, I think popping half a pill into my mouth and chewing thoughtfully.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Poor you, laments the voice in my skull.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">~~~~~~~~~~~~~</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Stories-Moth-People-Morbo2000-ebook/dp/B01GSHCEJ8/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1465945454&sr=8-1&keywords=morbo2000" target="_blank"><br /></a></b></span></div>
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<b><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Stories-Moth-People-Morbo2000-ebook/dp/B01GSHCEJ8?ref_=pe_584750_33951330" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Stories From the Moth People</span></a></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">by Morbo2000</span></b><br />
<b><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Stories-Moth-People-Morbo2000-ebook/dp/B01GSHCEJ8?ref_=pe_584750_33951330" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Now available on Amazon!</span></a></b></div>
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m2khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16897729559077244089noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6402054981777377299.post-39468683277780095032016-06-20T07:17:00.000-07:002016-06-20T07:17:13.389-07:00Not a quitter<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-3wMYvRqhUVQ/V2f6bwYAVrI/AAAAAAAAAJY/XOSc2ZFgdpAYWCPAtqhC_6plLgMjKDj5QCLcB/s1600/cGrant.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-3wMYvRqhUVQ/V2f6bwYAVrI/AAAAAAAAAJY/XOSc2ZFgdpAYWCPAtqhC_6plLgMjKDj5QCLcB/s200/cGrant.jpg" width="160" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Sorry for a shit post but I am horrible with dates. But the internet timestamps it forever...which will allow me to laugh when my future-self fucks me over.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I quit smoking 2 weeks ago. I waited 2 weeks before saying I quit because I am not a quitter. More of a repeat offender when it comes to addiction. But as of, <b>June 6, 2016</b> - no smoking! Just a lot of gum and caffeine. </span>m2khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16897729559077244089noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6402054981777377299.post-13335888648357001882016-06-16T13:27:00.000-07:002016-06-16T13:27:58.928-07:00The Owl and the Hippie<div style="color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"-crazy!" laughs the voice. "Fucking six classes in a day?! Night classes? Shit, I only go to school Tuesdays and Thursdays. To be honest, I think I'm gonna quit. Art school dropout will look good on my resume."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"You just have to learn to focus" responds a voice. A girl's voice. Loud and patronizing like she's talking to an idiot. "He's gonna take a full load next semester too, you know. And he has ADD."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"Really? I thought he was just twitchy from all the coke."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"He does cocaine?!" demands the female voice. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"Nah I'm just fucking with you" laughs the liar. "Hey, you want some of this balloon before I finish it?"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"No. It kills brain cells-"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">A yawning hum swallows me whole. I move far, far away.<br /><br />The instruments stopped working long ago. I stare without comprehension at the wooden keel slicing through an azure sea. Time is meaningless. The ship steers itself and I am no longer in control. I am a passenger. The ocean is warm, clear and spreads out forever. I lean down and dip my hand in the passing blue. It runs through my fingers like fading years. In the depths below, shadows appear. Colossal, towering silhouettes rise towards the surface. A forgotten city swallowed by the sea. Fish in cosmic colors appear. The tropical sea is rich here. In the gentle blue, a pure white landscape materializes. An octopus, startled by the ship, flashes blue, red, purple and vanishes kicking up sand. White sand. Shallow water. I look up as the ship beaches itself. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"I think that filthy hippie sold me some bunk shit" comes the complaining voice. "Feels like shitty speed."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"You ok? Honey? Hello?" </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">asks the female voice.</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> "What'd you guys take? Should I worry?"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"Him? Nah, he's fine. Dude, sit down! You're creeping me out."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br />I step off the ship. Much like riding an elevator on acid or surfing too long, the ground sways beneath my feet. But feeling </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">disoriented and </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">unstable is not a new feeling for me. I move forward towards the Owl. She stands upon a verdant cliff. An emerald jungle holds it's breath behind her. The sea swallows the world and the sky is a maddening shade of blue. In my daze, I can't tell if she is wearing a cape or if those are wings. Her head is an owl's head. A soft, gray rounded rectangle with wide yellow eyes. The bird's head sits atop a young woman's body. Nude, fierce and free. Hieroglyphic imagery flashes in my eyes and I feel the madness of beasts. Then I am aloft. I am one with the Owl. On silent wings, we soar where the sea kisses the sky. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"There" she says in an eerie, floating voice. A child's voice. Sexless. Toneless. "I have your story."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">My eyes return. I am on a grassy cliff above the sea. The Owl lifts her arms into the blue sky and screams. A piercing, unearthly sound that brings a darkening of mood and light. The blue sky melts and swirls with fiery, red creation. Light is subdued into a soft, purple twilight. The 8-pointed star rises in the east. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"I am the 827th Sibyl" says the Owl. "You have come before we met. You must return."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"I don't remember what is real anymore" I say honestly. "I am lost."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"You are found" says the Owl gently. "There is only one Universe and it never ends."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The yawning hum fills my ears again. I close my eyes and cover my ears as sound pours into me like a thousand bees. And then...Silence. When I open my eyes, t</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">he island has vanished and I stand inside a hole. An endless, claustrophobic hole thrust deep into the earth. A single shaft of light pierces the gloom. I look up at the Owl. She </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">casually reclines</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> in a wooden chair that dangles from an impossible height. The chair is grasped by flowering vines and lightly sways. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"Does it always have to hurt so much?" I ask the Owl. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"The pain is created by you. Not the Universe" says the Owl swinging above me. Her swaying movements paint shadows on the wall. Amazing shadows. Like water cascading down the walls, a cosmos appears in fingering streams. I stare in awe as starlight drips towards me. "Learn to forgive yourself. Learn to love yourself."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"But-"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"There is so much love waiting for you if you desire it" interrupts the Owl. "We will speak more when we meet."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"When will we meet?"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"Soon and forever. Now return." </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">At the bottom of the hole is the door to Jason's truck. It's stuck but I know the trick. You have to push in the door handle, yank up and pull. I open the door and drop into the Darkness.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">And I return. I look up and see the backs of colorful people swaying and dancing to music. Rainbow hued lights pour down from a stage. The air is filled with the reek of marijuana, body odor, patchouli and sage. Above the swaying crowd, is a projection of a bearded, overweight man playing a guitar. He transmits an aura of kindness and humor into the music which flows through the crowd. I know him. And I know where I am. I am found. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">As I stand up, I look in my hand. A slightly crushed can of Sprite. I take a sip and it's flat. The breeze in my mind has brought a level of clarity that is startling in it's intensity. I think I am sober. Or sane. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"Are you ok?" asks Mary. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I stare at my girlfriend. She's wearing the Grateful dead t-shirt she bought in the parking lot, jean shorts and Birkenstock sandals. She could walk into the mass of dancing people down the lawn and disappear...but Jason and I couldn't. We stand out in spiked leather jackets, long pants and combat boots. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"These people are free. These are my people" I blurt out.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"The hell they are" scoffs Jason punching my shoulder so hard I stagger backwards and fall to the grass. "Now that you're awake, give me some shrooms. Mary wouldn't let me roll you for cigarettes or drugs."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"But I saw the Owl" I explain standing up. "I saw everything which is actually nothing. There was a wooden ship, a chair, your truck door-"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"Do you want me to hit you again?"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"No" I reply. "But there are no shrooms. I ate them."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"You ate the whole quarter?" demands Jason. "I had $10 on that! You owe me asshole! That acid I got was shit! I'm sober and surrounded by hippies! I demand we go score!"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"I don't think he needs anymore" says Mary squatting down to look at me. With her three semesters of pre-med she likes to play doctor. But not in the fun ways. "Honey, your pupils are still dilated. I think you're done playing druggie."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"Druggie? He's a beer drinking fighter!" smiles Jason. "Dude! Get up! Lets go get some drugs! Why else come to this sad, smelly mass of losers?"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">~~~~~~~~~~~~~</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Stories-Moth-People-Morbo2000-ebook/dp/B01GSHCEJ8/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1465945454&sr=8-1&keywords=morbo2000" target="_blank"><br /></a></b></span></div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;">
<b><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Stories-Moth-People-Morbo2000-ebook/dp/B01GSHCEJ8?ref_=pe_584750_33951330" target="_blank">Stories From the Moth People</a></b><br />
<b>by Morbo2000</b><br />
<b><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Stories-Moth-People-Morbo2000-ebook/dp/B01GSHCEJ8?ref_=pe_584750_33951330" target="_blank">Now available on Amazon!</a></b></div>
m2khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16897729559077244089noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6402054981777377299.post-18182634970690682072016-06-14T11:35:00.001-07:002016-06-14T11:35:36.739-07:00Thanks!Thanks for downloading and enjoying my new book. I love your messages and appreciate the support. You guys totally make my day.<br />
<br />
And I did announce the free download on /r/Drugs but I think the post got buried because I posted after midnight. I'll do more free downloads in the future and post in the morning.<br />
<br />
Thanks for all your support and Aloha<br />
m2km2khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16897729559077244089noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6402054981777377299.post-28243932751064546752016-06-12T18:31:00.001-07:002016-06-13T06:40:57.163-07:00Free! Download Morbo2000's new book- Stories From the Moth People -JUNE 13TH ONLY!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-KzSh3lWsKLw/V1wsV572uXI/AAAAAAAAAJI/2agKMOLHSrgC_LodzlTDqGp0JGLg7BzWgCLcB/s1600/MothCoverSmall.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-KzSh3lWsKLw/V1wsV572uXI/AAAAAAAAAJI/2agKMOLHSrgC_LodzlTDqGp0JGLg7BzWgCLcB/s200/MothCoverSmall.jpg" width="124" /></a></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The Moth People</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">When Creation smiled Light upon the world,</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">The Butterfly People danced to her glory.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">But not everyone could live exposed to the Light.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">Some were drawn to the Darkness.</span><span class="sewaskal2bpeyv5" style="color: #222222;"></span><span class="sewaskal2bpeyv5" style="color: #222222;"></span><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">They sunk deeper and deeper into a shadow world.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">A new world, with new pleasures and new Gods.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">Yet the deeper they fell, the Light never died.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Some returned,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Some could not.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">These are their stories.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> The Stories From the Moth People.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Hello,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>Today only, June 13, 2016 PST</b>, download <i>Stories From the Moth People</i> <b>FREE</b>. I hope you enjoy. And if you can, please Review it on Amazon and Goodreads for me! Thanks a lot. You guys are the best. Oh and if you're broke and missed the free download, there will be future give aways as well. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>NOTE</b>: International readers must use their own country's Amazon. Like Canada uses www.amazon.ca or UK uses https://www.amazon.co.uk/</span></div>
<div style="color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Stories-Moth-People-Morbo2000-ebook/dp/B01GSHCEJ8/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1465658690&sr=1-1" target="_blank">Download Stories From the Moth People </a> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/s/ref=dp_byline_sr_ebooks_1?ie=UTF8&field-author=Morbo2000&search-alias=digital-text&text=Morbo2000&sort=relevancerank" target="_blank">Review it on Amazon</a></span></div>
<div style="color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/14427301.Morbo2000" target="_blank"><br /></a></span></div>
<div style="color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/14427301.Morbo2000" target="_blank">Review it on Goodreads</a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Aloha!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">M2K</span></div>
m2khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16897729559077244089noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6402054981777377299.post-49183843593392224472016-06-08T17:03:00.000-07:002016-06-08T17:03:10.176-07:00Get Morbo2000's new book FREE<br />
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<img border="0" height="200" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-lwevOWtKys0/V1hnI42SdJI/AAAAAAAAAJA/b7ycyiqYCeYiG2JjSyijq7Z03h-t-OUoQCKgB/s200/MothCoverSmall.jpg" width="124" /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Hi there. <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Stories-Moth-People-Morbo2000-ebook/dp/B01GSHCEJ8/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1465411114&sr=1-1" target="_blank">Stories From the Moth People</a> is finally done and available for purchase on <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Stories-Moth-People-Morbo2000-ebook/dp/B01GSHCEJ8/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1465411114&sr=1-1" target="_blank">Amazon</a>! Thanks for all your love and support. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I'm going to be giving it away on <b>June 13, 2016 </b>PST. You can download for free and read on any device. I hope you enjoy. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">M2K</span>m2khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16897729559077244089noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6402054981777377299.post-86890358233191950422016-06-08T11:45:00.001-07:002016-06-08T11:45:40.446-07:00Stories From the Moth People - NOW AVAILABLE<br />
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<img alt="Available on Amazon" border="0" height="200" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lwevOWtKys0/V1hnI42SdJI/AAAAAAAAAI4/mHWTfS70jcEIPBXHNPGRJkTBgJpG4AwAQCLcB/s200/MothCoverSmall.jpg" title="Stories From the Moth People" width="123" /></div>
<br />
<b>Stories From the Moth People</b> is now available on <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Stories-Moth-People-Morbo2000-ebook/dp/B01GSHCEJ8/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1465411114&sr=1-1" target="_blank">Amazon</a>!<br />
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<br />m2khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16897729559077244089noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6402054981777377299.post-22085000697229418772016-06-02T12:52:00.001-07:002016-06-02T15:55:51.151-07:00Just Another Day<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"But all that blood," I press Melo. He looks at me blankly like a butcher that chainsaws steer carcasses all day. Then he slowly smiles. </span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Relax, Severson. I didn't clip him. He was just, you know" shrugs Melo, "sorta screaming when I punched him. I cut my hand on his teeth. Not a biggie. Relax, partner."</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">And I look at Melo. He looks relaxed. Normal. Just another day. I shudder, light a smoke and think about what I can use to scoop a little H out of the dime bag to calm down. A Bic pen cap would be perfect because I don't have Kym's disco, coke-snorting, party nails.</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"> I inhale a lungful of soothing tobacco and slowly exhale towards the crumbling sky. Gathering clouds with the promise of rain. </span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">And my ancestor's footprints walked through this story 1,000 times. Just another day. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">~~~~~~~~~~~~~</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">Ring. Ring. Ring.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Babe, get the phone."</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">Sigh. Rub face. </span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Hello?"</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Hello."</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">The voice is scratchy, but familiar.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Dev?"</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Yeah. Hi Lover. I have a favor to ask..."</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">And so it begins. Dev's voice is shredded. Sore throat. Some sort of flu or virus. A favor for Devika.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Can you pick up Melo? You'll need a car because he has our backpacks stashed in a Honda somewhere."</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">Jail. Some shit I never think too much about. It's another world to me. And not my world. Plus, Melo gets locked up periodically. This is not odd. But Dev is sick. And I love Dev.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Of course. What time?"</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">Division of labor. Dev is in her tent at the park with a fever. Totally sick and without Melo. At this point, Kym and I debate over who needs who. Dev is crazy. But maybe Melo is crazier. Maybe. Kym will take the Muni down to the park and get Dev. Only Kym can bully Dev into leaving her tent to go to the free clinic for her throat. I'll use Kym's car to pick up Melo and their stuff. Jason will sit here and play video games.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Hey! Leave me out of this one!" </span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">laughs Jason. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"I told you I'm taking today off to finish Super Metroid!" </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">The entrance of the jail is a fortified place where safety and police presence keep everything orderly. At least you would think that. I flick my smoke into traffic and walk past a huge black man pissing against the building. I wait for cops to come out and beat his ass. But nothing happens. Either the cameras are fake or the cops don't care a dude is pissing on their house. I look at my watch because Melo was supposed to be out an hour ago. Man, I wish I had a beer. Then he walks out the door, sees me and grins.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Just you?" Melo asks.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Yeah."</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Devika?"</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Sick. Kym went to get her at the park."</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Good" nods Melo smiling and looking at me sideways. "I need a favor, dude."</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Anything" I respond automatically. I mean, hell it's Melo. This is a man that once fought two guys who were kicking my ass outside of Slims. As long as I live, I'll never forget how good it felt to look up and see Melo walking up the street. He pulled his t-shirt off while still smoking and never broke his stride. My attackers froze as he walked up bare chested and started punching. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">It's Melo. He needs a favor. What could possibly go wrong?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"You ok?"</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">I look up at Melo but he's not looking at me. His hawk eyes study my hand. Though we are warm and aptly clothed for this climate, I realize I am shaking uncontrollably. So I ash my cigarette, inhale deeply and nod.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Yeah," I answer. "I'm good."</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">He studies me and sees my soul beneath the silly, punk fashions. Melo possesses the power to see the world for what it is. He knows I'm lying. That I am definitely not ok. That was some totally fucked up, not normal, crazy ass shit. But Melo merely nods and goes back to his taco.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Damn, these are good. I get tired of jail bologna and cheese real fast. Hey look, man" he says evenly. "That was just part of the game. Wouldn't have had to happen if he never mentioned Dev to the cops. But he did. So fuck him."</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"No worries," I nod to Melo and pick up my beer. It seems like the manly thing to do. Besides, I have no appetite for lunch. But Melo eats like an apex predator. This world is his carcass. A carnitas taco, a carne asada torta, rice, beans and a pitcher of Dos Equis.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">I may not be good at punching people or getting punched, but I can drink a beer. I suck it down as Melo watches. He smiles slightly and I feel silly. This man killed people in a war that doesn't even make the news anymore. And me? Some soft, suburban kid who saw some shit this morning. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">Friends. You need friends in this life. So I follow directions to a dead end alley. Melo gets out, uses a key and opens a nondescript, white Honda sedan's trunk. He takes out four backpacks and loads three into Kym's trunk and brings one inside. Then he guides me to one of the city public housing projects. As I drive through unfamiliar streets, Melo digs around the backpack.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Here man" he says passing me some nickel bags. "Some powder H from Florida, good shit. The yellow bag is pure MDMA for Kym. I have some liquid acid with Dev you gotta try too. Ok, park up there. Behind that Lincoln. But turn around. Yup, back it in. Cool."</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">My mind grasps with the sudden boon of free shit. Why? Probably not good when your homeless, tent dwelling friend who just got out of jail, tells you to park facing the street and hands you a couple hundred dollars worth of drugs. But I flip Kym's car and back it into the spot. A typical gray city day, I muse. Seagulls swirl in the sky above the street. Then I look over at Melo who is quietly engrossed with something in his hands. I hear a sharp click. A black handgun constructed out of plastic. Ok... </span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Insurance" says Melo sliding it into his jacket. "But don't worry. This will be easy..."</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">Friends. We blindly follow our hearts. I trail behind Melo who looks around and leads me to one of the numerous, cloned public, housing buildings.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Just knock and ask for Omar. When he asks who you are, say Tio sent you here."</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">I could ask Why? But would that matter? It's like the Universe shoved me here. I walk up the stairs and knock on the door. After a moment someone shouts, "Yeah?"</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Looking for Omar" I say while Melo squares his back against the wall to avoid being seen through the peephole. I can't help but notice Melo slipping a chunk of rebar into his fist. </span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Who are you, man?"</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Theo sent me" I answer.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Tio" whispers Melo.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Theo?! Man who-"</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Uh, Tio!"</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">I hear latches being released, chains being withdrawn. The door opens. </span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Step back" advises Melo. I stand aside as the door opens. A Mexican guy I never saw before stands there in a Rage Against the Machine t-shirt. He stares me down.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Who the fuck are-" he starts.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">Melo appears. He punches the man three times in the face so fast he has to lunge inside to get in the last blow.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"I got you!" yells Melo. "You one-two motherfucker!"</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">An aluminum baseball bat squirts out of the man's hands as he stumbles backwards from the heavy, iron blows. I stand paralyzed by the doorframe as Melo storms inside. Melo yells something in Spanish and then viciously kicks the guy in the face. A crunchy, grinding sound. </span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"It's not what you thinHoomph!"</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">But the words are cut off as Melo drops a knee into his chest and straddles the helpless man. Melo cracks him three more times while yelling, "RAT! MOTHER! FUCKER!" </span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> Then he shoves a forearm into the man's throat. In bold, black gangster cursive is a tattoo that reads, 'I am the Darkness'. The man gasps but no longer struggles. He just lays there. Melo pulls out the gun. This forearm reads, 'I am Death'. Jesus. My body urges me to RUN! But I just stand there like a fool watching the train scream towards me. I'm from the fucking suburbs. I am totally tripping out. Melo turns around and looks at me. Dead eyes. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Go back to the car" he says calmly. "Start it."</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Yeah" I say as the spell breaks. "Ok."</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">I turn and walk down the stairs. When I reach the sidewalk I hear, "Thorry! I'm thorry! Pleathe! I'm thorry man! C'mon!"</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">I walk over a stained and cracked sidewalk. Still a gray day in the city. Traffic. People. I walk to the car and unlock it. Looking up, I see Melo guided me into a handicap spot. Beneath the wheelchair symbol is a familiar graffiti tag I see all over the Mission and Tenderloin: DevL. I get inside and start the engine. Should I leave? Yes! says the sensible bit still left inside me. When I met Melo, I didn't know that was a nickname for Michelangelo. I thought his name was Mellow because he was so mellow. But there were hints. The Gulf War for one. Plus the man clearly has a vision of right and wrong. All the park kids know you don't want to be on Melo's wrong side. Naively, I always thought the park peace was Dev's doing. </span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">But in my defense, Melo has always acted mellow. Party fist fights, asshole bouncers, Kym throwing bottles at people. This never phased him. I've seen Jason lose it a few times. I've seen Kym lose it a lot. But when Melo dropped his knee on that man's chest and shoved the gun in his face, I thought, This is it.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">I look around, turn down the stereo, and think of lighting a cigarette or snorting the heroin. Nope. Not enough time. Keep your hands on the steering wheel, foot on the gas. What is going on back there? No fucking way. I won't be a part of this...then I see Melo. He casually walks back to the car. No expression, no hurry. He opens the door and tosses a McDonald's bag on the floor. I can see blood sprayed across the corporate logo. Melo smiles at me. He looks sleepy. He looks mellow. He takes off his Oakland Raider's cap and smooths his greasy ponytail. He looks over at me and casually asks, "You gotta light? They pulled my matches at the station."</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">It's Tuesday in the city of San Francisco. Just another day. </span></span>m2khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16897729559077244089noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6402054981777377299.post-73873742655480555022016-05-28T09:55:00.001-07:002016-05-28T09:55:34.186-07:00Thanks guys<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">You know I'm a lucky bastard because I get a lot of love from you guys. I really appreciate the nice messages, the encouragement and donations. Let me see if I can answer some of the questions...</span></span><br />
<ul>
<li><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">To those of you who guessed ADHD you are probably correct. I don't know but that's what they tell me. <br /></span></span></li>
<li><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><u><b>Stories From the Moth People</b></u> is almost done. I know I say that a lot but I think the editing is just about wrapped up.<br /></span></span></li>
<li><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="http://www.morbo2000.com/2016/05/how-i-killed-my-father.html" target="_blank">How I Killed My Father</a> is totally made up. Sheesh. But I like how it bothered some of you because that's how I felt watching this weird family at the airport.<br /></span></span></li>
<li><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I'm not gonna say where I live but I no longer reside in Hawaii. And I'm moving. Again. We're like gypsies. </span></span></li>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">Once again MAHALO. And to my struggling friends - Please stay strong, sane and stay safe.</span></span><br style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;" />m2khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16897729559077244089noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6402054981777377299.post-11520422744126459422016-05-27T11:42:00.001-07:002016-05-27T11:42:31.261-07:00Mentally Ill<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">Stopping for awhile should be easy. I can do this. Sobriety will make studying for finals easier. It will make my term papers coherent. My life easier. So why do I have four books open, two half-written papers and one incomplete assignment with only my name filled out? Because it's hard. It's hard to concentrate. I keep thinking about being numb. How all the noise just fades. But mostly quitting is hard because my friends snort coke, use heroin and pop pills in front of me while I pretend to study. An endless buzz of laughter, music and the schizophrenic, madness of group conversation rolls over me like waves. </span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Why are you pacing around, dude?" asks Jason. </span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">And I catch myself. The kitchen window blinds do not need adjustment again. I do not need to stretch again. Don't touch all your books again. I look at Jason and shrug. Then I adjust the blinds, stretch my aching shoulders and sit down. I move all the books around. Then I tear a piece of paper into tiny squares. But I make no move to study.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">I've been eating a lot of acid. Sometimes it helps. Sometimes not. I keep forgetting where I am. But the couch is real. Kym is sitting on it next to Dev watching MTV. My vision is unfocused. It mixes with electric light and the spirit world. The brown, fractal sheets of the couch expand geometrically. Voltaic ripples illuminate Egyptian hieroglyphics in the liquid. Liquid? No, the couch is solid. I blink. Change. Flux. Chaos. This part is real. I sigh and look down at my physics assignment on diffraction. I've read the same problem over and over again. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">I yawn again and rub my face. Concentrate! Maybe I should just finish the paper on polymers? But I need to read this book. I look at the text. It's the same page I have read over and over and over again.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Lover!"</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">I look up at Dev who has joined me at the table.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Yeah?" I answer while absentmindedly touching all the books again.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Can I have some of your hair?"</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"What? No! Go away!" I say looking down at my astronomy notes. There is some good stuff here. Stuff I can use. But most of my notes are drawings of dogs piloting UFOs. They're assaulting the Hubble Space Telescope. I need Vince. Maybe I'll call him because Vince knows a lot about phys-</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Very wise" says Dev in her eerie, wind-up doll voice. "Never give a shaman your hair. Or fingernails!"</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"But I thought you were a witch" says Jason opening the refrigerator. He pulls out Kym's juice, looks over to see if she's watching and takes three huge swigs and puts it back.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Yeah, Khadja has that old witchy blood in her" says Dev. "But not me. I just feel everything. And I do mean everything. Like I know what you are doing right now, Lover."</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Babe, what are we doing tonight?" asks Kym while lighting another cigarette. The spark flash hangs in the air between us like Creation. I stare far too long. Kym catches me staring, stretches two fingers like a 'V' in front of her mouth and waggles her tongue. When I look up, she laughs.</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"I don't know!" I shout exasperated. "Kym I have to finish this-"</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"You guys should stop by Slim's" interrupts Jason. "I can leave passes at the door. You gotta see this fucking band! Lead singer has a cello. He can't play it. Just makes awful sounds. But the bass is jazz and the drummer is that guy from Limbomaniacs."</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Oh!" yells Kym suddenly bolting up from the couch and dashing to the TV. She drops to her knees before the glowing screen. Transfixed, Kym's face is inches away from the TV as the video for Tainted Love starts. Black smears around her eyes, wet raspberry lips and white, </span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">porcelain</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> makeup in the glow of MTV. My girlfriend looks like a flickering, black and white movie image. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"All of you!" she commands. "Shut it!"</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"What's that all about?" asks Jason. </span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Everytime a video comes on from a song Khadja liked as a kid, she has to watch it" Dev responds. "They didn't have cable growing up. I don't think they even watched TV. That's weird, right? Me and sister were raised by a TV. We called him Steve."</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Fuckin' foreigners, eh?" says Jason shaking his head in disgust.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Kym's from Danville" says Dev. "US of motherfucking A. America, bitch. Flags, hot dogs, baseball-" </span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #222222;">And they won't shut up. On and on about nothing while I struggle to read a paragraph or get a thought down...I close my eyes. Think! Embed the formulas in your brain...But I can hear them. They don't talk. They YELL. Every single one of my fucking friends is a motherfucking shouter! And the TV is on! Blackhole Sun by</span></span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> Soundgarden</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">. And the stereo is on! Cure's Disintegration</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">! It's maddening...All of this sound is crushing me.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"TV makes you stupid" says Jason.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"I like it" chirps Dev.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"Hey, where's my credit card?" demands Kym. "I need to get some cash."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"It's on the mirror, cokehead."<br /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Oh my fucking god!" roars Jason. "I got it! This Mickey's cap puzzle has been driving me nuts! It's 'Shoot for the stars!'"</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Lemme see" questions Dev. "Yeah. Probably."</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"That was awesome!" Kym declares. "Now I have to see their Sex Dwarf video!"</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"I don't think they can show it on MTV. It has tits. And dwarf butts."</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Hey let me see that puzzle! Oh Jase, you are stupid aren't you? The answer is is so simple a drunk, frat boy could figure it out."</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">My mind is captured by their conversational anarchy. So LOUD. I sit at the table, pick up my books and try and find where I left off...should I write a paper? Read? Finish the astronomy?</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Lover" sing songs Dev. "Do you want me to wake you up? Or do you want to be here?"</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"What'd you do without TV?" continues Jason.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Calculus" says Kym.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Oh and how'd that work out for you?" laughs Jason. "Get me a double latte with skim organic goat milk."</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"Lover?" asks the Priestess in a new voice.<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I close my eyes. I can do this. I can focus. I can-</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">And everything changes. I remember this sensation as a child. All the voices spinning around me, all the faces and the furniture and insects crying out in garbled, unison. Perplexed doctors, angry teachers, terrible report cards. I can smell mom's Avon soap as I struggle to find my way home. Wait, which home? Do I have a home? And the voices have changed. Happiness to sorrow. Sorrow to euphoria. Voices, voices, voices pushing me into the cold embrace of the earth. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">They are coming. They cover my face. Tiny moths licking my eyes, filling my nose, mouth and ears. Soft, powdery wings drowning me. Yet they love me as they push me into the dirt. They fill me with their human kindness. If just for a moment, I am alive.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;">"I need it for her pre-school. Shit! How are we going to pay the mortgage this month?"</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;">"Hi! What's for dinner?"</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;">"Daddy! Look at my painting!"</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;">"Catalytic converter? How are we going to pay for that? What does it do anyways?" </span></span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;">"Close the door. Have a seat. Now this is the third time you've been late this month..."</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">Make it stop. Make it stop, </span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">makeitstop, </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">makeitstop</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">makeitstop</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">, makjesystd, $%$^&*($!#(&%%&^#)*(*#&^@&%&@%*&@^*&^(*@&)(&#&^*&^@(*&@)(*_!*!_(*(&@^&*&^!%!(!&*!(&(*@^*&^*@^*&@&(#*&#&*%^&&$!#$%&*^*&)*()&@^%*(!&(&)</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">A field. Green grass topped with laughing, red flowers for miles. Before me is a house. Yellow paint flakes off rotten wooden beams. The roof sags in on one side. A parrot flaps it's wings, cries out and wheels upwards into a hostile, blue sky.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"You ready?" asks the old guy.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">I look at him. We're sitting </span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">on cheap plastic chairs. A</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">n enormous, fiber optic wire spool lays between us like a doll's table. He is older. Black suit, red tie and a black overcoat. Pale skin, a salt and pepper goatee, half shaved cheeks and bruised slugs beneath his eyes. Puffy, swollen and unhealthy looking. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"For what?" I ask.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"I gotta give you the low down" he scowls. "You're here, man."</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">He wipes his nose, looks briefly at me and then away. He's always moving. Twitching. Messing with shit. His hands wander around like migrating beasts. He vibrates one knee maniacally while the other foot taps to an unseen rhythm. </span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"But where am-"</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Ok!" he interrupts. "So the water pump is like one at Eagle Lake. The generator is self explanatory." He walks around the house and I follow. I watch him crack his neck and have the insane urge to copy. </span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Don't leave the porch lights unless you like bugs" he continues as he reaches out, rips a stalk of grass and starts to tear it into tiny pieces. "Toilets on a cesspit so don't dump anything like-"</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Oh my god!" I yell as the dog approaches us. </span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">He's majestic. A shaggy black and brown, fuzzy-wuzzy teddy bear of a dog that stands man high. Bugger has to weigh at least 150 pounds. He looks at me with a serious face, sits down and watches. And I feel like crying.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Mookie?" I ask him softly. His ears pop up, his tongue comes out and he runs to me. I bend down and laugh as he licks my face. "Mookie!"</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Yeah Mookie's here" says the man with a smile. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">Mookie sniffs the man's hand, licks it and jumps on me whining. He tries to curl up on my belly but he outgrew this spot long ago. </span><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #222222;">Mookie. My dog. My very dead dog. My best friend from days long forgotten. He jumps and circles me. Always so conscious of his enormous size, he jumps straight up which lets me grab him midair for a hug. After he squirms away, I look for a stick to throw. The man clears his throat.</span></span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"There is an old well in the field" drones the man as I shove my hand into Mookie's mouth, grab his lower jaw and shake his enormous head back and forth. </span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">"Nothing around the well" continues the man. "It's just a hole. But a very deep and dangerous hole. Don't let Mooks over there."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Sure" I agree rubbing Mookie's ears and headbutting him while he licks my face. Doggie breath. The smell reminds me of being safe. Laying in bed with a huge, stinky dog without racing thoughts of fear or sorrow. I look up at the man but he is gone. I look down at Mookie but he is gone. </span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">There is nothing here but the wind slithering through the grass and strangling softly to death at my feet. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">I walk forward and yell, "MOOKIE! HERE BOY!" </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">And I hear him bark. Distant. Echoing. But I have eaten a lot of acid and sometimes perception can be an issue. I wander into the field. The grass is chest high and sways like the sea. I follow the sounds, treading carefully. And there it is. The shattered remains of a well. The rocks have long fallen away and lay scattered around the hole like teeth. </span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">The gaping mouth screams soundlessly at the vigilant sky. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">Now the sun is setting. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">Slivers of a vibrant blue bleed to purple as the Universe reveals itself. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">Owls call to the approaching night and an eight-pointed star rises in the East. I peer inside the hole but see nothing. The Darkness is complete.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Mookie! Don't worry buddy! I'll get you out of there!" I reassure him as he whines.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">I race back to crumbling, old house and find a rope and bucket. I tie the rope to the bucket handle and lower it into the mouth. Mookie is known for his happy demeanor and </span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">freakish size</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">. But Mooks is not known for listening or following directions. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Ok, Mooks" I explain, "get in the bucket! You can do it! C'mon buddy!"</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">Mookie whines while my mind grapples with the absurdity of a 150 pound dog climbing into a 5 gallon bucket. But the rope grows taunt. He did it.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"You in buddy?" I grunt as I square my feet. I might be able to pull him out. Maybe. I wrap the rope around my hands and pull. The bucket is not heavy at all. Or I have grown psychotically strong. I look into the Darkness and pull. A shape forms. I see eyes looking upwards towards a dissolving blue sky. Human eyes. But instead of doing the sane thing and letting go, I keep pulling. The old man rises out of the hole. He's still dressed in his shabby, black suit and overcoat with both feet planted in the bucket. </span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Last night I dreamt..." the man sings.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">This song. This fucking song. I have heard it 1,000 times. A record my girlfriend plays over and over again. The piano, the roar of voices and the sudden clear, sound of an exquisite melancholy.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"...that somebody loved me." I finish while pulling. The man steps out of the bucket and looks at me sadly.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"You know how you always hope it gets better?" he asks me. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Yeah?"</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">The man looks at me for a moment. Then he shrugs, turns his back and walks away. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">I let go of the bucket and hear it tumbling forever. In the distance, a curtain of fire burns across the field. </span></span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">Red flowers swaying like madness as </span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">long gray shadows cover the field. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">And I can see and hear everything. Voices like flames devouring all. Everyone is talking at once. They swirl around me like spirits of the void. Colors bleed into each other, huge anime eyes. </span><span class="sewrxk6k6j88g3b" style="color: #222222;"></span><span class="sewrxk6k6j88g3b" style="color: #222222;"></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">And then a terrible, ringing silence. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"What? You're talking too fast" says Kym putting her arm around my shoulder. "Take a deep breath. You ok, babe? You're all sweaty."</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">My eyes open and my life is torpid. My house is a painting that melts slowly. All their eyes are on me. They seem still. Statues stuck in mud. But when I focus, everyone is in motion. Kym is talking but I can no longer listen. Jason distracts me by moving across the linoleum forever. Each step from his steel-toed boots explodes in slow motion. Then Dev stands up and walks normally across the room. She smiles at me, calmly reaches forward and puts her hands on both sides of my face.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"You can't breathe. It's time to wake up."</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">~~~~~~~~~~~~~~</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">They tell me when I scream at night, the sound is terrible. A hysterical, moaning wail pushed out in wheezing gasps. Louder and louder until I choke out. My wife is looking at me. The kids are hovering by our door. The cat is concerned. </span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">I'm still halfway in the dream but the tiny faces of my sleepy children bring me back. It's not the first time I've woken everyone up screaming. After we get them back to bed, my wife begins.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">"You have to go to the doctor" says my wife. "You have to get back on the meds! This is annoying! And dangerous!"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">I shrug and flip over my sweaty pillow. This happens when I quit using any opiate. The detached, euphoria cracks and life pours down the well. The sadness and psychotic realities that never left start screaming again. The meds they gave me as a kid and the ones they gave me as an adult don't make it go away. But they do reign my mind in. I can focus. I can breathe. But I don't like my medicine. I never have and never will. Exercise, proper diet and forcing myself into society is my cure. You see, the trick is making them think you're normal. Do this long enough and you actually become normal. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">Right?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><br /></span></span>m2khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16897729559077244089noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6402054981777377299.post-61592693362404905862016-05-16T13:45:00.000-07:002016-05-16T13:45:26.110-07:00How I Killed My Father<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">The End, pt.1</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">"I know this is a difficult time and we appreciate you coming down" smiles Sergeant Madison pushing a stack of paper towards me. She digs in her bag and comes up with a pen. She hold it in the air daring me not to accept it. I look down at the fake wooden table, reach out and take the pen.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">"Didn't I do this already?" I ask studying the thick report. This is ridiculous. Such a huge stack of paper for a stupid old man that fell down the stairs. </span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">"Any accidental death is always documented" shrugs Sergeant Madison. "For public safety."</span></span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Public safety? He fell at home!" I complain. </span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"I understand, Mr. Turner" she says soothingly. "But we need to finish our investigation."</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Investigation?" </span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">It sounded like Sergeant Madison emphasized the word 'investigation'. But maybe I'm just paranoid.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"We need to make sure there are no public risk. Like environmental concerns. Or criminal" she adds casually. "So let's review, sign and get you out of here ok, sir? Make sure you sign it James P. Turner like it says on your ID."</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">And we go through it. Again.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">The Creature</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #222222;">I got kicked out of school for selling pot. The school never pressed charges, but they did kick me out. That's how I ended up back home. In three years, home changed a lot. My sister moved out, my mom started working and dad is crazy. Mom and sis call him 'The Creature' which is pretty fucked up until you have to deal with him. The real irony was dad was once a prominent psychiatrist. Now he's a slack jawed, drooling, idiot that wears diapers and </span></span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">only </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #222222;">cares about toast. Butter and crumbs smeared across his unshaven face. </span></span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">Slice after slice into the toaster.</span><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"> While he feeds, there is a feverish glint in his eye. His last spark of humanity. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">When I moved back, dad had no idea who I was. He thinks I'm Mexican. My presence makes him paranoid. But I need breakfast, so I go down the stairs into the toast and urine-scented kitchen. After two days or not bathing, dad smells pretty ripe. </span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Good morning, dad" I smile. </span><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">My father stops buttering his toast and stares blankly at me. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"What are you doing here, friendo?" he asks in a hostile tone.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">Friendo? He's never said that one before. "Uh dad, it's me. Jim. Your son."</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"How dare you talk about my family, amigo?"</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"Ok, dad" I shrug pouring milk over cornflakes. I think about making coffee. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"I'm not assigning any blame" says Dad putting two fresh slices into his toaster, "but my CD-ROMs are missing."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"Ok" I answer looking for coffee. Mom buys the good stuff and I need to find the grinder. "What's a CD-ROM, dad? Is that like old music or something?"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"You have stolen my money and burned down the tower" says Dad. "I am calling the lawyer and police."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I look up. His face is bright red with anger and his lips are covered with spittle and crumbs. Maybe I'll skip coffee. "Ok dad. See you later." </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Ten minutes later, the cops showed up. </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The police know our house well. My dad has called the cops on my mom, my sister and now me. He also calls 911 because of midget </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">burglars</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> or ghosts peering into windows. It was the first time the cops saw me so I was handcuffed while they investigated dad's accusation. Mail theft. A call to mom solved the problem but now I began to look at dad differently. After the cops left, dad goes back to his toaster. I disconnect the kitchen phone, lean close to him and whisper, "Fuck you." </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">~~~~~~~~~~~~~</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">The Girl</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">Before I came home, all I heard about was Priya. How wonderful she is. How patient. How much dad has improved since her visits. </span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">Priya is a home care nurse that helps three times a week. But I like Priya for much different reasons than my family.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">I haven't slept with many girls. And I've never slept with anyone who wasn't white. Priya is Indian. Smooth, mahogony limbs. Dark, laughing eyes that devour me as she peels off her work uniform. I watched her work for a couple weeks before I joined her outside for a smoke.</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">"Do you have a smoke?" I asked Priya in the garden.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Sure" she smiled slowly as if she wasn't surprised to see me. "James right?"</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Yeah. Jim. Or whatever" I winced. Not smooth at all.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Priya " she said fishing a smoke out of her pack. She lights it for me and I try not to gag. I don't actually smoke cigarettes.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Thanks."</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"No problem. I'm not allowed to smoke on duty, but most of the old ones don't care. Heck, most of the old ones don't care about anything but food. Does it bother you?" she asked. </span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Nope."</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Brrr!" she shivered, "So cold! I wish we could smoke inside. It's hard to enjoy a smoke in this wind!"</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"You can smoke in my room" I blurted out like a fool.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">And thats when we started fucking. Soon, Priya would just come over, spend a few minutes with dad and turn on some youtube music for him. Most of her shift was spent lounging in my bed. Only on Saturdays, when mom is home, does Priya do her full routine. But mostly we screw, eat and lie in bed watching Netflix. The old bugger even got jealous a few times. We could hear him shuffling his walker to the stairs and slowly climb them. Annoyed, Priya would dress, walk out and reprimand him to return downstairs. Always talking slowly in her cheerful soothing nurse voice that never quite matched her irritated expression. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays became my favorite days. <br /><br /></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222;">The Boyfriend Project</span><br /><br />It's complicated, but Priya says I am now her boyfriend. We never go out. We only meet here. She's playing me. I get it. But man, those dark eyes peer straight into my soul. Or maybe my penis.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">"Your room is huge!" says Priya settling into my bed and turning the flatscreen to my computer which is now loaded with her music. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"Really? Well, what's your room like?"</span><br />
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"I share a room with my aunty and my little sister" says Priya. "Our whole apartment is barely this big. You guys have a really nice house. First class!"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br style="color: #222222;" /></span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222;"> "Thanks" I shrug. I never really thought about it. It's just always been my room. I open the window to let out the smoke and see my pipe. Stoned and playing Xbox is how I pass most of the day. "You want some of this?" I hold up a crumpled bag of weed.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: #222222;">"I wish! Mmmm!" she says smelling bag. "But I can't. Drug tests."</span><br /><br /><span style="color: #222222;">"Your job?"</span><br /><br /><span style="color: #222222;">Priya narrows her eyes at me as if trying to guess how much I weigh. "No James. Court. Probation."</span><br /><br /><span style="color: #222222;">"Really?" </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222;">"Can you keep a secret?" she smiles mysteriously. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222;">"Yeah, of course" I say sitting up.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222;"><br /></span><span style="color: #222222;">"Ok. I got in some trouble awhile ago. Meth mostly. But I stole credit card numbers from my uncle's restaurant."</span><br /><br /><span style="color: #222222;">"Whoa" I nod in disbelief. But then, I get lost in the lines of Priya's body. Her high, pointed breasts are unlike anything I have ever seen. She never wears a bra. It's like they're sticking up to say 'Hi'. Priya covers them with a pillow and smirks at me. I blink and return to our conversation. "You stole people's credit cards?"</span><br /><br /><span style="color: #222222;">"No. I just took pictures with my phone. This guy I bought meth from used them to order items to his neighbor's house. It was stupid."</span><br /><br /><span style="color: #222222;">"What happened?"</span><br /><br /><span style="color: #222222;">"My family never pressed charges but there's like, all these laws when you steal cards. So I was charged. They made me testify against my friend. Sucks but it was his idea. I also wrote letters to all the people I swiped. Since a lot of them are Indian, they wrote back on my behalf. Can you imagine? But the bitch judge still sentenced me to twenty days in jail. I got out in seven. But I'm on parole, so I have to pee test."</span><br /><br /><span style="color: #222222;">"You were in jail? That's crazy Priya!" I say in awe. "What happened to your friend who used the numbers?" </span><br /><br /><span style="color: #222222;">"I don't know" Priya shrugs unconcerned. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222;">"Damn" I say wondering if I should put my arm around her. But she doesn't look upset. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222;">"It's ok, James. I still get high. Just not weed or meth. I miss meth but the painkillers I get for my back are decent in a pinch."</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222;">"You have a bad back?" I ask wondering if this is a good excuse to rub Priya.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222;">"No" she yawns and stretches her body. "I just wanted the pills. I get some from the old ones too. Your dad has hydros in his bathroom. Just 5's but heck, I bet you knew that."</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222;">My dad's bathroom smells like pee. He pee's a lot. He pees in his diaper, in his bed and in a bucket near his bed. I avoid his bathroom like the plague.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222;">"No."</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222;">"You don't take any of his painkillers?" Priya asks incredulously.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222;">"No. Why?"</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222;">She looks at me and smiles. "You care if I partake, James? I've been counting them. He doesn't use them. Two refills left. We should get them. Like he cares. Right?"</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222;">Priya is topless, drinking a Monster energy drink and smiling at me in bed. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222;">I agree.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222;">The Ice Floe</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222;">"Your mom has real Tiffany!" remarks Priya as she eats McDonald's french fries off her smooth, naked belly. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222;">Tuesday. She came in, turned on dad's computer to youtube and rode me in a manner that satisfied about 5,000 fantasies I've had since her last Saturday visit where I could only look, but not touch. She came up with her McDonalds lunch and a lit cigarette. I make a mental note to open the downstairs windows as mom has a good nose. I watch Priya eat. She only eats Happy Meals. I have a growing collection of Pokemon toys on my window sill.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222;">"Oh, you saw the silverware?" I ask. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222;">"I meant the lamps in the hallway!" says Priya. "You have antique Tiffany silverware? First class!"</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222;">"Yeah, I guess" I smile. Priya's weird expressions never fails to amuse me. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222;">"You guess?" snorts Priya. "You're the eldest son!"</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222;">I think about this. I am the eldest son. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222;">"You get everything, right?" asks Priya dipping a fry in ketchup.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222;">"Everything?" I ask.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222;">"Yeah" presses Priya, "everything. Like my little brother gets everything. Me and my two sisters get nothing. They always leave it to the male heir. America too right?"</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222;">"I dunno" I answer truthfully.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222;">"You DON'T know?" asks Priya incredulously.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222;">"No."</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222;">"James" she says wiping her greasy hands on my down comforter and pointing at me. "You are the first born son. How can it not go to you? Who will carry on the name?"</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222;">"I don't know" I shrug. Until now, my biggest concerns were Halo related. The updates from Operation Hydra are amazing and make my shitty marijuana and home life ok.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222;">"James!" says Priya more animated than I have ever seen her. "Do one thing!"</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222;">She says this with such force I stop and stare, mesmerized. "Ok, what?" I ask.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222;">"You have to know your path. Are you the heir or not? The old ones no longer care, James! YOU have to care. YOU have to carry on. Not your mom or your sister! You are the man!"</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222;">"Oh I know" I say not knowing.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222;">"You have to be ready James. All of this" she says gesturing around my room, "is YOURS. What are you going to do?"</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222;">"Do?" I laugh. "Priya, my dad thinks dwarves creep in his room and steal checks. It's all good."</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222;">"Ok" smiles Priya. "Remember this conversation when you get nothing and are left with nothing. Believe me, I know greedy relatives. You don't secure your seeds and you get what you did not plant."</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222;">"Plant?" I ask confused. Some of Priya's sayings don't quite hit home.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222;">"Whatever" she flashes in anger. "In my experience, the old ones long forgot about what needs to be done. These days, they live too long. If you are OK with nothing, I guess I am too."</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222;"><br /></span></span>
<div style="color: #222222;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">~~~~~~~~~~~~~</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"></span></div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
</div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222;">Decision</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222;">"Hi dad" I say walking into the kitchen. I smoked a bong hit before I came down and can already taste the cornflakes. Maybe I'll make coffee. Coffee sounds amazing. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222;">"You should know" grumbles dad, "I have drawn up a document. You will be out of my house once I get the lawyer to file it."</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222;">I sigh and start to move faster. Maybe just cereal for breakfast. Plus the pee stench is extra acidic this morning.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222;">"Also I am getting a TRO against you and that Negro woman who steals my pills" says dad. "There were 17 pills on Saturday. Now there are 7."</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222;">I look at my dad. The Creature stares back. An electric POP! shatters the air between us. He calmly reaches for his toast. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222;"></span></span><br />
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 1; word-spacing: 0px;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
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</div>
<br />
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: Times; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 1; word-spacing: 0px;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">~~~~~~~~~~~~~</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"></span><div style="margin: 0px;">
</div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222;"> </span></span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; text-align: center;">The Accident</span></div>
<div>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br />My dad is halfway up the stairs. I see him gripping the metal bars of the stair railing as he pulls himself slowly up. Fucker. On quiet feet I stalk forward and ascend the stairway. Our stairs are carpeted. His hearing poor. He never knows I'm there until I am right beside him. My face, inches from his ear.<br /><br />"LOOK OUT!" I yell.<br /><br />"Wha-" dad reacts surprised. But his body reacts faster than his mind. <br /><br />It starts to turn towards my voice...and fails. I calmly climb the stairs and never look back as he whirls past me. Without the railing, he falls. The sound of his death is nothing. Carpeted stairs. A rolling, tumble. A sack of stick and stones. I pause at the top but do not turn around. I can hear a deep, wet, snoring sound. It grows in intensity, falters and abates. The last snore is a tiny sigh. Silence.<br /><br />I go in my room. Priya looks up from her magazine.<br /><br />"I did it."<br /><br />"Did?"<br /><br />"What we talked about" I respond closing the door. Her face looks irritated. Then her eyes grow as she she understands. I try to smile, but it doesn't work.<br /><br />"You-what?" gasps Priya. "What the fuck?! With me here! Your mom is home in an hour! I haven't sent my work report! What the fuck were you thinking, James?!"<br /><br />"Sorry but-"<br /><br />"I gotta get out of here" says Priya. Her eyes shoot around the room and stop at the ashtray. She grabs her cigarette butts, pockets them and grabs her coat. "Turn on your stereo. Loud. In 30 minutes, call 911. Say you found him like that but heard nothing. Turn on your stereo!"<br /><br />"But what about-"<br /><br />"Do it!" shrieks Priya as she exits my room and runs down the stairs. I hear the front door slam. Ok. I turn on the stereo. <br /><br /></span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">~~~~~~~~~~~~~</span></div>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
</span></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The End pt2</span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">At the hospital I waited with my sister in a room of empty chairs while my mom paces the hallway on her phone. Unlike the emergency room which is packed, the hospital morgue is deserted.</span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"Well, now what?" I ask to my sister.</span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"Guess we need to plan the funeral stuff" she sighs. "he never talked about this. Burial or cremation. Religious service or-."</span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"No" I interrupt. "I mean who's gonna pay for stuff with dad gone? Like my phone bill?"</span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">My sister looks at me in disgust. She's five years older and has always treated me like a stupid kid. We never really got along.</span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"What are you talking about? Like the will?" she asks.</span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"Yeah" I say sitting up straight. "What's next?"</span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"Jimmy" smiles my sister condescendingly, "mom has had control of the trust for the last five years. In case you haven't noticed, dad is not of sound mind...I mean, he was not of sound mind-"</span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">And my sister starts crying. This is the first time I have ever seen her cry.</span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"I gotta make a call" I announce. I walk down the other hallway away from mom. Looking up uneasily, I realize I am in the area where they store dead people. Dad's in here somewhere. I call Priya. It just rings. I hang up and try again. Same. </span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"C'mon" I grumble looking down the empty corridor. Where are all the people that work here? Finally she picks up.</span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br />"Don't call me anymore! I'm blocking your number!" she whispers harshly into her phone.<br /><br />"But-"</span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"I don't know you or have ever associated with you James! Good bye!"</span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Somewhere down the hallway, a door swings opens.<br /></span></div>
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m2khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16897729559077244089noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6402054981777377299.post-45482358323457660672016-05-03T13:49:00.000-07:002016-05-03T13:49:16.193-07:00Maybe I Can Control It<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">Without trying, I have been clean for a month. Went to Maui and kicked our heroin and cocaine habits. The pills we brought over helped, but honestly, I never knew places like Maui existed on Earth. Why don't we all live there? It blew my fucking mind. Kym led me by my hand and smiled. She knows Maui. Kym guided me to this dream state I might still be locked in...The moth's dream. Am I still in the hospital after that Santa Cruz crash? My meat kept alive by robots? An interesting thought.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">Yes, we suffered. One cannot escape physical withdrawal no matter how many Salty Dogs you swill or Valiums you eat. But I forgot about heroin. How many people can say that? Forgot about heroin? I love heroin like a twin. Like a soul. But in Maui, I knew </span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">only </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">beauty. The fiery sunsets, the magical sea and my girlfriend glistening in tiny bikinis beneath a tropical sky. I forgot about my life. No one told me we could select this option. Paradise.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">When we got back, I did well in school. Focused. I finished strong and brought my GPA back up. Then came Fall break. Kym travelled with her family and I went north to my ancestral home. We spoke on the phone a lot. We spoke of love and how strong we have grown. How bright and beautiful everything shines when the Darkness is kept away. But we never discussed the chains. The pleasures of city life. Time passed. Kym came back first. I wish I could have been there to taste her smile but I was at my family reunion. Four days later, I returned to the city of San Francisco. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">~~~~~~~~~~~~~</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Get out" says Carl illegally parking behind a firetruck, two cop cars and an ambulance. One of my neighbors is being led away by cops while a crowd gathers. "And don't leave anything because I'll throw it away."</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Yeah, whatever" I say grabbing my duffel bag, a case of beer and a two quart jug of Wild Turkey. Book money from mom. I kick the door shut and tap on the window. When my brother looks over, I flip him off.</span></span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">~~~~~~~~~~~~~</span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222;"><br /></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">A deathly, cold wind whips </span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">trash down the sidewalk past streams of pedestrians on lunch breaks. The hum of their voices is like 10,000 bees rising from a hive. It mingles with the grinding gears of Muni buses, the bellow of car horns bouncing off buildings. The chaos of the city. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">I cross the street with a weeping woman who drags a suitcase. When we get to the other side, I carefully step around a pile of shit with a condom lodged in the swirled point. A dead pigeon in the gutter stares at eternity. Bored cops and emergency crews stand beneath gray clouds that slowly bleed across the sky. I'm back. I clomp up the stairs and drop my burden. I fish the key out of my black leather jacket but it gets caught on a spike. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Fuck" I grumble yanking it free. The door pops open. "Whoa!" I blurt out surprised. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">Jason is in LA and Kym is at work. I thought I was returning to a peaceful, locked house. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">Autumn stands before me. Red flannel, Blur t-shirt, black tights and weird, elfin boots. So fucking MTV suburbs. But this is my tribe. My culture. So I nod at her. Autumn studies me while cracking her gum. She blows a bubble. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"So..." she says. The bubble pops. I wait for her to continue but she just watches.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Hello. Autumn." </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">I pick up my belongings and alcohol, slide past her look and walk into my house. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">A voice cries out, "Welcome to your doom!" The TV is on. A werewolf battles a demonic pile of human flesh that throws heads. An Oasis tape blares over the stereo. Neither of my roommates are here. They would never allow it to come to this. They hate Oasis. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Lover!" comes a monotone, wind-up doll voice from the kitchen.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">I walk inside, drop my bag and put the beer in the fridge. </span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">Dev smiles at me from the kitchen table. A Vietnamese noodle salad is neatly divided in two portions. The side in front of Dev is vegetable and noodle. The other side of styrofoam container is chicken and noodle. </span><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">A box of wine sits next to a powdered mirror with a rolled up $20 bill and a credit card. An abandoned game of </span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">Uno is scattered across the table. Next to an overflowing ashtray, are pint glasses full of pink wine. An SF Weekly is spread out and covered with a collection of glass pipes. The smell of rubbing alcohol and cigarette smoke fills the kitchen. Dev's eyes stare at a something 10,000 miles away. Empty eyes. Nobody's driving. Autumn sits in front of the meat and noodles. Dev blinks and looks at me with a huge smile.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Give me kissy kiss!" demands Dev. She stands up and falls back into her chair laughing. She wobbles over, gets on her tiptoes to grab my shoulders and pulls me close to her face. She kisses both my cheeks fondly. "Aww, poor Lover! You just missed Khadj! She went to work!"</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"What the fuck Dev? That was like three hours ago!" frowns Autumn. Then she stares at me. "Hey. You shaved your head. It looks terrible. Now you need a new nickname."</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #222222;">"Uhm" I say self-consciously rubbing my scalp. When I was kicking, I decided to shave my head. Thus far, everyone universally agrees, I look terrible. </span></span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Grow your hair back!" commands Dev. "I miss your long hair!" </span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Ok, Dev" I smile.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">Autumn picks up her pint of wine. I watch Dev sway and wobble back to her chair. She collapses and starts to slouch forward. Shiny, faraway eyes.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"We need some ice" says Autumn. "Box wine is better with ice! Oh! Do you have any rolling papers?"</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Maybe in-" I start to say but Autumn leaps up snapping her fingers in my face.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"I got it!" she says. "We'll call you Auschwitz</span><span class="sewy8oopdtokt8o" style="color: #222222;"></span><span class="sewy8oopdtokt8o" style="color: #222222;"></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">!"</span></span><br />
<div style="color: #222222;">
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222;">"Oh my god! You are such a fucking bitch Autumn!" says Dev.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: #222222;">"Oh yeah...you're in The Tribe right?" babbles Autumn using chopsticks to eat slivers of chicken and noodle. Then she points the chopsticks at me. "Do you have any Zigzags? Dev wants to roll a joint. We're cleaning all the glass pipes! Do you have papers? No? Do you have any ice?"</span><br /><br /><span style="color: #222222;">"My dad's Jewish! I serve the Tree of Life you antisemitic grunge bitch!" says Dev squinting through one, angry eye.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: #222222;">"Yeah, yeah. Sorry Dev. Hey! I got back today" says Autumn smiling sweetly at me. "Like you. But Jason is tomorrow. I'm here to trade with Dev. Boy for girl. You like trading? You need anything? You cool, man? Hey! You guys have ice? You want some noodles? Meat or veggie? I like meat. They grill it good at Mr. Pho's! Wanna bite? No? Ok then. Carry on."</span><br /><br /><span style="color: #222222;">I look at them. Dev is high on smack. Autumn is high on coke. Dev lifts a foot showing me her underwear and a skinny, pale leg with painted toenails. Electric versions of blue, red and orange.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: #222222;">"I told Khadj..." mumbles Dev who's eyeballs rise up into her mind. I wait as she casually nods out, falls forward and face-smacks the table. She wakes up, peels a Uno card off her forehead and carries on like nothing happened, "paint them techno Persian. Cool, huh?" Then she starts to nod again. Her chin slow motion drops to her chest. When it touches her Subhuman's t-shirt, she's gone.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: #222222;">I just spent my break with relatives who enjoy a rich and robust drinking culture. Alcohol is one of the few things strong enough to hold me down, so I enjoyed myself. I had to bunk with my brother and fell into his patterns of exercise and manliness. We worked out at dawn regardless of how much we drank the night before. </span></span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"Hangovers are for pussies", explained Carl. Push ups, sit ups, stretches and weight training before the morning run to the lake. Though I puked, I learned my body is not broken. It's actually pretty strong considering how terrible I treat it. Human existence is hardly frail and I no longer slouch beneath the smothering sky of opiates. Like Dev. Jesus. Is this what I used to look like? </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222;">"So? Need anything? Let me know. Be here for a bit. I wanna finish cleaning these pipes" says Autumn while viciously cracking her gum. Her jawline muscles are vibrating with gerbil-like intensity. "Secret is you gotta soak them. Alcohol and salt. Alcohol, salt and elbow grease. Like new! You have any ice? Do you want some noodles?"</span><br /><br /><span style="color: #222222;">"Nah, I gotta unpack" I say taking in the chaos of the kitchen. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222;">Neither Autumn or Dev look or smell good. </span></span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Dev is asleep with one eye open, cigarette burns all over her t-shirt and Autumn has carved the word 'MEAT' into her arm. Her other arm is bruised with needle holes and smiley-face burns from a lighter. These girls are living a little rough.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /><span style="color: #222222;">"Ok and if you want to hook up the tar I got some" shrugs Autumn who swigs her wine. "But I need ice. Do you know where to get any ice?"</span><br /><br /><span style="color: #222222;">"Nope" I say picking up my stuff and walking down the hall thinking about being high...Heroin and cocaine would make my kitchen cozy again. I almost turn around but keep walking.</span><br /></span><br />
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<br /><span style="color: #222222;">I take a long shower and think about heroin and cocaine. Either would hit the fucking spot after a month of being clean. Hell, maybe I could control it this time? I sigh and look at my face. My eyes are my own. Alert with properly sized pupils that adjust normally to light. I am a carbon-based organism with the illusion of free will wrapped around my existence. I think about heroin and cocaine. But I also need a shave.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: #222222;">I use Jason's shaving cream and one of Kym's razors. As I carefully peel away my feral scruff, I notice the counter. A half cup of mint tea. An ashtray with lipstick stained butts. She's here. Khadja. Strands of purple and pink hair in her brush. The thin, spiked collar resting atop a pile of jangly silver bracelets from a far, far away land.</span></span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> While thinking about her, I cut my neck. A blood rivulet pierces the snowy white foam. I finish shaving, wash my face and dab Neosporin on my cut. Then I go lay down. </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222;">My room has molecular particles of Kym in the air. Cigarette, m</span></span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">yrrh, wildflowers and amber. I am home.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Even with my door closed, the TV and stereo blasting, I can still hear Autumn. Asking and answering question after question. Talking to no one about nothing. Did Kym experience this madness? Is she still clean? It's hard to say. I could hook up right now if I wanted. I am tempted because you never know when Dev and Autumn might wander away. Did Kym score? Cocaine is her flavor. I think about heroin. I think about it a lot. The temptation is a whirling madness in my mind. Moth wings brushing against my face in the Darkness. I close my eyes and hear the voices of my friends and loved ones swirl in my mind.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /><span style="color: #222222;">"Heroin makes the pain go away. But it costs us everything. Everything, babe. How much life do we miss?" says Khadja.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: #222222;">"This is but a blip in my biography, dude" says Jason. "Makes living with you and the Devil's daughter easier to deal with."</span><br /><br /><span style="color: #222222;">"This is Daphne" says Devika patting the enormous girth of the eucalyptus tree fondly. "She reminds us all that we too, can be strong."</span><br /><br /><span style="color: #222222;">"I don't know what's harder. Putting a bullet right here" says Michelangelo pointing to the side of his skull, "or accepting this mess as life."</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"Look at you" says Carl. "Don't be a loser junkie vampire pussy faggot. You're killing mom."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222;">"Fuck it" says Autumn, "gonna die anyways."</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222;">~~~~~~~~~~~~~</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222;">From our window, we have a view of the neighbor's house. A cable and telephone box with snarls of wire dangling like some alien jellyfish plastered onto the wood. Above it is a sliver of sky we watch from bed. Rarely is the sky blue in this part of the world. I stare into a </span></span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">dull, gray nothingness and think. </span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">Santino's Minimart. Only two blocks away and I do need smokes. Plus, there's an ATM there...I could get cash. Just to have some on hand. How long has it been? Today is the 33rd day of no heroin or cocaine. That is a long time. I should feel proud. And it does feel good. My brain is mine, my cock is mine and my life is mine. I wonder if Kym bought any cocaine? I wonder if she bought any heroin? I could just go get the money in case she did. Then I'd have it. Heroin and cocaine. But I will wait for Kym. There is nothing more important in the Universe than her smile. Nothing...</span><br />
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">"Nothing!" I say out loud to reassure myself. I smile because it doesn't work and o</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">utside, the wind slams into the window and shakes it violently.</span></div>
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m2khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16897729559077244089noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6402054981777377299.post-84948678105312700052016-04-26T09:44:00.002-07:002016-04-26T09:44:57.874-07:00Mahalo!I got a lot of love and messages from that last story and just wanted to say Thanks! Sorry I don't answer all your emails or messages but I totally appreciate all the encouragement and love. You guys totally make my day.<br />
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-M2Km2khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16897729559077244089noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6402054981777377299.post-48960345731844575182016-04-25T13:31:00.000-07:002016-04-25T13:31:56.944-07:00Why I Wear Pink Socks<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">I stare passively at panes of blurry light. As my eyes focus, I decide I hate alcohol for the 8,000th time. Why do I drink so much? Because I'm an alcoholic. Because it's my day off. Mystery solved. I shut my eyes, groan and roll over but it's useless. Sleep and I never got along. Time to return to the rutted track. Time to feel normal.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">I keep the drugs in my truck. Little blue pills. Not the best spot but considering my wife, probably the safest. I pocket two pills and ignore Ugly Bob who yowls at me through the windshield. A quick glance at his bowl shows scattered cat food. The chickens were here and they stole his breakfast.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"You smell, you're weak and you're an embarrassment to yourself", I tell Ugly Bob. </span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">Inside, I pour a cup of lukewarm coffee and use a silver dollar to crush a pill into three lines. SNORT. The first one tickles my brain with electric anticipation. SNORT. The second one rights all alcoholic wrongs. SNORT. The third one cracks open the door. Just a peek. Euphoria. I swallow the other pill. In twenty minutes, the phoenix shall rise.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">Much better. I let Ugly Bob inside, pet him for awhile and feed him. Then I find myself staring at the washing machine. Hmm. Our power bill has been huge lately. I look at the washing robot. Why does my wife do such tiny loads? What is this dividing clothes nonsense? I take the whole basket of clothes and shove it into the machine. I add soap and punch START. </span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">That clean, pharmaceutical oxy rush is rippling through my body. Just enough to make the morning softer. Serene. The hangover is long gone and my spirit hovers above the flesh. Eating sounds pleasant so I fry an egg and make toast. After I eat, I take the clothes from the washer and place them in the dryer. Some clothes are pink. Well that's kinda weird. But right fucking now, life feels good. So I go with it.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">The high swarms in my mind like tiny bees seeking tasks. So I clean up the kitchen, put away the dishes and take apart my watch. Ugly Bob crouches on the table and watches the tiny screws bounce across the table. I'm disassembling the waterproof housing when my phone buzzes like a disturbed insect. Ugly Bob and I watch it vibrate across the table. It is not my wife, so I let the phone goes to voicemail. The phone display say's it's Rick Cody who leaves a message. Rick? Rick and I meet on Thursdays to buy oxycodone. I put down the watch.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Heeey..." comes Rick's voice. "I have a couple questions. Call me back, buddy."</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">Ah, Rick. My socially acceptable friend. The one the wife likes. Rick works for the county as an environmental planner. Everyone loves him and he's thinking of running for city council. He'd be perfect for it. But our friendship is just a figment of the moth's dream. Sure, we meet once a week and have some drinks. But we're really only there to meet Trina. She sells us thirty Roxicodone 30mg pills for $500 a pop. To say Rick and I are great friends is like saying Trina enjoys our company. Never mind the $1,000 in cash she pockets every week. The dryer buzzes. I open it. The clothes are still damp. And pink. I close it and walk away.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Hey Rick" I say into the phone while studying the shiny watch guts spewed across the table. "What's up?"</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Hey man. A little late notice, but how about lunch?"</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Is this about your boat?" I ask. Boat is our clever code for pills. </span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Nah, I just wanna talk."</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">Hmm. I gather the watch pieces into a pile. My instinct is to push off the lunch. I have pills to last me to Thursday. But something is happening...I can feel it.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Ok" I agree. "The usual?"</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">~~~~~~~~~~~~~</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">I meet Rick at the Harbor Grill. The same dive where we usually meet our dealer. The Saturday morning drunks are watching college football teams on TV. Outside is the endless Pacific Ocean. A soul defying shade of blue spreads across the planet. </span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Know anything about drug tests?" asks Rick with a faint smile. </span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">I sigh and watch a family of sunburnt tourists pick a table in the harsh, tropical sunlight. I look at Rick. His face is relaxed. Numb. I know his other face too. The one he wears when Trina's running late and our conversation grows stale.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Not really" I shrug picking up my beer. All I know is I've failed a bunch of them. </span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">Rick cracks his neck as a waitress wobbles by with a tray of cheeseburgers. He stops her with his smile, "When you have moment Lani, can you get us another pitcher?"</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Sure guys!" smiles the waitress. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">Rick is the kind of person that knows everyone's name. He's forever bumping into folks and asking them about their families or their jobs or whatever the hell people talk about. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"What happened?" I ask him.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"I don't know" smiles Rick wistfully. "I mean, I have an idea but I think I'm fucked. They made me take a piss test yesterday. Heard a lot of words like: zero-tolerance, county policy and random screening. It's bullshit."</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Go to your doctor and get a prescription-"</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Hah! We think alike" laughs Rick. "I went right after I pissed and waited four hours. Back pain. Thing is, I was on more than a 100mg of oxy when I tested and my doc wouldn't even give me hydros. She starts with ibuprofen or naproxen."</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Naproxen?" I say with disgust. "What are you gonna do? Appeal?"</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"I read my contract. Baring a miracle, they totally got me" says Rick. "If my fucking brain had been working, I would have quit."</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">I think about this. Yeah. You get your references and the time you put in counts. Get fired and the last thing you want is a prospective employer calling. Sure there are laws but junkies seldom sue after getting slandered for failing drug tests. Rick looks at me seriously.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"I've been slipping. I know it. Stupid little things. Drove my Land Rover for a week before noticing the oil cap on the windshield. And work? I take my liberties. Shit, looking back, I was just giving them more rope to hang me."</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"You've been there for what? Three years?"</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Four" nods Rick solemnly taking a gulp of beer.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Appeal!" I urge. "What can it hurt? Say you need some time to sort stuff out. Your professional record is good right?"</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Solid" shrugs Rick. "Most county people don't give two fucks about anything but their pension. I started the commission to halt coastal development. I started beach clean up days for school kids. I did good." </span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"So appeal."</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Nah" smiles Rick looking at me like a child. "All we have is our reputation. Do I want to be labelled an addict?"</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">I sigh because it's all true. I surreptitiously chew a pill while the waitress brings us mahimahi sandwiches. The semblance of a solid, forthright work history is more important than being competent. Rick is both. But he also needs his 200-300mg of oxycodone a day to avoid spiraling into hell. His magnetic personality and gregarious nature would collapse into manic depression, burning incontinence, sleep depravity and endless agony. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">I know this because history is circular. </span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"We on for next Thursday?" I ask and instantly regret it. Thursday is when we meet our dealer. Regular as church. But Rick is wolfing down his sandwich and seems unfazed. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">He nods, </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Of course."</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">In the end, my wife came home and discovered my watch and laundry attempt.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"What is this bullshit?" she demanded. "I told you to pay the guy at the watch place. And you're lucky I like pink bras. Separate colors! Remember?"</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">No. I don't recall that. But time passes. Like Rick, I am noticing subtle changes in life that illustrate drugs are bad. Yesterday, I had to re-park my car after I opened the door during a windy day and it smashed into a coworker's BMW. I had a boss meeting at work about leaving early. At first I was indignant. But hell, it's true. Roxicodone says leaving early is ok. Fuck it. I just do what every other motherfucker in the office wants to do. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">Rick moved back to New Jersey. From social media, I watched him lose his wife and pass his post office exams. Maybe he'll do good there. I wonder if he misses his old life? I wonder how much he pays for oxy? But we never talk again. Rick disappears into the digital Darkness. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">~~~~~~~~~~~~~</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">Friday night tacos at Los Portales. Our family tradition.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Is this your sophisticated lesbian look?" asks my wife. Her eyes sparkle mischievously at me.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"What?" I ask confused. I smile like a fool because I'm high and realize I'm missing something obvious. </span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Daddy's wearing pink socks!" laughs my daughter.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">I look down. I'm dressed like a man who doesn't have a chance. Sensible shoes, pink socks, black jeans and an octopus t-shirt that says, 'Who Wants A Hug?'. Jesus. Did I really wear this today? I don't remember...but it was casual Friday. Wow.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Finish up guys. Movie starts at 8:15" smiles my wife. Our daughters start wolfing down their nachos and quesadillas. "What time is it?" she asks me.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">But I don't know. My socks are pink and my watch is broken.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"> </span></span></div>
m2khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16897729559077244089noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6402054981777377299.post-36540758470734830902016-04-13T10:17:00.000-07:002016-04-13T10:19:13.627-07:00Liars On Dope<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">Ringing. </span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">Phone. </span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">Ignored. </span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">Ringing.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">Jesus! Answer the fuckin-</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Hey girl! Pick up! Yo, yo, yo-"</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">From bed, I can hear Iona yelling into our answering machine. I sit up and look at the clock. 2:44pm. Time to get up.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"What?!" demands Kym into the phone. "Really? Wow. Ok. Thanks sis..."</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">I listen to them chatter in a mixture of sister gibberish, English and other languages while yawning and looking for clothes. Whenever Kym stops speaking English, she's either emotionally disturbed or plotting something. I push the thought out of my mind and select clothes from the mostly clean pile. Through the open curtains, I can see a slice of marble gray sky between buildings. The glass pane rattles from the winter wind. Kym materializes in the doorway wearing nothing but a Bauhaus t-shirt. It looks like a tiny, black witch dress. Her pixie blond hair is wild like a dandelion dancing on the wind. </span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Morning" I smile pulling on a random t-shirt that smells ok.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Hey" she responds crossing her arms and hugging herself. "I made some toast."</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Thanks." </span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">Behind Kym's blank face, I can feel her wheels spinning. Plans are forming behind blue eyes. She stares at me like a sorceress from ages long gone. </span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Was that Iona?" I ask.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Yeah."</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"What'd she want?"</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Nothing. How much oxy is left?" asks Kym.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"I don't know" I respond pulling on my jeans. "It's on the dresser." </span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">But of course I know. There are seven 30mg pills in the bottle. And four stashed in my jacket. Kym walks over to open the bottle. She works tonight and oxy is her drug of choice for coffee customer service. Lately, I have been using oxy at school to stay alert and socially engaged. But in reality, oxy is just a buffer. Kym and I are shameless heroin addicts.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"That's it?" she frowns. "Can you get more? I need like three tonight and want some tomorrow."</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">This is why I hide pills in my jacket and heroin in my boot lining. I know Kym's animal well.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"I'll ask Ari. We have lab on Monday."</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Did Jase leave anything?" she asks. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">She means heroin. Kym unconsciously reaches up and slips her hand into her hairdo. I look at the trail of holes in the crook of her arm as she smoothes her spiky, platinum blond locks.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Besides the coke you borrowed?" I ask casually. </span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Oh jeez! We're all good! I got him that fucking espresso machine he wanted. Do you know how much those things cost? Trust me, he's ok with me taking a little taste" she sniffs.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Any left? I need a Good Morning line."</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"No" </span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">she responds staring pointedly at me. Our eyes are like car headlights driving right at each other. A game of chicken. I look away as she twirls her hair and says, </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"We finished it last night." </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">Kym is getting riled up. We are talking around rude, unspoken truths. This annoys her because everyone has their own versions of reality. I get one line of coke for every three lines she snorts. We both know this. But switch uppers for downers, and you got me hoarding pills or shooting up in a bathroom alone. Another path in the maze that defines our souls. </span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Ok" I say looking for socks. I find a red one and a brown one. Close enough.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Is Rondo around?" asks Kym.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"No. Him and Cammy went to Aspen to snowboard at his parent's lodge. Remember they asked us if we could go?"</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Yeah, whatever" says Kym who does not snowboard. "We gotta go to Dean's."</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">We did the last of the shitty black tar last night. Nasty stuff. You can't snort it. It barely gets us high when we smoke it,so we are forced to inject it into our blood. But this is an advanced capitalistic society. Needles are free every Thursday. The needle van trundles down the Van Ness and stops at all the convenient junkie streets. But Dean? Fuck. I hate this part.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">Dean is a dopefiend that lives in the Tenderloin with his dopefiend wife Jenny. He is old. Like older than 30. Maybe even in his 40's, I don't know. He's old. Skinny dude with a bandana on his head like a TV wrestler. He dresses like a heavy metal stoner and has a creepy crawly vibe. He will always say something vaguely inappropriate when he sees Kym.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">Last time it was, "Wow. Girls only get a body like that from like, 14 to maybe 21. Am I right?"</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">You can't call Dean. No phone. You walk down the street he lives on and hope you see him on his stoop or down the block. The stoop is vacant. On the stairs is a shivering, old black man who needs a winter coat. Kym and I watch him pace to stay warm. But a coat wouldn't warm that man's bones. This makes me feel ill. I hold Kym's hand. Time passes. We are about to give up when the door opens and two biker guys leave. Dean stands there, surveying his spot. The black guy rushes up. But Dean spots us and walks past him. </span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"What's up Kym? What's up S- Hey!" yells Dean as the black man grabs his arm.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"I just need a half! I been waiting for-"</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Get the fuck off me, Wendell!" yells Dean shoving the old man who bounces off the stair railing and collapses to the ground. Dean looks at us and smiles. "Guys! Come up!"</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">Kym steps over the old black guy groveling on the stoop like this is totally normal. Jesus. How did my life end up with moments like this? I can hear the old man sobbing as I step over him. </span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"So what can I do for you two?" asks Dean magnanimously as he slams the door. His house smells like cat shit and wine vomit.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Two grams" I answer.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"How about three?" corrects Kym.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">Dean stares at Kym. People always stare at Kym. Tall, long limbed but curvy like a pagan, fertility idol. I should be used to this. Kym is used to it. But sometimes it is so very awkward. Like now as Dean unconsciously fondles himself in front of us. Kym ignores his old man leer and pretends to study the collection of framed, Def Leppard posters. Dean's claim to fame, besides peddling shitty heroin, is he </span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">once </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">was a roadie for a North American Def Leppard tour. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Three?" muses Dean seriously like we just asked him who should lead the free world. "Ok. Wait here."</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">We stand awkwardly near his filthy couch as he disappears down the hall. Kym's face, since arrival, has been a mask. It does not irritate, it does not provoke. It's more like a prop to look at and admire. It's the same mask she wears in bars. </span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">An irritated cough comes from the gloom. Jenny always coughs, yet she smokes cloves. Kym lights a cigarette. We listen to Dean and Jenny bicker.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Goddamnit Dean, no cigarettes inside!" coughs Jenny.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Just shut up and hand me the damn bag!" growls Dean.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">I look at Kym who shrugs. Then she takes another drag and blows it down the hall. Kym and Jenny never liked each other. I want a smoke too but feel guilty taking a puff. I think Jenny is just a crazy bitch based on her past behavior but who knows? I'd feel shitty if she has asthma. Kym holds the smoke to my lips and I look at her and shake my head. She winks.</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I take a drag.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"It's just the heater" whispers Kym. "They leave it on all the time. Dries the sinuses." </span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Sure" I exhale as Dean walks back into the room.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Here you go" says Dean handing Kym three yellow balloons tied into tiny, yellow knots.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">I pay him. Kym takes the balloons, bends over and slips them in her purse. </span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Are you wearing panties?" asks Dean. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">Kym pops straight up as if electrocuted.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Yes I am, Dean" she says flicking her ashes on his carpet.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Sorry, but you have no lines. And those are some tight, fucking jeans" he grins appreciatively.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Thanks you" Kym answers.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"You are so exotic" continues Dean as if I am not here. </span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">I always wonder what am I supposed to do in these situations? Mock him? Agree? Punch him?</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Well, we gotta go" says Kym who never needs my help. "I have to go to work."</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Ok" answers Dean. "What are you guys doing later? Wanna hangout?"</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">I envision stabbing myself in the eye with a plastic fork VS hanging out with Dean. Kym shakes her head.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Maybe next week?"</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Sure" smiles Dean. "Anytime. Did you know Jenny is bi? Did I tell you that?"</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Yup. Well, we gotta go" says Kym walking out the door.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">Dean follows us out while counting the cash. Kym keeps walking and slips into her car as I make the awkward good bye exit with Dean.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Come by anytime" says Dean giving me an odd look. "And I'm serious. Jenny is down."</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Ok" I say letting go of his greasy hand. </span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">Buying drugs is always awkward because you have to talk to people. Weird fucking people.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">I climb into Kym's car. She is wincing, snorting and rubbing her eye. Hm. Before I can say anything stupid, she pops in her Pharcyde tape making conversation impossible. As Kym drives us back to the Mission, I stare out the window and quietly pull the three balloons of heroin out of her purse. I almost feel bad but Kym is making odd facial expressions like icicles are piercing her brain. Cocaine icicles. When we hit a column of traffic, she lowers the insane volume of her car stereo that vibrate my bones and looks at me. </span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"I hate going there, babe" she sighs. "I can't wait until Jase and Autumn come back from LA."</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Mmhmm" I agree studying her right nostril that looks like a powdered donut. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">I use my thumbnail to carve out hunks of black Mexican tar. I catch her sideways glance but pretend I do not.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"We're going to Maui next week" says Kym casually. </span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">This makes me pause the operation, but my animal takes over as I look over at Kym. Pinch tar, wipe in cigarette pack. Pinch tar, wipe in cigarette pack.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Maui?" I ask as my hands do their thing and Kym drives us through traffic.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Yeah. Iona got us free airfare. Love my big sis" snorts Kym lighting a cigarette. "We need a break, babe. We look like shit. But I can't ship another package. Kimo won't accept it. He knew we were sending drugs last time and kinda tripped out. So we gotta go clean."</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">Kimo is the nice old guy that does property management for the Amiri's Maui condo. </span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Clean?" I ask. "Like clean clean?"</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Yeah."</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"No coke or H?"</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Nope" shrugs Kym. "Kimo was very clear. I mean we could take some on the plane but I got a bad feeling about that. Nothing more than pills. So get extra oxy from Ari."</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Ok" I say as she hands me the smoke. I look at her but she stares into rainy day city traffic. "So we're gonna withdrawal? H and coke?"</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Yeah" Kym sighs. "Gotta this week. Taper. I think it's a good thing. Don't you?"</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">I think about this. The vicious cycle is back. We have been injecting for four days straight. Kym has four holes in her arm and I have seven. I am ready for number eight. I can taste the shot in the back of my throat as I caress my bruised arm. We stop at a traffic light. Kym sniffs again. I look over and see a thin line of blood dripping from her nose. </span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Yes" I nod stashing the cigarette pack with hunks of pinched tar in my jacket, "this is a wise decision."</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><span class="sew62mejhojjgtb" style="color: #222222;"></span><span class="sew62mejhojjgtb" style="color: #222222;"></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"> </span><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"> </span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"> </span></span>m2khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16897729559077244089noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6402054981777377299.post-81138950600038171222016-04-07T11:43:00.000-07:002016-04-07T11:43:43.281-07:00These Seeds Grow From Hell<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">Two days into withdrawal, I realize poppy seed tea is no joke. My body is twisted and oozing like a salt covered slug. This is nastier than pills and more akin to a long term heroin withdrawal. Never mind the mental part. That will come later. The sweating, the shitting, the puking and shivering agony is upon me like a wild beast. Two days without a sip of seed tea and I am a fucking dying.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">The worst part is I never got the HIGH of heroin. I never got the POP of pills. In fact, I never thought much of the seed tea at all except it just sorta made life nicer. But looking back, perhaps that is not what happened. </span><br style="color: #222222;" /></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">And life slips away. A cocoon of complacency. The shit part was the damn tea never fucked me up. It just slipped into my life and took control. Opiates makes the ocean uncomfortably cold. I used to surf before and after work. I still surf but am noticeably weaker in the lineup. And my brain. I am forgetting things. Repeating myself. Most of my long term planning involves ordering more poppy seeds before I run out. My truck has needed an oil change for three months. My radiator leaks. When I remember to fill it, I usually leave the cap off.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">How did I not see the cycle rising again? Now the leash is too tight. Strangling me. Drowning my existence. So two days with no poppy seed tea. Pure hell. And according to the laws of the Universe, while I am laying here, I will get kicked again and again.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br style="color: #222222;" /></span>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">~~~~~~~~~~~~~</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222;"><br /></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">This is what happened. I was bored at work. I was reading sites where quasi-legal highs are discussed and an enlightened baker clued me in. At his bakery, he started to guzzle concoctions brewed from the wholesale bags of poppy seeds they purchased for poppy seed bagels. The instructions were clear. This high is not gained from a spice rack bottle of seeds at your grocery store. On a whim, I ordered five pounds of organic poppy seeds online.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">I am probably one of the first online lemmings to leap off this cliff. But I have always used the internet for immoral purposes. Pornography, ninja training secrets, pharmaceuticals from foreign countries and eBay. Before this baker, I had a Canadian "doctor" mail me codeine pills. After that dried up, I had a solid Indian connect that was good for hydrocodone. A Mexican man sent me fent lollipops. Then the dialup internet world of wild, wild west pharmacies dried up. So after I got tired of alcoholism and chugging dextromethorphan, I found the baker's post.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">~~~~~~~~~~~~~</span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">When you have the luxury of hindsight, you can see all the pieces and a picture forms. But I knew it wasn't a good idea because I hid it from my wife. Unconsciously, I knew she would perceive the problem. I was high again. Not stoned, tripping, drunk or the ultra rare high on life stuff either. In fact, now that I think about it, there were moments when she had to know something was up. I fell asleep every night with the light on. Often, as the euphoria swallowed me, I wanted to hold her and touch her face while I drifted away. Opiates do make me a more affectionate person. Maybe she looked through my hiding places for drugs and maybe she didn't. But there was nothing there. I had the seeds delivered to work. </span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">~~~~~~~~~~~~~</span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">How many months have passed? My first emailed order is from seven months ago. Jesus. Has it been that long? Like a collared thrall, my days blurred into habit and routine. Plodding dully forward into the dream...as my mind and soul eroded. </span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">Wake up. Groggy, but solid eight hours of black sleep. And I'm still high. I shave, shower and eat toast. Then off to work. I hate this fucking place. My work has has everything from the owner fucking his cousin to massive commodities fraud to deal with. But I make nice bonuses so I put on the mask, lie accordingly and pretend to care. The first two hours are wasted. Drink some coffee and read the online articles. Later, I'll eat my flavorless lunch. The machine needs fuel. </span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">After lunch, I'll mix two Gatorade bottles of poppy seed tea. Seeds, lemon and water. It tastes awful, but taste has never been the point. I drink one and feel better instantly. I take the other one to go. I work at least two more hours to gauge the office vibe. Nine times out of ten, the boss and his cousin are gone. So I talk to the facility manager because I am slightly responsible. He is the only person that actually works here. We set up orders and plan the next day. Then I leave.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">It takes more than an hour until I FEEL the tea. And I never FEEL it like oxycodone or heroin. I just feel it. Sleepy, I go home and nap. When my alarm rings, I wake up blissed and go get my kids. Back home, we do homework and I drink beer. Around 6pm, I'll chug the other bottle, hide it in the trash and make dinner. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And the days just melted away.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">~~~~~~~~~~~~~</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Hi."</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Hey what's up?" asks my wife.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"I got fired. Sorry."</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"You did?" her voice goes to the same tonal range she uses to soothe our children's knee scrapes. "Oh...I'm sorry."</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"It's ok" I sigh. </span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Well, something else will turn up. It always does right?" soothes my wife.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Yeah, I guess."</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">~~~~~~~~~~~~~</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It's too late too late to order more seeds and frankly I am sick of them. They fuck me up too much without fucking me up enough. So I set up an appointment with my doctor. Time to do my knee trick again. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Like always, it's just a temporary thing. Just a little prescription love to get through this nasty tea. Just a little.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And the circle continues.</span><br />
<br style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;" />m2khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16897729559077244089noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6402054981777377299.post-91675597927040805342016-03-30T15:11:00.000-07:002016-03-30T15:11:31.611-07:00The Girl Who Secretly Hates Scarves<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">The smoke from the marijuana rises like an ascending soul. It climbs the three story warehouse space to join a cloud of party smoke lingering from the night before. Melo passes the pipe to me and coughs across the slumbering bodies of at least fifty revelers passed out on the concrete floor. Sprawled out amongst the snoring are Kym and Dev who sleep beneath a pile of jackets. Surrounding them is a sea of red keg cups, broken glass, fast food wrappers, discarded clothing and cigarette butts. Last night this place was filled with hundreds of people. Six bands raged all night and while there were fights, drugs and people taken to hospitals, there were no cops. A Saturday night warehouse party in Oakland with no cops. Amazing.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br />Melo had a new batch of acid we enjoyed. I tasted the purple light and felt supernova surges of love during the Bacchanal release. Hundreds of souls joined in dance created a vibrating intensity through the night. Or maybe I just freebased too much of Dev's microwaved coke. When the kegs ran out, everyone went hyper dance crazy on the MDMA Melo was selling. To stay focused, we dosed again. Around 4am, things returned to their natural orbits. The last DJ left and people wandered out to their Sunday mornings beneath the remaining moonlight. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I take a hit of weed and pass it back to Melo. <br /><br />"Well" chokes Melo, "we should get going. I gotta return the car."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I still have five hits of acid in my jacket. Two ankhs and three hearts. I think about this as I light a cigarette. After Saturday morphed into Sunday, I stopped keeping track of what went into my body. I know the substances by name but do not recall the ratios. Now I have a choice. I can sink further into the surreal depravity or take this trippy feeling home for at least four hours of sleep before my dish room shift at the university cafeteria. Hmm. I look at Kym. Unlike me, she does not roll into a protective ball when she sleeps. Arms and legs splayed out and snoring on her back. A cowboy hat I have never seen before covers half her face. Dev is fetal next to her with her head burrowed beneath the jackets. Both danced all night like crazed Maenads. Kym likes her tequila with MDMA, coke and oxy. I wonder if she has any more oxy? I kick her.<br /><br />"Hey! Get up!"<br /><br />"Fuck you!" growls Kym curling into a ball. Then she looks up and squints at me from beneath the cowboy hat. "What? What's happening? I want some french fries."<br /><br />"There's no food here. We gotta go. Melo's giving us a ride to BART."<br /><br />"Mmmmrrr" whines Dev with her eyes closed. She props herself up by pushing Kym back down.<br /><br />"Bitch!" snarls Kym swatting Dev's arms away.<br /><br />"Oh hush Khadj" yawns Dev. She looks at Melo and sleepy smiles. "Vámonos?"<br /><br />"Yup" says Melo standing up and cracking his neck. "Vámonos."<br /></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">~~~~~~~~~~~~~</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Kym doesn't have anymore oxy. The coke bullet only has coke in it which she snorts before I can ask for some. "Fuckin' Juan Valdez!" she winces as she snatches my cigarette and passes the bullet to Dev.<br /><br />"L’chaim!" toasts Dev hitting the bullet and whipping her head back and forth. I watch her transform into a multi-faced Dev with at least six arms. "Fuck!" she snorts. <br /><br />We walk two blocks through what can only be described as an industrial wasteland. Smashed window warehouses and abandoned factories. Like giant industrial corpse faces staring at the sprawl. No plants grow here. Concrete covers everything but the asphalt road and train tracks. We trudge by a homeless camp and the reek of human shit mingles with the despair and hostility. Then through a fence, across a dry culvert and towards the sound of Sunday morning traffic. P</span><span style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">arked beneath a freeway overpass is </span><span style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">an old, diesel Mercedes Benz </span><span style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">Melo borrowed.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">"Hold up" says Melo opening the trunk. One of his backpacks is in there and he removes a pack of smokes and a Mexican blanket. "Put this on the seats."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br />"Yes. Do that" agrees Dev. <br /><br />So we do. The old Mercedes rumbles to life and belches a bong hit of oily, black smoke into the gray morning sky. As the car trundles to life, Kym smokes and I lean against her. Even after dancing on weird substances all night she still smells like myrrh and wildflowers. We share the cigarette as Dev instructs Melo towards a McDonalds for breakfast. Then we smell it.<br /><br />"Jesus fucking Christ Melo!" complains Kym. "It smells like pussy and ass in here! Mostly ass!"<br /><br />"Yeah" shrugs Melo, "this car is used for many, many things. I'd roll down your window if I was you."<br /></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">~~~~~~~~~~~~~</span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br />"You sure you don't wanna go to El Cerrito with us?" asks Dev dipping her eggless Egg McMuffin into ketchup. "MIRV is playing." <br /><br />"I wish" sighs Kym tipping her cowboy hat up. "I got my grandma thing today."<br /><br />"I gotta work. Dish room shift" I shrug.<br /><br />"Oh yeah" says Kym grabbing my arm. "Babe, we need to stop at Powell."<br /><br />"Why?" I ask rubbing my eyes. Powell means shopping. I hate shopping. I dread the Emporium dome. I have been abandoned beneath the dome many, many times by this woman.<br /><br />"I lost my head scarf last night. I need another one for grandma."<br /><br />"Is that why you have that cowboy hat?"<br /><br />"Oh. You noticed the hat?" deadpans Kym.<br /><br />"Of course I noticed the hat" I say as she leans her thigh into me. I've had several thoughts of Kym wearing nothing but the hat for almost twelve hours. "So is the hat like a trophy or something?"<br /><br />"Ooh la-la" muses Dev.<br /><br />"I did meet a pretty cool guy" smiles Kym coyly. "Maybe I'll let you wear the hat tonight. But I do need another hijab. So, sorry babe. I gotta go do a little shopping."<br /><br />"Mmm" I nod as I fish out the square of paper in my jacket pocket. I take a tiny square of blotter printed with a heart and pop it into my mouth. Surrealism uber alles. Only Melo see's me eat it and winks.<br /><br />"Have fun" he says.<br /></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">~~~~~~~~~~~~~</span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br />The BART fills with the moaning of spirits as it descends beneath the ocean towards San Francisco. Though my girlfriend is coked up, she closes her eyes and sags against my shoulder. The BART train vibrates a deep bass tone that fill my bones with the Universal hum. As the spirits mutter foreign gibberish through the transbay tube, I watch silvery Nordic glyphs streak across the black windows. The acid is opening up the doors and my mind is traveling. I drape my arm around Kym. Not sure if the gesture is for love or for my altered state. When I touch Kym, I know I am still real. This is comforting because everything around us is a paper illusion. I inhale Kym's scent to make this revelation go away.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I'm glad Kym's here because I'm starting to peak again. When you ride BART alone, it is like your life. A journey with only your own arms to comfort you as you race through the tunnel towards the Light. The silver studs on my black leather jacket scrape the window where ghosts peer inside. The BART hum fills the inside of my skull with a whispering voice I can barely make out. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"</span><span style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">It is all a big Nothing..."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">Did I say that out loud? I look at Kym who appears to be sleeping. I take a deep breath and remind myself that I have taken a lot of psychedelics. I'm kinda tripping out but it's Ok. Millions of baby spiders ride tiny webs across the BART train as the Sunday commuters turn into painted statues with animal heads. A donkey turns to me and smiles. I look away as the driver announces our stop. As we approach Powell St. Station, I wake up Kym.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br />"What?!" she groans.<br /><br />"I want a coffee."<br /><br />"Yeah, yeah" she grumbles as the BART moans in a deranged slow motion voice I try very hard to ignore. "But not from the mall right?"<br /><br />"Correct."<br /><br />After the trip beneath the bay, I need to feel the fresh air above the tunnel on Market Street. We exit the train and follow the crowd to the turnstiles. I see sleeping wasps between the pipes and fluorescent lights overhead. Huge, fucking alien looking insects. I realize I am stopped, staring at the ceiling with my mouth open as people shove past me. Kym guides me to the escalator and we ride up to the city. We ascend a silvery staircase surrounded by neon-white, bubbled walls. A plastic hive made by mutant wasps. I can feel young larvae pushing against the honeycomb...I let my hand drift across the bubbling wall as we rise to the city street.<br /><br />"Eww babe!" says Kym. "Don't touch the fucking walls at a BART station!"<br /><br />I yank my hand back, look up and see familiar buildings hugging the skyline. The city. As usual, I do not want to shop with Kym. So after I buy my street vendor coffee, we walk back to the mall and I sit beneath the Emporium dome. Then I wait. Kym does not disappoint. Hours pass by. I open up the square paper and solemnly select a hit of ankh acid. I stare into the mobs of shoppers circulating like blood cells through the great, advanced Capitalistic beast. I take a sip of lukewarm coffee as a woman plops beside me in a fur coat. The squeaking is from the escalators and not from her dead animals but I eye her warily until she leaves. I swear to fucking God I saw that fur wiggling...A security guard has circulated through this area six times since I sat down. He probably thinks I'm a homeless junkie. Well, he's half right. I wave to him each time but I never mention the swarm of metallic moths above us. The moths are why I stopped looking up into the infinite sadness of the Emporium dome. Suddenly, my cigarette is plucked from my fingers. I look over and see a beautiful girl in a silly cowboy hat.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br />"Let's go."<br /></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">~~~~~~~~~~~~~</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">When we get back to the Mission, I want to tell Kym about the odd brick patterns I noticed everywhere. From the BART station floors to the city sidewalks, I have studied the Tetris pattern of brick and deciphered The Message. But she ignores me and jumps in the shower. Kym showers to her Jesus and Mary Chain tape. The heavy bass drone starts to eat into my sanity as I watch carpet crayfish drag themselves across my black boots. The walls warp with schools of weird white fish. This particular song seems to be aimed at my sleep deprived mind and moans, 'I wanna die! I wanna die!' The bass shakes the walls. Knowing we are alone, Kym puts on her makeup and walks down the hall nude. I stare in awe as she grabs her lighter, pats my head like a dog and disappears into our room to dress. Then I hear slow, heavy footsteps plodding up our stairs. The tread of an adult. Old people always walk so slowly up the stairs. I peek through the peephole and see Kym's mom coming. I slip into the bathroom and wait as the doorbell rings.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br />"Bye babe!" yells Kym slamming the front door. I listen to her boots stomp the wooden stairs as she yells, "Meet me by the park at 6pm!"<br /></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">~~~~~~~~~~~~~</span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">We huddle beneath the stone alcove of an office building. It's deserted and the fog has rolled up with the rain. Our view across the street of a neon-lit Chinese herbalist sign slips in and out of the fog. I reach my hand out to feel my beloved sea. I took the Muni out here to meet Kym after my dishwashing shift. Kym spent the afternoon with her family in Sea Cliff where her grandma lives. While we wait for our ride, we share cigarettes and chocolate shortbread made with pistachios. Kym rests against me and exhales the smoke into the gray gloom while I devour shortbread. These cookies are fucking amazing.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br />"Finally!" says Kym flicking the smoke into the headlights of her car as it pulls up. Jason leans out the driver window and belches.<br /><br />"What up?" he says pointing his Sprite at us. Then he starts to laugh. "I wish I had a camera!"<br /><br />We probably do look odd. But in the heart of San Francisco, the people passing by could care less. They see much weirder shit than a guy in a greasy jeans, a stained apron stuffed with PopTarts and a black leather jacket sitting next to a girl in long black pants, a long black dress, long black coat and a deep purple scarf wrapped around her head.<br /><br />"Kym, I love when you dress like that" Jason laughs, "it's so not you!"<br /><br />"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Grandma day so fuck you" yawns Kym as we climb into the back together.<br /><br />"What am I? Your fucking cabbie?" demands Jason. "Kym! You should drive. You're totally dressed for it."<br /><br />"Fuck off" growls Kym unwrapping her hijab and scratching her spiky, dyed black hair. "Hey you want some chocolate nokodchi? It's like a cookie."<br /><br />"I'll eat anything chocolate or cookie-based" says Jason turning around and grabbing one.<br /><br />I sense competition. So I take two and shove them my mouth.<br /><br />"Holy shit!" he exclaims. "These are amazing!"<br /><br />"Mmmhmmm!" I agree while grabbing another one.<br /><br />"Oh we gotta make a stop guys. Temple of Fuck."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Kym looks at me and rolls her eyes.<br /></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">~~~~~~~~~~~~~</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Jason is the most bad ass parallel parker I have ever known. He smoothly backs into a slot barely big enough for Kym's car in one motion. He has to to walk across Kym's bumper to get to the sidewalk because that is how tight the spot was. He makes us high five him and then we walk up the hill towards Rondo's place. The Temple of Fuck is a converted warehouse space. Two stories high with an office and three bedroom apartment upstairs. We walk through the fog and rain to buzz the gate.<br /><br />"I hate this place" says Kym wrapping the scarf back around her head.<br /><br />I pull up my hood and try to focus through the gossamer hue of a 48 hour LSD trip peppered with cocaine and a rainbow spectrum of prescription pills. My girlfriend does indeed hate this place. The heat from Kym's incubating anger is like a violent entity that haunts us. Once, when Kym was away, Jason threw a party. A porn star named Madame Fist left an earring in our bedroom. Nothing happened but...Yeah...try explaining that one. This was when I learned Kym has clearly defined boundaries. If she is angered, she will hit you with whatever happens to be laying around. Bottles, chairs, etc. And if Kym is sad, she will leave. Bye bye. It was a dark time and being in front of this building is doing us no good. But we need something. We need heroin. <br /><br />"Hey Jase" I ask casually. "They're not working today right?"<br /><br />"Nah, no porn shoots on the weekend. Rondo says they're baking bread." says Jason.<br /><br />The gate buzzes and we walk through. As we climb the stairs we hear Rondo's girlfriend screech out to us, " Oh my god! Kymy! I haven't seen you in ages! How are you doing sweety?!"<br /><br />"Fake ass bitch" mutters Kym whose face transforms to a mask of excited happiness. Then in her hyper-sexualized phone voice, she says, "Cammy! It's been too long!"<br /><br />"That was Dr. Jekyll fucking weird" says Jason looking at me. "I'm gonna try it."<br /><br />Jason shoves past me and in a booming voice he yells, "Cammy! Damn you look GOOD! Hey! Where's my main man Rondo?"<br /><br />"Oh my god Jason!" squeals Cammy hugging him. I walk past them unamused and Jason winks at me. <br /><br />Rondo is walking down the hall in an apron grinning. Rondo is a Californian hugger raised by hippy parents. You can never escape this fact. He quick hugs Kym because she is shoving past him to get away from Cammy. Rondo shakes my out stretched hand solemnly and then yanks me in for a hug.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"My brother" he says seriously. "How have you been?"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"Good" I say untangling myself and following Kym. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Then he beelines to Jason. Jason knows Rondo and leaps into his arms with unbridled joy. After the hug and greetings come questions. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"Is this the same shit as the Warfield cut? You get me an oh-zee?" Rondo asks. His eyes are feverish and starved. How many eyes like that does Jason deal with? I mean besides me and Kym?<br /><br />"Let's go check out your office" says Jason cooly as Cammy walks up to us.<br /><br />"Oh my god Kymy I love this scarf look. It's so ETHNIC! And cool!" she squeals.<br /><br />"Oh my god! Thanks!" fake smiles Kym with eyes closed like a pleased anime character. "Hey! I'm gonna check out the office too! So Bye-Bye!"<br /><br />I fake nothing and stare at Cammy as a V-pattern of blue light strobes overhead. Goddamn UFOs. Cammy is a rail thin dyed blond with stripper fake boobs. Society finds Cammy beautiful but I can't get past her eyes. Twitchy, roaming rat eyes. They peer into my unwavering gaze with her horse faced smile. Oh and the porn. It would be odd to date a porn star. I hate social hugging and manly handshakes so her lifestyle kinda freaks me out. But Rondo has a big heart and is way more decent than I. <br /><br />"Hey" I say simply.<br /><br />"Oh. Hi!" she says sniffing and wiping her nose with the back of her hand like a coke fiend.<br /><br />Rondo told Cammy I am the Heroin Guy. Jason is the Coke Guy. She LOVES the Coke Guy. But Cammy is all about uppers. Coke, MDMA and meth. The Heroin Guy is bad news. Stupid Cammy. Rondo is the Heroin Guy, not me. I turn around and walk to the office. </span><span style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">Out of Cammy's aura, my friends have dropped their masks. I open the door, they all look up, see it's me and nod. I settle on the couch by Kym as Jase explains the price hike.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br />"This ain't Mexican cut. Smaller bumps get you skied the fuck out. You can cut this shit twice and your people will still say it's the best they ever snorted. Fucking hit that shit dude" says Jason passing the mirror.<br /><br />"I believe you" says Rondo leaning down with a cut straw and snorting. <br /><br />"Me!" says Kym reaching out to the coke pile on the mirror with her fake pinky nail. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">She scoops, snorts it and leans back on the couch in a beautiful daze. Her dark garments melt like smoke into Rondo's black leather couch. As the energy waves that make the walls breathe wobble by, I can only see Kym's hands and face.<br /><br />"Damn! Ok. This is good" exhales Rondo as he snorts another one.<br /><br />Jason holds the mirror under my nose so I do a line. Coke is like a scalpel through the LSD haze. I lean back into Kym and blink away the moths for a moment. Then I exhale and snort the coke snot. The wooden office floor still buckles like a ship at sea as the energy fizzles towards my brain like the sparkling fuse of a cartoon bomb. In the layers of the </span><span style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">green </span><span style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">ceiling paint are Aztec glyphs and elastic funhouse faces. The LSD is still winning. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br />"You got any H?" asks Kym staring at Rondo.<br /><br />"Easy Khadja" cautions Jason who is not into help when he does his thing. "We have something worked out, Ok?"<br /><br />"We do have something" smiles Rondo. "But this part stays in the office."<br /><br />Rondo goes to his desk and takes out a Noah's Bagels bag and fishes around in it. He pulls out a egg-shaped hunk of tar wrapped in cellophane. <br /><br />"This was in some poor lady's pussy or intestinal tract from what I understand. It is seriously fucking pure and heavy. Not a city cut. So just do little hits ok? Exercise caution."<br /><br />"You got my attention" smiles Kym. "Any foil in here?"<br /><br />"Yeah" says Rondo opening a desk drawer and pulling out a box. Kym rips off a sheet and sits down with the tar and the straw. She breaks off a sticky nub of euphoria and places it in her foil trench. Jason and Rondo mutter about cash and I watch them move envelopes and bags out of a floor safe as Kym lights up. She looks at me so I lean over. We vaporize tiny balls of tar as Jason and Rondo count the cash. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br />"Oh...Oh my" breathes Kym as sour vapor leaves her awed expression. "Yeah. Ok."<br /><br />We both sink into the couch. Kym reaches into my jacket pocket for cigarettes. She slides out the Marlboro Lights box as Rondo snorts another line of coke. He looks over as Kym slips the smoke between her parted lips.<br /><br />"Cigarettes outside" says Rondo pointing at the sliding glass door that faces the city view.<br /><br />"Ok" I breathe standing up. The effort is huge. No sleep and the weight of euphoria make this couch a truly beautiful thing. I grab Kym's outstretched hand and help her up. <br /><br />"Bread's almost done!" comes Cammy voice from a million miles away. "You guy's come try some!"<br /><br />Kym groans and lights the cigarette. Inside. I smile and shrug at Rondo as I open the slider door and drag Kym into the fog and rain outside. The city lies beneath us. The wind comes from across the bay to numb our </span><span style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">hands and</span><span style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"> nose tips. Kym passes me the smoke. I watch her unwind the new purple head scarf. She holds it twenty feet above the city streets below. The wind pulls the scarf into the air towards the Transamerica Pyramid Building. A deep, purple flame licking the sky above San Francisco. She lets the scarf go and it dances across the wind forever.</span><br />
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m2khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16897729559077244089noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6402054981777377299.post-25369954467289689152016-03-28T08:20:00.001-07:002016-03-28T08:20:35.780-07:00Stories From the Moth People COMING SOON<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Things are going well and I'm excited for this one. I originally wanted to do just a Dev collection but quickly realized that presenting pieces of the Universe is way more fun to write.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Like <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Tracks-1-Morbo2000-ebook/dp/B015V2E340/ref=asap_bc?ie=UTF8" target="_blank">Tracks: Volume 1</a>, I reworked the stories with an editor to paint a more cohesive picture. Some seem unchanged while others are radically altered. There are also some new stories I never released and a bonus story that leads into Tracks: Volume 2.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I'll keep you updated as things progress.</span>m2khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16897729559077244089noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6402054981777377299.post-29732508937014273192016-03-14T11:42:00.000-07:002017-03-23T10:31:43.169-07:00Sober Face<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">Being sober is overrated but being insane is permanently fucked. I am slowly starting to realize this. So when my pills ran out, I didn't go back to the doctor. I went through mini-withdrawals followed some by mini-relapses. Finally, I told my mom what I was up to. I demanded she hide her pills better. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222;">"You steal my medicine?" she asked incredulously. "This is why I'm going to pharmacy every other week?"</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"No! Well, yeah. You know what mom? Just hide them better! Like not in the bathroom!" I shout watching her shuffle away to the chair where she keeps her handbag. "Or in your purse!"</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">So I went through IT again. This time the drop was longer without mom's Percocet parachute. Wave after wave of sickly withdrawal. Naively, I thought it would be easier after kicking heroin three or five times. While the physical part is easier, the great looming Darkness is what razes my soul. That vast emptiness inside. My witchy girl with shiny eyes told me a story about it once. I can't get it out of my head long after I stopped thrashing and drenching my sheets with sweat. But it's time for change. It's not the same moon shining down on me at night. So I go all in. I announce I'm quitting my shitty job at Petco and sign up for temporary employment testing one week later. But this fucking hole inside me...</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">My mom is a lot nicer to me now that she knows my plan is to get the hell out of her house. I've started drinking myself silly to fill the hole. Binge drinking is almost strong enough to hold down my screaming ghost. Though mom is a recovering alcoholic, she finds it easier to process me as a drunk versus a guy with pinhole arms turning blue on her bathroom floor. She even lets me have a houseguest over. Nerina can't actually spend the night due to Rule #4, so she sneaks out at dawn. Nerina is pure sunshine. An attractive, well adjusted, normal person. I find her sober views on life baffling yet pleasant. I met her on my smoke break in the parking lot at Petco. She works at Kinko's next door and started talking to me though I was branded with my Petco apron.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">Nerina is an exotic looking 19 year old half Spanish, half Chinese girl. She's smart enough to go to university but chose to study nursing at the local community college here in the sprawl. I don't get it. Why is she here? Can't she sense a college anywhere but here would be good? Plus the five year age difference hurts. Nerina's too young to go to bars and I feel like a lecher at her underaged drinking parties. </span></span></span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">I'm not exactly the optimal choice for Nerina. Why she's here is a mystery. I spend most of my time drunk and consider chain smoking fun. My room reeks of tobacco and spilled beer but Nerina is ok with it. </span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Sadly, she is emulating my antisocial tendencies. For some reason, I have this power where people think what I do is desirable behavior. So she taught herself how to smoke cigarettes and take shots. It's cute to watch her wince, but I don't get it.</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Nerina props open the window and makes herself comfortable on my childhood bed while I take practice tests online for the temp agency. She takes a petite sip of whiskey and passes it to me. I take three gulps and wince at the nasty, burning belch surging up my esophagus. Then I light another cigarette with the burning one in my hand, blow the ash off my keyboard and start to learn about some horrible thing call PowerPoint. The reasons why anyone would want to learn this disgust me. Nerina rolls off the bed and starts digging through my CD rack.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"You wanna listen to anything?" she asks.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"No. Don't care. You pick" I respond while speed reading some Satanic shit about 3D graphs. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Can I go on AIM?" Nerina yawns.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Hold on. I'm starting a practice test" I respond on autopilot as I answer questions about pie chart construction.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Ok" Nerina smiles. "Hey, Ron's having a party. His parents are on vacation. Wanna go?"</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Who?" I answer annoyed and distracted as my brain solves inane test problems and comes up with a polite way to say No.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"You know, Ron. From the San Mateo store? The guy with that cool NIN robot tattoo? His parents went camping."</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Nah" I say moving into the final section of the test.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"We never do anything!" complains Nerina.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">And she's right. Besides our golden period which included her watching me nod out from prescription drug abuse, all we do is rent DVDs to watch in bed while enjoying rampant alcoholism. While we don't do much, her arms around the Darkness is enough for me...but I'm no fool. This is obviously boring for her. Whatever it is about me she finds intriguing will get old soon enough. Suddenly, there are two raps on the door. Ever since I quit drugs and started practicing these tests, my mom has stopped barging into my room to yell at me. But I still yell at her.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"I'm practicing for a test WHAT?!" I yell.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Hi Mrs. S!" chirps Nerina. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">Nerina feels the need to give my mom a nickname. It confuses my mom but she likes Nerina. Nerina is normal. She greets people when she enters a room. She doesn't stalk in silent, light a cigarette and put her boots up on the dining room table.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Hello Nerina" smiles my mom.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"What do you want?" I demand.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Your brother Carl is coming over for dinner" says mom.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Oh please god no" I hear myself say.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"You stay too Nerina" says my mom. "We're having lasagne. Afterwards Carl is gonna fix my shower head. Maybe you can help your brother?"</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Can't. We're going to a party" I respond and Nerina hugs my back.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Yay!" she says.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">I sigh and light another cigarette.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">**********</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Let me guess" says Carl through a wad of partially chewed lasagne, "you just graduated high school and live at home?"</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Carl, shut the fuck up" I say.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"Oh it's ok. I like your brother" smiles Nerina. My mom and I look at each other. No one likes Carl.</span><br style="color: #222222;" /><br style="color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"You like the bony, junkie look right? Or is it cause he dresses like a vampire faggot?"</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="sewmvmtu2bm5pbu"></span><span class="sewmvmtu2bm5pbu"></span><br />"Uhm, I don't know. He's nice?" answers Nerina who has never smoked pot and thinks the pills I snorted in front of her is OK because they came from a pharmacy.<br /><br />"Carl, shut up and pass the salad" smiles mom. "Leave Nerina alone. She is a nice girl. Oh and he is sober now Carl. Congratulate him."<br /><br />"Sober?" scoffs Carl. "I can smell the booze on these two from here."<br /><br />"Hey Carl" I say between lasagne bites, "How's the tribe treating you?"<br /><br />Carl isn't into drugs but he gambles. He gambles a lot. The local tribal casino won an undisclosed sum of money from Carl. He won't fess up but the land he was eying in Watsonville is no longer discussed. <br /><br />"Don't make me beat you in front of your woman. Mom, pass the parmesan, please."<br /><br />"Here you go son."<br /><br />We eat in silence for about two minutes but Carl can't resist. "Hey, you have any good humus lately?" he smiles at me. "Say whatever happened to that psycho junkie chick that tried to shoot me?"<br /><br />"Well, obviously she missed" I respond. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"She was a looker that one. Way out of your league but I guess you know that now. So no more shawarmas for you?"</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"Whatever happened to that Watsonville spec house you were saving for?" I ask.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"Didn't pan out" says Carl staring into my eyes with all the malevolence of an older brother who is two seconds away from kicking ass. <br /><br />The rest of the dinner actually went much easier. Especially when we slipped out before dessert.<br /><br />**********<br /><br />"S'up Ace?" says a drunk Mikey from my old Petco store. He hold his hand out for a high five. I sigh and high five a kid who just recently earned the right to die for his country, buy pornography and vote.<br /><br />"Nerina!" squeals Penny rushing over for a hug.<br /><br />I like Penny. One fuck and zero guilt. Her boyfriend is like me. Older, clueless and uncomfortable. <br /><br />"Hey" says Sheldon holding out his hand. <br /><br />Nerina and I greet revelers, hug and slap hands like primates while slowly making our way in. Thirty plus teenagers make a swarming, cicada buzz as they shout, pound Zimas, cheap beer and do bong hits. Nerina is popular and circulates. I melt into a couch by people I used to work with. They play Street Fighter 2 on Ron's father's huge TV.<br /><br />"So your out!" shouts Mikey.<br /><br />"Audi 5000!" confirms another kid I worked with.<br /><br />"So what's next yo?" asks Mikey. The stumbling, screaming teens and sitting in some parent's living room makes me anxious. Physical withdrawal of opiates hurts but the mental part is the bitch. I am fiending for the peace of the god.<br /><br />"Next?" I answer irritated. Then I shrug, "Testing and job placement."<br /><br />"Oh dope" says Mikey. "Hey you wanna beer?"<br /><br />"Yes please" I answer. As he gets up I grab his wallet chain and yank him towards me, "You know where to get any tar? Or oxy?"<br /><br />"Wha..." he says staring at me googly eyed. Mikey looks like a little boy in huge denim jeans and a Korn t-shirt. "Is that like ecstasy?"<br /><br />"Never mind" I reply letting him go. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Jesus, what I am thinking? But I look around for familiar eyes. Pin-point pupil euphoria. Holes in arms. </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Because of my age, young males feel the need to come up and introduce themselves to me. This annoys me to no end. Then there is a hullabaloo. There always is when alcohol is served to underaged drinkers.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"You fucking bitch! You got cum on my dad's shirt!" screams a shirtless Ron. Ah, the host. I do remember Ron. He's an asshole.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">A crying girl runs out and is encircled by other females who coo at the injustice. Ron, the guy with the cool robot NIN tattoo is ridiculously drunk. Beet-faced and screaming about his dad's Calvin Klein shirt. Eventually he shuts the fuck up and starts playing Nintendo. Later, three guys get in a scrap over a stolen bottle of cinnamon schnapps. Man, I hate the fucking suburbs. When I am asked to go on a beer run, I pull Nerina over.<br /><br />"Nerina, we gotta go."<br /><br />"Ok" she shrugs. "Where?"<br /><br />And I thought of this. I can't say I want to leave because I hate everyone. Socially, this is unacceptable. "Let's go get ice cream at Stanley’s Sweets."<br /><br />"But you're lactose intolerant!"<br /><br />"No problem. I'll get a cookie or a brownie. Honestly, I don't care about the food. I wanna go look at the sea. And the new moon."<br /><br />"New moon?"<br /><br />"Yeah Nerina. It's just a sliver tonight. It takes 27 days for the moon to make the Earth trip. So this is a celestial occurrence. And my stars will be out tonight."<br /><br />"Your stars?"<br /><br />"Yeah. Old friends. Let me tell you about them."<br /><br />"Well...ok" she shrugs though a group of her friends who smirk. In regards to Nerina's happiness, they know more about me than I know about myself.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">We are the annoying couple that slips in five minutes before the guy can lock the door. But he is a pro. Though, he hates us, he smiles and says, "Hi! What can I get you?"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"Mmm" muses Nerina, "mint chocolate chip on a waffle cone."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"And you?" says the guy with one eye on the clock as he locks the door behind us and flips the Open sign to Close.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"Peanut butter cookie."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Nerina pays which is odd, but I go with it. She puts up with a lot but usually insists on gallant gestures like she'll wait at a door for it to be opened. She expects all meals, coffee or treats paid by the male. Or me. So I pay. We walk out to the view. The wind howls over the concrete platform erected over the sea. Trash, dust, leaves and the ocean spray swirls in the maelstrom. The weather has turned ugly from the ten minutes we were in the ice cream shop. When we walked in it was calm and dark. Now the wind screams and the ocean rages.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"Ahhh!" shrieks Nerina jumping back as a wave smashes into the cliff. Seawater blasts up the rock face and sprays us like severed artery. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"Damn" I say peering down. Ridiculously huge swells march towards the shore. It's like watching three story structures suddenly rise up in the dark sea and shatter against the cliffs. We step back to avoid the spray and feel the shudder beneath our feet.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"Are we safe here? I don't feel safe" says Nerina edging back off the lookout towards the street.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I look at the sky and it is calm. The sliver of the moon shines in an expanse of exploding suns. Starlight travels so far to be here at this moment. I look at Nerina. "It's ok. Just a winter swell. A fucking big one though."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"You know I can feel it" says Nerina staring at the sea that slams against the cliff we stand on. "Sorry if this dramatic but..."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I look at her and instantly know. How could it not end like this?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"I meant to tell you this morning. I got accepted to UCLA. I'm starting next semester."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"Oh yeah?" I sigh. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I wonder where my mom hid those Percocets? Probably her closet. Her clever shoe shelf where she used to hide bottles of alcohol. To have a chance of getting a little buzz, I have to get home before she goes to bed. Oh well. This won't take long. It already ended. The Milky Way shines above. A glowing path for all things endless.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"Yeah. Sorry. It's just...I have been thinking and I need to-" she babbles.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"Don't worry" I say as the world once again crumbles at my feet. Falling into my hole is a familiar sensation.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"I'm so sorry!" she says as tears come. We hold each other and she sobs. "I mean I LOVE you. I really do! But...I have to go do this and-"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"Hey, it's ok" I hug her inhaling the scent from her hair one last time. I close my eyes trying to remember Nerina as the sky and earth suck her away from me. When we leave, I look at the sea. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">It is calm.</span><br />
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m2khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16897729559077244089noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6402054981777377299.post-40166520964602072702016-03-11T09:53:00.000-08:002016-03-11T09:53:14.083-08:00Teenagers From MarsSubstance abuse is like a time machine. Each buzz whether it be poppy, LSD, alcohol or even marijuana imparts another memory. When I analyze them sober, I am amazed. I lived through some bad times and so did my friends. Amazing considering the news stories these days regarding opiate abuse. We were VERY lucky. It's not exactly a secret I was high writing Tracks 1 and most of this blog. But I do quit now and then. I want to walk that path. I suppose my problem is like most opiate abusers. Once you know euphoria...<br />
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So as some of you know, I've been working on another book titled: <b>Stories From the Moth People</b>. It's almost done. When the editor and I were choosing stories, I was re-reading all this stuff I never saw before. Fucking dope is for dopes. So it got me thinking, which ones I have written sober? Maybe a few more but these came to mind.<br />
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<ul>
<li><a href="http://www.morbo2000.com/2015/11/the-bedroom-days.html" target="_blank">The Bedroom Days</a></li>
<li><a href="http://www.morbo2000.com/2015/08/rise-of-lizard-king.html" target="_blank">Rise of the Lizard King</a></li>
<li><a href="http://www.morbo2000.com/2015/08/sybils-cave.html" target="_blank">Sibyl's Cave</a></li>
<li><a href="http://www.morbo2000.com/2016/01/a-tent-that-smells-like-piss.html" target="_blank">A Tent That Smells Like Piss</a></li>
<li><a href="http://www.morbo2000.com/2016/03/the-sponsor.html" target="_blank">The Sponsor</a></li>
<li><a href="http://www.morbo2000.com/2016/03/shoes-left-behind.html" target="_blank">Shoes Left Behind ***</a></li>
</ul>
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***Shoes Left Behind was written while I was wasted in October but only partially finished. So it's a hybrid story. <br />
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But damn. I hope to add some more.<br />
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-M2K<br />
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<br />m2khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16897729559077244089noreply@blogger.com1