Minimum wage is a joke. They ain’t lying when they say its minimum “How do you tell this Mexican to sweep the floor. What is sweep in Spanish?” Cursed the guy making the sandwiches at Wendys. I tried to remember my college Spanish and then remembered I failed that class. The only word I remember is “maricon” which is Spanish for homosexual. My teacher pointed to me in class one day and told me I should remember that word.
The line at Wendys was frustrating because some fat bastard was holding it up. He wanted his sandwich rewrapped. The Wendys guy looked like he was about to pass out from heat exhaustion. He was dripping sweat everywhere. I felt sorry for him. He tried to give the sandwich for free to the fat bastard but the guy refused. He said just because he was fat didn’t mean he wanted to eat two double bacon cheeseburgers. The Wendys guy said he would just throw it in the trash. The fat bastard screamed that he should give it to somebody that needed it. He looked at me; he demanded the guy give me the sandwich. I was like what the fuck. I then remember my tennis shoes that I had ducktaped because they were falling apart. My psychiatrist made fun of them. She said I should care more about my presentation. I was in therapy so the last thing I was trying to do was impress that bitch. Anyways, I told the fat bastard and Wendys guy I didn’t want the sandwich. I actually did want the sandwich. The Wendys guy threw the sandwich in the trash.
As I counted the change in my pocket, I knew I had enough for two 99 cent cheeseburgers. Damn I should’ve taken the sandwich. I thought back when I was in high school I worked at Wendys in downtown San Antonio. It was the hardest job I ever had in my life. I was sure picking cotton would’ve been easier. I only lasted three hours. It wasn’t worth it. It wasn’t enough that those people don’t get paid that much but they have to put up with so much attitude. It’s like there’s some sick fascination in America to kick people when they are down.
It was my turn to order from the Wendys guy. He looked a mess. He wrapped my burger as he wiped the sweat from his forehead. I tried to ignore it. For real, I don’t care if they spit in my food as long as I don’t see it or it isn’t crunchy.
Monday, September 29, 2008
Saturday, September 27, 2008
You won’t understand when you get older.
I was seventeen years old. I just got off work. It was a twelve hour shift at AMC Movie Theater. I was walking to catch the last bus so I could get home and get some sleep. At the bus stop this kid walked up to me. He was about ten years old. He asked me if I had some change so he could get home. I questioned why he was out on the streets so late at night begging for change. Where were his parents? I felt sorry for him. I wanted to make sure he got home safely. I went into my pocket and pull out a dollar. He saw that I had more and demanded two dollars. I didn’t like his tone. He then said that if I didn’t give him ten dollars he was going to run to the cops and tell them I touched him. I felt my blood go cold. I looked around and saw the cop car that I hadn’t even noticed just a couple seconds before. At first I was a little impress with his con game. I wonder why I didn’t think of that when I was ten years old. I wasn’t pretty sure he had freaked out a lot of adults. I grabbed my dollar from that kid’s hand. I no longer gave a damn how he got home. I told him he shouldn’t be on the streets late at night harassing people. I walked away from that kid as fast as I could.
I don’t like kids. They don’t drink or smoke and often tell lies. Growing up, my grandmother never believed me when I said I didn’t do it. She used to tell me I went to bed to wake up to tell more lie, whatever the hell that meant. But we live in an overly protected world. Students beat up teachers. I saw this one news story where this old woman was attacked by a group of girls because she told them their outfits were smutty.
They beat the shit out of her.
Present tense, I was at a Laundromat. I was sitting down trying to read my book when this little girl came up to me. I looked around to make sure she belonged to somebody. They tell kids not to talk to strangers. I believe I shouldn’t talk to strange kids. And I just saw an episode on Oprah about child predators. I felt a grown man talking to some strange little girl couldn’t be a good thing, but her mother washing clothes seem to care less. The little girl and I started talking and she started asking me all kind of crazy questions. She wanted to know if I had a wife. She wanted to know if I had kids. She wanted to know if I believed in Jesus Christ. She wanted to know if I had a Mama. She wanted to know if I had a daddy. The questions startled me because I knew the correct answers were unsuited for some gregarious little girl. I also didn’t want to lie. I don’t like lying to children. I told her I didn’t have a wife. She asked me if I lived alone. I told her I had a roommate. She asked me if he was married. I told her no. She asked me if we stayed in the same room. I said sometimes. I really wanted to say when I get drunk. She asked me if I had a child. I told her I did. That he lived in Texas with his mother. She asked why I wasn’t married to her. I wanted to tell her that she was a lesbian who paid me ten years ago for my sperm. But I couldn’t. She asked me about my mother. I told her she was alive. I wanted to tell her I haven’t seen my mother in over ten years. She asked about my father. I told her he was dead. She asked me how. I wanted to tell her he got killed trying to rob a bank he already robbed three times before. But I didn’t. I just told her she would understand when she got older. But that was lie. It’s like telling a child that Santa Claus is real. Shit, I was older and I still didn’t understand.
Life is very complicated. Heroes aren’t often heroes. But for children the instinctual need to keep like simple and magical is more for us than them. Because birth is a miracle. It doesn’t matter if the mother is on Maury Polvich with five possible men that could be the baby’s father. It’s still a miracle. But like that first kid who tried to con me, innocent doesn’t last for long. I miss innocence. Maybe that’s why I didn’t tell that little girl the truth. She would understand when she got older.
I don’t like kids. They don’t drink or smoke and often tell lies. Growing up, my grandmother never believed me when I said I didn’t do it. She used to tell me I went to bed to wake up to tell more lie, whatever the hell that meant. But we live in an overly protected world. Students beat up teachers. I saw this one news story where this old woman was attacked by a group of girls because she told them their outfits were smutty.
They beat the shit out of her.
Present tense, I was at a Laundromat. I was sitting down trying to read my book when this little girl came up to me. I looked around to make sure she belonged to somebody. They tell kids not to talk to strangers. I believe I shouldn’t talk to strange kids. And I just saw an episode on Oprah about child predators. I felt a grown man talking to some strange little girl couldn’t be a good thing, but her mother washing clothes seem to care less. The little girl and I started talking and she started asking me all kind of crazy questions. She wanted to know if I had a wife. She wanted to know if I had kids. She wanted to know if I believed in Jesus Christ. She wanted to know if I had a Mama. She wanted to know if I had a daddy. The questions startled me because I knew the correct answers were unsuited for some gregarious little girl. I also didn’t want to lie. I don’t like lying to children. I told her I didn’t have a wife. She asked me if I lived alone. I told her I had a roommate. She asked me if he was married. I told her no. She asked me if we stayed in the same room. I said sometimes. I really wanted to say when I get drunk. She asked me if I had a child. I told her I did. That he lived in Texas with his mother. She asked why I wasn’t married to her. I wanted to tell her that she was a lesbian who paid me ten years ago for my sperm. But I couldn’t. She asked me about my mother. I told her she was alive. I wanted to tell her I haven’t seen my mother in over ten years. She asked about my father. I told her he was dead. She asked me how. I wanted to tell her he got killed trying to rob a bank he already robbed three times before. But I didn’t. I just told her she would understand when she got older. But that was lie. It’s like telling a child that Santa Claus is real. Shit, I was older and I still didn’t understand.
Life is very complicated. Heroes aren’t often heroes. But for children the instinctual need to keep like simple and magical is more for us than them. Because birth is a miracle. It doesn’t matter if the mother is on Maury Polvich with five possible men that could be the baby’s father. It’s still a miracle. But like that first kid who tried to con me, innocent doesn’t last for long. I miss innocence. Maybe that’s why I didn’t tell that little girl the truth. She would understand when she got older.
Friday, September 26, 2008
Why I hate David Blaine?
With his latest failure to “shock” the world, David Blaine may be performing at children birthday parties as a magician. I can imagine the horror. He’d probably want to shove 500 cupcakes up his ass with the candles lit for no fucking reason. I only need to ask, WHY David Blaine, WHY!!!!
I don’t get him. What’s the difference between David Blaine and Amy Winehouse? He is supposed to be an Endurance artist which is an artistic expression through acts of physical pain, trauma, survival or deprivation. Roots can be found in religious asceticism which links physical torture to a way of spiritual transformation.[1]
Shit, I should consider myself an endurance artist. In college I once won a bet that I could drink 13 tequila shots and not die. I didn’t die but ended up in the hospital with alcohol poisoning. My friends called me “pussy willow” for a year. I guess I failed my magic trick and they didn’t get to watch me die. Isn’t what the fascination of David Blaine about? We are just waiting for him to die. Every time I see Amy Winehouse, I astound by her crackhead endurance. It’s like every picture of her gets worse and worse. Nobody can understand why she is still alive considering her abuse of body and drugs. Yet people still buy her concert tickets just to see if she will pass out on stage or overdose. It’s sick. I don’t get it. But at least with Amy Winehouse, she has some talent. David Blaine is a con man.
It started with David Blaine burying himself alive. Then he put himself in a block of ice. And then he decided to stand on a thirty foot pole for 44 days. He stayed under water for like 17 hours and lastly he decided to hang upside down in central park for 60 hours. WHY David Blaine. WHY!!!!
What ever happened to the magician that cut women in half? What happened to pulling rabbits out of hats?
I don’t get today’s magicians, they are some freaky bastards. I hope David Blaine next trick is to disappear off the face of the planet, maybe land somewhere in the sun. I really hate that bastard.
I don’t get him. What’s the difference between David Blaine and Amy Winehouse? He is supposed to be an Endurance artist which is an artistic expression through acts of physical pain, trauma, survival or deprivation. Roots can be found in religious asceticism which links physical torture to a way of spiritual transformation.[1]
Shit, I should consider myself an endurance artist. In college I once won a bet that I could drink 13 tequila shots and not die. I didn’t die but ended up in the hospital with alcohol poisoning. My friends called me “pussy willow” for a year. I guess I failed my magic trick and they didn’t get to watch me die. Isn’t what the fascination of David Blaine about? We are just waiting for him to die. Every time I see Amy Winehouse, I astound by her crackhead endurance. It’s like every picture of her gets worse and worse. Nobody can understand why she is still alive considering her abuse of body and drugs. Yet people still buy her concert tickets just to see if she will pass out on stage or overdose. It’s sick. I don’t get it. But at least with Amy Winehouse, she has some talent. David Blaine is a con man.
It started with David Blaine burying himself alive. Then he put himself in a block of ice. And then he decided to stand on a thirty foot pole for 44 days. He stayed under water for like 17 hours and lastly he decided to hang upside down in central park for 60 hours. WHY David Blaine. WHY!!!!
What ever happened to the magician that cut women in half? What happened to pulling rabbits out of hats?
I don’t get today’s magicians, they are some freaky bastards. I hope David Blaine next trick is to disappear off the face of the planet, maybe land somewhere in the sun. I really hate that bastard.
The fat bastard strikes again
Sometimes I feel as if I’m a bag of Cheetos from becoming obese. My grocery store was having a sell on Cheetos for 99 cent for the big bag. The maximum amount was 12 bags. I got 12 bags. I mean, Cheetos are hardly ever on sale. I couldn’t refuse. The cashier of course looked at me like I was crazy. She asked me if I was going to a party. I normally don’t like making conversations with the cashiers. It was none of her damn business what I had planned to do. I told her I had planned to get a gallon of rum and sit in my recliner and eat all 12 bags and have a Doctor Who marathon. I didn’t know if I could eat all 12 bags in one night, but damnit I was going to try.
Gluttony in America is a tradition. Shit we have all you can eat buffets, Sam’s club and Costco. I mean, who really needs a tub of butter. I would buy it just to see if I could give myself a heart attack in a week. There was a time I wouldn’t eat anything I couldn’t deep fry.
Yet, the great thing about being a gluttonous pig is that I don’t gain that much weight. I mean after 12 bags of Cheetos, I might get really sick and shit orange diarrhea for like a week, but the weight would come off. I think my steady diet of cheap rum keeps me a normal size, even if Webmd tells me I need to lose twelve pounds. But I’m getting older. A family meal of Popeyes used to only stick to my body for a couple of days. Now it takes two weeks before my body rids itself of the excess.
That’s when I realize I’m only a bag of Cheetos from becoming Jaba the Hut. People look at really fat people and wonder how they got so out of control. It really just starts with five cheeseburgers thinking your body will shit it all off but instead it just somehow stays in your stomach. I guess I will stop eating so damn much as soon as I win the all you can eat hotdog contest. It's a childhood dream of mine.
Gluttony in America is a tradition. Shit we have all you can eat buffets, Sam’s club and Costco. I mean, who really needs a tub of butter. I would buy it just to see if I could give myself a heart attack in a week. There was a time I wouldn’t eat anything I couldn’t deep fry.
Yet, the great thing about being a gluttonous pig is that I don’t gain that much weight. I mean after 12 bags of Cheetos, I might get really sick and shit orange diarrhea for like a week, but the weight would come off. I think my steady diet of cheap rum keeps me a normal size, even if Webmd tells me I need to lose twelve pounds. But I’m getting older. A family meal of Popeyes used to only stick to my body for a couple of days. Now it takes two weeks before my body rids itself of the excess.
That’s when I realize I’m only a bag of Cheetos from becoming Jaba the Hut. People look at really fat people and wonder how they got so out of control. It really just starts with five cheeseburgers thinking your body will shit it all off but instead it just somehow stays in your stomach. I guess I will stop eating so damn much as soon as I win the all you can eat hotdog contest. It's a childhood dream of mine.
I ain’t old.
Is it karma? My sister when I moved in with her my junior year in high school dated the worse loser. He never paid his rent. He often refused to work. My sister refused to kick him out. I had to tell her that he tried to suck my dick as I got out of the shower. He didn’t do that, she didn’t believe me, but in good faith she kicked him out. She never forgave me. I thought I did her a favor. That guy was a loser. We constantly got into fights. I was so arrogant, President of Student council and say no to drugs with a broom stuck up my ass. I couldn’t understand why he wouldn’t work. I couldn’t understand how a grown man only wanted to get high and drunk. I told myself I was never going to grow up and be nothing like that loser.
Over ten years later, I woke up in the middle of the afternoon on my bedroom floor. I immediately felt something wet. I hoped it was it was that my water bottle fell in the bed and not that I pissed on myself. Thank god it was water. I decided that I was hungry. I gathered enough strength to walk the three blocks to Wendy’s.
My birthday is coming up again in a week. I don’t really care for counting days until I die. I like to look at my life in eras. There was my arrival era, had to get the world ready for my existence. There was the bratty kid era. I got a beating everyday during those years. There was the rebel without a cause years that lasted from being a runaway until I graduated college. There was my holy than thou era when I was a reborn Christian. There was the corporate America era when I quickly realized I had no desire to climb the ladder. And next came the unemployment era which I’m still testing out.
I was walking down the street when I ran into a group of teenagers. I don’t like teenagers in groups because they just look like they are up to no good. They were singing real loud a Lil Wayne song. When they approached me they stopped. One of them smoking a cigarette immediately threw it to the ground. They looked petrified. One of the young boys said, Sorry sir, we didn’t mean to be disrespectful.” I was like, who the hell are you calling sir bitch, I’m only 31 years old.
I felt old. Real old. I couldn’t understand why they would assume I was an adult. I hadn’t agreed to that insanity. I immediately thought of my sister’s old boyfriend. I wonder if I had judged him too harshly. I grew up to be a grown man who just wanted to drink and not work. But to those kids, I looked like an adult. I was old enough to be one of their fathers if I had them in middle school. I wanted to run after them and tell them it was all a lie. That growing up is all a lie. I wanted to show them my ipod and I had Lil Wayne on my playlist. I wanted to buy some weed from one of them.
But I didn’t run after those crazy kids. They would’ve just thought of me as some old crazy drunk and called the cops.
Over ten years later, I woke up in the middle of the afternoon on my bedroom floor. I immediately felt something wet. I hoped it was it was that my water bottle fell in the bed and not that I pissed on myself. Thank god it was water. I decided that I was hungry. I gathered enough strength to walk the three blocks to Wendy’s.
My birthday is coming up again in a week. I don’t really care for counting days until I die. I like to look at my life in eras. There was my arrival era, had to get the world ready for my existence. There was the bratty kid era. I got a beating everyday during those years. There was the rebel without a cause years that lasted from being a runaway until I graduated college. There was my holy than thou era when I was a reborn Christian. There was the corporate America era when I quickly realized I had no desire to climb the ladder. And next came the unemployment era which I’m still testing out.
I was walking down the street when I ran into a group of teenagers. I don’t like teenagers in groups because they just look like they are up to no good. They were singing real loud a Lil Wayne song. When they approached me they stopped. One of them smoking a cigarette immediately threw it to the ground. They looked petrified. One of the young boys said, Sorry sir, we didn’t mean to be disrespectful.” I was like, who the hell are you calling sir bitch, I’m only 31 years old.
I felt old. Real old. I couldn’t understand why they would assume I was an adult. I hadn’t agreed to that insanity. I immediately thought of my sister’s old boyfriend. I wonder if I had judged him too harshly. I grew up to be a grown man who just wanted to drink and not work. But to those kids, I looked like an adult. I was old enough to be one of their fathers if I had them in middle school. I wanted to run after them and tell them it was all a lie. That growing up is all a lie. I wanted to show them my ipod and I had Lil Wayne on my playlist. I wanted to buy some weed from one of them.
But I didn’t run after those crazy kids. They would’ve just thought of me as some old crazy drunk and called the cops.
Monday, September 22, 2008
Saturday, September 20, 2008
On becoming a comedian. Day 1, 9/20/2008 1:32 PM
I decided to become a comedian. Actually I decided it a year ago, but just remembered since I’m currently unemployed. In high school, my best friend and I said when we went off to college we were going to do stand up. That never happened. Actually my friend Ontario was the comedian. He had natural timing and instant charisma. All I wanted to do was be his comedy writer. I thought we would be a good team. He eventually got his high school girlfriend pregnant, they’re married and now he’s an elementary school teacher. I talked to him some years back, but I was prissy drunk and high, not making any sense dribbling idiotic. I wasn’t helping to dispel my high school reunion rumor that I had become a crack head.
I don’t consider myself a comedian. I consider myself a writer. I don’t even think I am funny. I am awkward. I don’t like people. I have anxiety problems.
I started making phone calls. I called my favorite Aunt and told her I was going to become a comedian. She asked me if I had had a HIV test. I was like what the fuck does that have to do with me becoming a comedian. It’s not like I was going into the army. She said she was watching the news and HIV rates up north scared her. She said I can’t be funny if I was dead. I told her if I died by slipping on a banana peel like in the cartons and busted my head, that would be funny.
I told my roommate that I was going to become a comedian. He said rent was due on the first, no fucking excuses.
I called my older sister and told her I wanted to become a comedian. She said I wasn’t funny, more annoying. She said I was actually sad and pitiful. I called a fat bitch and hung up the phone. Fat black women are the meanest people in the world. I was always afraid of her growing up. She always looked like she was hungry. I once ate her cheetos and she hit me in the head with a brick.
I told the cashier at my grocery store I wanted to be a comedian. She laughed. I was like finally, somebody got the joke
I don’t consider myself a comedian. I consider myself a writer. I don’t even think I am funny. I am awkward. I don’t like people. I have anxiety problems.
I started making phone calls. I called my favorite Aunt and told her I was going to become a comedian. She asked me if I had had a HIV test. I was like what the fuck does that have to do with me becoming a comedian. It’s not like I was going into the army. She said she was watching the news and HIV rates up north scared her. She said I can’t be funny if I was dead. I told her if I died by slipping on a banana peel like in the cartons and busted my head, that would be funny.
I told my roommate that I was going to become a comedian. He said rent was due on the first, no fucking excuses.
I called my older sister and told her I wanted to become a comedian. She said I wasn’t funny, more annoying. She said I was actually sad and pitiful. I called a fat bitch and hung up the phone. Fat black women are the meanest people in the world. I was always afraid of her growing up. She always looked like she was hungry. I once ate her cheetos and she hit me in the head with a brick.
I told the cashier at my grocery store I wanted to be a comedian. She laughed. I was like finally, somebody got the joke
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Obama for President
I had a horrible realization. If Obama does become President of the United States, the first black president, does that mean I have to suffer years of whites claiming they are not racists because they voted for Obama, like random white men at the disco club proving to me they can dance or jump or they watch BET.
It makes you go hmmm.
Saturday, September 6, 2008
What would Jesus do?
When I was six years old, my mother promised me an Easter Basket. Mama was a crackhead. When Easter came, she told me she hid my Easter Basket in the backyard. I didn’t think too much about it why she would hide my Easter Basket and not just give it to me. So I went in the backyard looking for it. I looked everywhere. I looked in the tree. I looked in the shed. I looked in the trashcans. But no Easter Basket.
I went to my mother and demanded my Easter Basket. She told me that somebody probably stole it and I should keep looking. So I kept looking for a week. It didn’t dawn on me that maybe she never got me a Easter Basket. I just had the picture in my head of a yellow basket with a huge Easter Bunny.
Where’s my fucking Easter basket, MAMA! Did you smoke it?
I went to my mother and demanded my Easter Basket. She told me that somebody probably stole it and I should keep looking. So I kept looking for a week. It didn’t dawn on me that maybe she never got me a Easter Basket. I just had the picture in my head of a yellow basket with a huge Easter Bunny.
Where’s my fucking Easter basket, MAMA! Did you smoke it?
I fart you
They say when you are with someone a long time that you begin to look like them. It got me to start thinking about farts. When you are with someone five or ten years basically you eat the same food. You have the same routine so that must mean you have the same digestive process.
You farted the other night. I didn’t hear it. I just smelled it. At first I had to decide if it was me. I usually recognize strangers’ farts. I don’t know what they eat. But when you farted it took five minutes to figure it out it wasn’t me. I didn’t even cover my nose. I just let the fact we were becoming the same person linger in the air. And then you farted again, that time it wasn’t so silent. And it didn’t smell the same. I knew you had been eating ice cream. I smiled. I got up and got the febreze and sprayed you down as you slept like a farting baby. I remember how my farts weren’t always pleasant. I loved you more. I fart you.
You farted the other night. I didn’t hear it. I just smelled it. At first I had to decide if it was me. I usually recognize strangers’ farts. I don’t know what they eat. But when you farted it took five minutes to figure it out it wasn’t me. I didn’t even cover my nose. I just let the fact we were becoming the same person linger in the air. And then you farted again, that time it wasn’t so silent. And it didn’t smell the same. I knew you had been eating ice cream. I smiled. I got up and got the febreze and sprayed you down as you slept like a farting baby. I remember how my farts weren’t always pleasant. I loved you more. I fart you.
Does she swallow or spit
Dear Star Jones:
I understand that this is a hard time for you at the moment. I mean with all the weight lost, getting fired from the View, your television show ending on Court TV and now divorce. Life can get shitty real fast, trust me I know. I do mean to add to your problems or just cause another distraction with my issues of your divorce. I think it was misrepresenting for you to hustle the television watchers with your wedding. You made it seemed like it was the event of 2004. You talked about getting married on the view for years and it when it finally happened you vomited everywhere about it. And then you solicited for gifts. You set up a gift registry for your small fans to send you things that the big celebrities wouldn’t waste their time. Now three years later and you’re getting a divorce, I’ll like my punch bowl back. I’m not for sure if you even used it. I feel cheated. This letter is the first of many to collect a debt from Star Jones.
I understand that this is a hard time for you at the moment. I mean with all the weight lost, getting fired from the View, your television show ending on Court TV and now divorce. Life can get shitty real fast, trust me I know. I do mean to add to your problems or just cause another distraction with my issues of your divorce. I think it was misrepresenting for you to hustle the television watchers with your wedding. You made it seemed like it was the event of 2004. You talked about getting married on the view for years and it when it finally happened you vomited everywhere about it. And then you solicited for gifts. You set up a gift registry for your small fans to send you things that the big celebrities wouldn’t waste their time. Now three years later and you’re getting a divorce, I’ll like my punch bowl back. I’m not for sure if you even used it. I feel cheated. This letter is the first of many to collect a debt from Star Jones.
Why I could never become a crackhead
I smoked crack a couple of times back in the day. I was with a friend and we started out just drinking vodka and then we upgraded to weed but it was only half of a joint. He mentioned he had some crack like it was gum. He deviouslyt smiled and asked if I was down. I was already going to hell or rehab. I was thrown-back and not wanting to look un-cool shook my head to agree I wouldn’t mind. He lit up the pipe, it was a small tube with the end blocked off burnt black. I tried to pretend to know what I was doing and of course I lit of the wrong end and all the crack fell out on the floor. My friend didn’t get angry, he just picked up the broken pieces and proceeded to teach me how to do it the right way. Hitting the crackpipe wasn’t as hopeless as I was lead to believe by the television. I thought after one inhale I was going to be on the streets begging to suck dick for a dollar. Yet, I didn’t feel anything. I kept doing most of the night but nothing. I mean, I would feel a euphoric sensation for about five seconds and then it go away and I’d have to hit the pipe again. It was annoying.
A couple of months later I tried crack again but this time it was with a different person. He was more of a stranger. I didn’t like his attitude. He seemed paranoid and kept accusing me of stealing his crack. I decided to leave his apartment. Crack wasn’t that serious for me. A few more times I tried crack, one time this guy came to my apartment. He said he had the good stuff. When he got to my house we lit up the crackpipe. It was better crack than I had previously experimented with. But the guy was crazy. Every time he hit the pipe he would start stomping around my apartment like he was in the Broadway play “stomp.” He made so much noise I had to put him out. He left the crack. I flushed it down the toilet. I’m lying, I smoked it.
I learned with drugs that it isn’t always the drug but the people who come with the drugs. When smoking drugs I don’t just get the high but I got to also deal with the users. I found crack heads are the most annoying drug addicts. They are always paranoid and irritable. I can’t see how anyone can enjoy crack when they constantly looking out the window, dancing around the house and looking for more crack.
I finally decided to give up hardcore drugs because the lifestyle was unromantic. I just wanted to get high, I didn’t need the soap opera. I only smoke weed now. I never heard anyone getting shot over weed.
A couple of months later I tried crack again but this time it was with a different person. He was more of a stranger. I didn’t like his attitude. He seemed paranoid and kept accusing me of stealing his crack. I decided to leave his apartment. Crack wasn’t that serious for me. A few more times I tried crack, one time this guy came to my apartment. He said he had the good stuff. When he got to my house we lit up the crackpipe. It was better crack than I had previously experimented with. But the guy was crazy. Every time he hit the pipe he would start stomping around my apartment like he was in the Broadway play “stomp.” He made so much noise I had to put him out. He left the crack. I flushed it down the toilet. I’m lying, I smoked it.
I learned with drugs that it isn’t always the drug but the people who come with the drugs. When smoking drugs I don’t just get the high but I got to also deal with the users. I found crack heads are the most annoying drug addicts. They are always paranoid and irritable. I can’t see how anyone can enjoy crack when they constantly looking out the window, dancing around the house and looking for more crack.
I finally decided to give up hardcore drugs because the lifestyle was unromantic. I just wanted to get high, I didn’t need the soap opera. I only smoke weed now. I never heard anyone getting shot over weed.
Half on a baby
Daylight Saving Time
Twice a year it seems we all bitch about it. What’s the point? I mean, really, where I sign up to have it stopped. It has no real purpose in the modern world so why don’t we just get rid of it? Who do we talk to?
I mean its election time, so should that be on the ballot somewhere. Do I write my congressman? Do I send a letter to the newspaper? I mean somebody has to get off their ass and stop the insanity. I mean why are we as a nation setting out clocks back and forth like fucking retards every year.
I decided to boycott. I wasn’t going to re-set my clocks. I was just going to go on with my life. Well I realized I really didn’t get much choice. All my clocks in the house reset themselves, even the clock on the stove. My fancy alarm clock even reset itself. The only clock that stayed the same was the VCR clock. I decided to leave it alone. Viva la revolution.
Twice a year it seems we all bitch about it. What’s the point? I mean, really, where I sign up to have it stopped. It has no real purpose in the modern world so why don’t we just get rid of it? Who do we talk to?
I mean its election time, so should that be on the ballot somewhere. Do I write my congressman? Do I send a letter to the newspaper? I mean somebody has to get off their ass and stop the insanity. I mean why are we as a nation setting out clocks back and forth like fucking retards every year.
I decided to boycott. I wasn’t going to re-set my clocks. I was just going to go on with my life. Well I realized I really didn’t get much choice. All my clocks in the house reset themselves, even the clock on the stove. My fancy alarm clock even reset itself. The only clock that stayed the same was the VCR clock. I decided to leave it alone. Viva la revolution.
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