Tastes better on the way back down.


It’s a bit early for me to start writing, and I feel awkward. Writing is an activity reserved for the darkest hours of night, like hard drinking or burglary. Writing at nine, before the rest of the world has gone to sleep, while I can still hear students laughing in the streets and hobos stumbling and crashing in the hedges out back… it seems unnatural. The words stick in my mind, and I’m forced to push and pry to get them on screen; they’re like those last few Pringles, coveted and unreachable.

At times like this (you know, decent, godly hours before my eyes get red and the music gets loud) I envy real writers, for many reasons. Think about the differences in audience: Who reads this damn thing? If anyone reads it at all, it’s people I know, friends and cohorts (or at least acquaintances close enough to have me on their Buddy List). This presents two problems to the Writer At Large:

1) Forced veracity: A real writer could get up here and spout whatever the christ they wanted with little or no concern for the truth. You could write Non-Fiction on the cover of any Hemingway book, and I’d believe it, straight up. Shit, how would I know? It’s not like I bump into the guy at Scolari’s and call him out… “Yo Ernest, I knew Old Man and the Sea was a load of crap. Look at that, you’ve got three boxes of fishsticks, some Miracle Whip and a god damn case of Slim-fast in your cart! How the fuck do you expect me to respect your ideas about nature, the human spirit, and sportfishing when you buy cherry Poptarts?! They’re fucking not even frosted, you hack.” But no; Erny, even if he was still alive and kicking, would be shielded from my prying eyes by hundreds of miles, thousands of life experiences, and probably a barbwire fence. I, on the other hand, am subject to constant supervision by my readers. I could invent some elaborate story about falling in love with a gorgeous French girl I met at a flamenco club, sweeping her off her feet with my sterling charm and tasteful wardrobe, but then I’d run into one of you and we’d both know that I spent the last 16 hours with a Coors in one hand an a PS2 controller in the other. And no pants on. We’d both know that while I claimed to be off gallivanting with a high-class Eurolady, I was, in fact, doing my laundry, studying for a networks quiz, or chucking old D-batteries into crowds. You fuckers have shackled me with honesty. No wonder writers become hermits.

2) Limited subject matter: Oh the things I would say if I didn’t have to worry about the consequences of my little e-rants. For the sake of minimizing boat-rockage and in defense of Ye Olde Status Quo, my claws remain sheathed and my fangs safely behind my lips. I suppose I could call it fiction, change some last names and hair colors, then bring the full force of my righteous angst and adjective-ridden retribution to bear on the guilty, but a veil that thin is pointless. Saran-wrap blindfold. Even if the aforementioned beautiful foreigner did exist, if I wrote about her she’d probably read this damn thing, get pissed because she thought I portrayed her as fat, and throw a heart-shaped cinderblock through the windshield of my car. Or she’d feel trivialized that I didn’t mention her here and throw a heart-shaped cinderblock through the windshield of my car. Either way, I lose.

So do you, though. It’s not just the vengeful shit that’d drop were I truly able to hit y’all off with the brizutal hizonesty, but some hilarious, enlightening, and heart-wrenching gems that are locked away in my vault of experiences.

As it stands, though, I keep it as real as I can given my constraints, be they true or imagined. I try to capture theme and meaning, since so many details are off limits. I bring that depth, and you love it. As for the unspoken facts of the situation, a teacher in 5th grade told our class these GLORIOUS words of wisdom (after finding a note that portrayed her as a horned donkey in a compromising position and punishing the kid who drew it (I think it was Frank Jones)):

Never, ever write anything down you want to keep private. So true.

I suppose the other alternative is to create a pen name, something dark-eyed and dramatic like Victor Mathras or Eric du Sol, and start a fascinating and blatantly untrue blog about my life as an assassin/journalist/smuggler in Rio.

That sounds kind of like a lot of work. Let’s stick with what we know.

Just for a second, can we revisit the concept of a heart-shaped cinderblock? Pick just about any object in the world and you can think of a positive use for it, but that shit is mono-polar evil. Talk about your one-purpose item. If they really made those, they’d have no more potential for good than assault rifles, Everclear, or the Russians.

Where were we… got a little side-tracked while staring wide-eyed into the glory of my own genius with that cinderblock shit…

Maybe I’ll start throwing in fictitious anecdotes, and letting you kids play the game of Which Character Represents Me And What Does It Mean?

Maybe I’ll just have to use guerilla marketing techniques to attract a wide and anonymous audience from the barbarian hordes of the internet, a fiercely loyal army of readers to whom I am faceless, ethereal, and moderately omniscient. On that note, in order to boost my search-engine ratings I’m going to start randomly sprinkling in key phrases into my posts, e.g. BRITNEY SPEARS PANTIES. That’ll hook those gullible fuckers. Click the link, monkey, CLICK IT AND BEHOLD! I’ll have to tailor the phrases to attract just the kind of people I want, and weed out the scum… Could be tricky. From here on out, ignore all the bold writing.

Until I’ve got my army of the night obedient and indoctrinated , however, I’ll have to keep being stingy with the gossip. You’ll have to come to me in person to get bad-mouthed and disparaged, cuz it ain’t gonna happen here. GOLDEN GIRLS NUDE

You know, I suppose LIVE STREAMING KOREAN TEENSI could dredge up some old shit, so you get your fill of lyrical sarcastic mayhem and I get my getitoffmychest fix with some real life trashtalk. Yeah, that sounds good. Let’s get started:

Marissa whateveryournamewas, when you pushed me off that big tire above the sand pit in pre-school and made me cry, you started me down a long path of bitterness, distrust, and black-heartedness that has made me the villain I am today. You taught me how to hate. FREE IPODS I hope by now you’ve got three kids, no husband, and untreated chlamydia. Bitch.

Charlie Roecken, you’re a douchebag.

Shane, from my scout troop, you were and are one of the top five most annoying humans I’ve ever had misfortune to interact with. I’m ashamed to share the same phylum as you, let alone species, language, or nationality. You suck at life.


Fuck the midwest.

Dude with the stupid ass emo haircut I see walking through the physics building every day: I loathe you. Cut that shit, fucking sack up, act like a man and take those stupid ass leather bracelets off. Nobody likes you, nobody likes the Smiths OR Morrissey, you look like fuck, and your parents are justifiably ashamed of you.JESUS HATES THE POOR

That’s about all I can think of right now. It’d be damn ironic if these people caught wind of how much I couldn’t stand them, banded together to form a sort of ultra-pathetic assault squad, and threw heart-shaped cinderblocks at me. Damn ironic. OSAMA BIN LADEN AND MOTHRA INVADE CLEVELAND

I’m done for now. Time to go read some more Bluebeard and perhaps even *shudder* attempt something productive.

Fade to black,




That should bring in just the kids we want…


2 Responses to “Tastes better on the way back down.”

  1. you are god.

  2. I want to have your baby.

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