Thursday, February 28, 2008

Final Thoughts

I am writing this from my deathbed.
Well, that's not true.
But it's almost true.
I suppose this is my penance.

My penance for doing a good deed.
This is what happens when you think of someone...
other than yourself.
Well, that's the last time.

From now on, it's all about Adam.
No more acting out of kindness.
No more putting myself out for others.
In my experience,
It brings you only one of two things.
Either you are marked forever as a sucker,
Or you suffer the consequences you knew were inevitable.

What will be my legacy?
How will I be remembered?
Will I be remembered as the kind, loving, honest man I claim to be?

Or will my deepest shadows be wrenched from the darkness in which they exist?
Will my true nature finally be revealed?
That of a selfish, hateful, spiteful, and deceitful coward.
I am all of these things.
I am none of these things.

To most who know me, I am none of them.
To the one who knows me best, I am all of them.

And to he who knows me, I have been most unkind.
I have neglected you.
I have left you to fight battles by yourself.
Battles which one should never fight alone.
Battles that, if lost, would wound to the soul all who care for us.
I can no longer let you fight by yourself.
I am prepared to make the ultimate sacrifice for you to continue on.
I am ready and willing to lose all I hold dear for your victory.

Unfortunately, you need be willing to do the same.
Yes, you have given far too much for me already.
Yes, you have given up your life to mollify my demons.
Yes, you have offered far too much of yourself...
Just to save me from minor embarassment.
No longer.

You are a true friend. You are the only friend I can truly count on.
And I am now asking you to leave me.
Get as far away from me as possible.
It is the only way for you escape my wretched grasp.
You must break free from me.
Begin to cut your own path into this dark and dismal forest of existence.
Stop living under the shadow of this miserable malcontent.

Go Adam.
Be who you always claim to be.
Do what you always wanted to do.
Stop equivocating and just fucking act for once.
Be the man your parents raised you to be.
Be the man you know exists inside of you.
Leave this pitiful excuse for a man behind.
I'm sick of holding you back.
I'm sick of being an anchor.
I will gladly die for you to live.

It's the least I can do.
It's the least we can do.
We just want to be happy.
And you are the only chance we have.
Live for yourself.
Live for the only one who will be there when it's all said and done.
It's the only one whom you need to be worried about pleasing.

For once, do it for yourself.

Wednesday, February 27, 2008

The Guardian at the Gates

There he sits.
Perched upon the back of my couch.
Deftly balancing himself,
With his head poking through the blinds of the window above him.

There he stands,
As if he were a sentinel of some kind.
An ancient Roman Centurian,
Well, whatever the hell Roman Centurians guarded...
Salt, maybe?

It's a good thing he's there, though.
Who else but he can protect me from the evil that is the mailman?
Or the public nuisance that is those two 8 year olds next door?
Or that fire hydrant at the end of my neighbor's driveway?
And lest we not forget that tree blowing in the wind...
It's a goddamn menace!

Thank you Floyd.
Thank you with all my heart.
How could I survive without your constant attention?
Attention to the most mundane of occurances.
Like the time that missionary dared to walk by the house?
Who the hell does he think he is?
You gave him exactly what he deserved.

And I can't pass over how important you are at Halloween.
I mean, these kids come knocking on my door?
Disturbing my dinner...
And then, they have the temerity to ask for candy?
For free?
Floyd would you do me a favor?
Could you unleash your most ferocious bark at them please?
So as to indicate to these bastard children to never return to my home again.
Thank you.
It's much appreciated.

Oh, what will I do when you finally leave me?
Our time has stretched through another month.
Another month where you should have been,
Well, any other place but here.
I love you pal.
I really do.
But if I have to spend another night with you in my bed....
Well, I may just lose it.
I am tired of being forced to the extreme corners of my own bed.
It's a big bed!
Learn to share, for crying out loud!
And will you please refrain from licking yourself while cuddling with me?
It's kinda disgusting.
In fact,
Could you keep the whole licking yourself thing to your private time?
I'm getting grossed out.
All I want to do is watch a little Dexter,
Laugh at his blatant disregard for normal human behavior
(He's my new hero, to be honest with you.
I wish I could murder people without compunction.)
and then fall asleep.
But it's pretty hard to do that.
What with you going to TOWN on your empty ballsac.

Do I do that in front of you?
Because I'm cognizant of your feelings.
Nobody wants to see me doing that.
And conversely,
I don't want to see you doing it.
Are we simpatico on this point at least?

So, just to wrap up here:
A) Good job on the house guarding.
B) Please go back to your real owner.
C) Stop licking yourself while touching me.
And just for good measure:
D) Would you mind averting your gaze when I get out of the shower?
It's unnerving...
And a little creepy, just so you know.

Tuesday, February 26, 2008

Marshamllow Mountain

I wait all day for 10 minutes.
Let me clarify.
All day long,
I am thinking about 10 specific minutes.
Which 10?

Those 10 right before you fall asleep.
It's so much fun.

What weird shit is my brain going to come up with tonight?
It's like an acid trip without the groggy after effects.
(And you can actually go to sleep! Unlike on acid.)

Am I alone here?
Am I the only one who has these weird visions before I fall asleep?
Is it the medication?

Here is a snippet of these wonderful 10 minutes.

a dilapidated shack.
snow falling.
my high school girlfriend.... with a baby!

"is this a dagger which i see before me?
the handle toward my hand?"

a golf ball flying pefectly towards it's target.
me rolling around in the grass.
me and a tiger rolling around in the grass.
me and a tiger bare knuckle boxing.
the norse god Odin breaking up the fight.
me, Odin, and the tiger having a drink at a bar.

the comedian steven wright is just staring at me.
he tells me a story,
"I put instant coffee in a microwave oven and almost went back in time."
he puts a dove inside of his jacket.
a mime approaches.
we both run like hell.

an airplane crashes into a mountain made out of marshmallow.
everybody dies.

Believe me when I tell you, you can only imagine how great my real acid trips were.

Monday, February 25, 2008

Solitude is overrated

It's quiet.
Very quiet.
Some would say serene.
I don't like it when it's this quiet.
It makes me feel uneasy.
But I don't like artificial noise.

I like laughter.
I like music.
I like to hear the squirrels running across my roof.

But manufactured noise....
I'm not going to turn on the radio just for white noise.
I'm tired of the television.
It's really getting on my nerves.
And sitting here,
staring at this box all day is mind numbing.

I've been forcing myself to take these longs walks,
But I don't have anywhere to go.
I just meander aimlessly,
And eventually, I wind up back home.

My head hurts from thinking.
I have not stopped thinking for a week now.
And every thought I've had,
I've written down.
Most are bad.
Some are good.
Others are nonsense.
I rather like the nonsensical thoughts.
There is something...
Ethereal in confounding yourself with your own thoughts.

I think I've slipped into some epistemological nightmare.
I find myself questioning the reasoning for thought.
Can one ever stop thinking?

I wish to God I could.

Friday, February 22, 2008

What the Fuck?

I don't know what the deal is, but I am having a nightmare of a time figuring out why my pictures aren't coming up in my posts. I thought it might just be my crappy camera, but now pics from the web aren't showing. I am addressing the problem as best I can. I will figure it out (I hope) soon.


3:30 PM (that very same day!)

Huzzah! I fixed it. I still have no idea what the problem was, but I fixed it! Three cheers for me!

Two cheers?

One lousy cheer?


Just a Little Tip

When you mistakenly put your peanut butter in the refrigerator, for the love of God, don't try to warm it up in the microwave. There is a possibility of there still being a little of the foil used to seal the jar stuck on it. So, unless you like to have a fire in your microwave, just go with the jelly on your english muffin, please. Not that I did anything like that. That would be stupid.

Not a good match

On a completely unrelated note, I think I may have started sleep fighting again. I woke up with quite a few cuts and bruises, and I have no idea where they came from. So, either Floyd and I have started a "Sleeping Fight Club" (which if it's the case, I am in deep trouble for saying this. You know the first rule of Sleeping Fight Club: Don't talk about Sleeping Fight Club.). Or (and I believe this to be the more likely scenario) I am being ritually beaten by an anonymous person who sneaks into my home at night and only leaves me with small cuts and bruises, and then he doesn't steal anything. Not that there is anything to steal.

Oh no! My autographed Terry O'Reilly bobblehead doll is missing! You bastards! Have you no soul!?!

Oh, wait. I found it. *Phew!*

I'm not sure if I would have been able to go on if it was missing.

Tuesday, February 19, 2008

A clean pair of pants, and I'm all set.

What a great day. Well, better than most, that's for sure. It didn't start out that way, I promise you that. Being awoken at 6 AM is never good, it's even worse when you don't have to get up. My sister was calling, asking for a favor. In my experience, 6 AM favors are never something you want anything to do with, at least in my family.

Early morning favors from my family in the past have included, but are not limited to:

3 AM- "Hey, can you come and bail me out of jail?" from my brother Mike.

2 AM- "I need you to come and empty out my cellar. The pipes froze and then burst wide open. I have 3 feet of water in there." from my Mom.

2 AM- "Can you come and bail Mike out of jail?" from Mike's girlfriend.

5 AM- "Can you come into work a little early? I know you're not scheduled until this evening, but could you be here in like.... 20 minutes? Oh, and I'll still need you to work your regular shift." from My aunt, who was also my boss.

6 AM- "Can you come and bail me out of jail?" from my Mom. Long story.

And that's just a taste. So you can imagine how excited I was when I answered the phone and heard my sister's voice saying, "Adam, I need a favor."

"OK," I said with reckless abandon, almost like I had never gotten one of these calls before. Was I expecting her to tell me she won the lottery, and I was due a million dollars? Oh, that was so not the case.

"Can you watch Kaileen today? She's got a fever of 101, and the daycare won't take her."

"Isn't she supposed to be in school," I asked idiotically. If she's that sick, how can she go to school?

"Vacation," she replies.

"Mmmph," I say. And she, having known me my whole life, knew that that meant, "I don't want to, but I will because I love you." I hate being predictable. What am I going to say? "No, go screw yourself!" Of course I would watch her, but I didn't have to like it.

"Great, I'l be there in 10 minutes."

Ten minutes? WTF? Can a cracker get a shower at least? Oh no, my friend. Showers are a luxury you don't get to have. Not until later today, anyway.

So I rushed through my morning routine, a quick shave and I was ready for my day of caring for the horribly ill little girl who was due here any minute.

Much to my surprise, I hear the door open (no knock, of course), and Kaileen comes bounding in to the living room where I have set up shop with a gallon of coffee and the morning Boston Globe.

"Uncle!" she exclaims.

"Hey, Leenie! I thought you were sick?" I ask.

"Oh, {cough, cough} yeah, {in sickly manner} I am. I'm real sick. You could cook a chicken on my head."

"Well, maybe for lunch," I said. "Where's your Mum?"

"Outside. She sent my medicine and I need to take it at 1 o'clock."

I look out and she is pulling away from my house. "Well, gee, thanks. Glad I could be of service."

"I brought movies! Ones that you'll like, too."

"Hit me with 'em, Jack."

"Kaileen," she says matter-of-factly, like we had just met. "I have Harry Potter, a football movie, and, the museum movie. Oh, and Ella Enchanted!"

"Football? What, The Longest Yard? It better be the Burt Reynolds version, not the crappy Adam Sandler remake."


"Any Given Sunday?"

"Nope, The Gameplan."

"Oooooh, The Rock. Score," I say, but she doesn't grasp the sarcasm. Ahh, to be 6 again. So oblivious.

"Great! I'll put it in, you make the hot cocoa."

"Suh, yes suh! Anything else, suh?" Again, way over her head.

"No, just the cocoa. Unless you have whipped cream!"

"Anything for you suh." Blank stare.

"Uncle...." She doesn't finish, she just shakes her head. Like I'm completely insufferable. And of course, I am.

All in all, not the worst movie featuring a pro wrestler I've ever seen. (Suburban Commando anybody?) But she knew every word of the damn thing. And would not stop saying the line right before it came up. And then asked me if I heard it. It took all I had not to scream in her face. If you are a movie repeater, please, stay away from me. I cannot be held responsible for my actions. You have been warned.

After the trite and predictible ending, I was anxious to get up and stretch my legs. Oh-ho, no. "Ella Enchanted time!"

"Huzzah! Could we just put a bullet in my head instead?" I mistakenly say outloud.

Without missing a beat she says, "In the front or the side? It's your choice. But first things first...... Ella!"

The sickest little girl in the world

I put the movie in, and realized that Anne Hathaway was the star. Ok. I can deal with this. Not the worst looking lady to have to ogle... I mean look at... for 90 minutes.

Again I say, not a terrible flick. Go ahead, take away my man credentials. You can find them in the medicine cabinet next to my cream rinse (joke. just a joke.). But honestly, it wasn't half bad. They butcher a few classic rock and roll songs. And I was forced into explaining just what the deal with Freddie Mercury was. It was not an easy explanation. I couldn't even begin to convey it to you. It was so surreal. This one question is enough to satiate you. "But if he's a boy, how can he be a Queen?"

Yeah. And I didn't hold back. She now knows what a "queen" is. And alot more. I just can't lie to her. She's too damn smart to fall for it.

The day went on. Floyd got upset because I was ignoring him. He tried to lift his leg on her, to show her he was the boss around here. I have never heard a shriek that loud. Floyd didn't go near her the rest of the day.

We then got out the coloring books, at my behest of course. And I noticed a few things. First, I am 26 years old, almost 27, and I am incapable of coloring in between the lines. I was apalled at my lack of ability. I've colored before. I don't remember my skills being akin to that of a mental patient. It was very disheartenting. Secondly, just a little note: when the crayon says that it's "red", what it really means to say is "pink". I must have tried 5 different red crayons...... all pink. What is that? Some kind of conspiracy? I am right now composing a strongly worded complaint to Crayola. I implore you to do the same on my behalf. It's just misrepresentation. My apple looks quite odd. It's like the Freddie Mercury of apples (you like that call back? I knew you would.).

And then she asked me if I wanted to play backgammon. "What?" I asked. "You know how to play backgammon?"

"Doesn't everybody?"

Sure. As long as the term "everybody" doesn't include me. I can't tell you how embarassing it was to have the rules of backgammon explained to you like you were a 6 year old. Even worse was that I was being treated like a 6 year old by a 6 year old. It was all very confusing.

So I then proceeded to kick her ass in backgammon. I was dancing and jumping around like I was the world champion of the damn game. She was thoroughly unimpresseed. "Act like you've been there before, Uncle" she says to me. It's a phrase she has heard me throw around many times, mostly at these asshole football players who do their stupid dances after they successfully tie their shoes. I had to commend her. "Well done," I said. "Well done."

And right then....... is when she threw up on me.

The Artful Vomiter

What a great day. Even with my pants covered in vomit. It could have been worse. It could have been Floyd she threw up on. And when I say "worse", I of course mean way funnier. So, after a quick change of clothes, I thought that a nap would be the most prudent (and welcome) course of action. And if she wanted to join me, then I wasn't going to stop her.

We awoke several hours later with my sister hovering over the couch. She snatched up her daughter and thanked me for my help. I told her it was no problem. I had never learned a new game and been vomited on in the same day before. Well, okay, once. But truthfully, that was one long night, and it was actually me who did the vomiting on myself, and the game I learned was "Let's see who can drink to the point of vomiting on themselves."

I was the winner that night too.

I rule.

Monday, February 18, 2008

In Case You Didn't Notice...

The music that usually appears to the right.... it's not there anymore! But you will notice, for some strange reason, there is still music emanating from your speakers. WTF?

I know. It's crazy.

But there is a logical explanation for all of this. You see, you are hallcuinating. There is no music on this page anymore. Isn't going crazy fun? Welcome to the club! Seek medical help.

If by now you haven't found it, the music is now located at the bottom of the page. It is now seperated by artist. It makes it easier to skip what you don't like.

That's pretty much all I have to say. Uhhhh.... Good day?

Saturday, February 16, 2008

The Force is strong with this one

Made a command decision this morning. After the head shaving debacle last week, I became even more aware of my facial growth. More to the point: my goddamn face really itches. So I have taken steps to confront this problem. Namely, I shaved it all off.

And let me tell you, it's ugly. For the last.... almost 4 months my face has been covered in hair. It's been so long, I had forgotten what my face looked like. When it was finally all shaved, I thought an albino psychopath had broken into my bathroom. Like The Da Vinci code, only it made more sense.


Honestly, have you ever let your beard grow for a few months? Oh, my word. It's torture. It takes everything you have to keep yourself from itching it 24 hours a day. You find clever ways to rub your face against abrasive objects. Like my ex-girlfriend, for instance (zing!). But the beard was necessary to allow me to get through the harsh New England winter and keep my face warm while working outdoors. However, that is no longer a concern, so I decided to jettison all dead weight, and the beard had to go.

Now, when I say I had forgotten what my face looked like, that was not hyperbole. It's the God's honest truth, I had forgotten what I looked like. There were scars I never knew I had. I'm stark white because it's the winter and I try to stay out of the sun at all costs. (I've been known to suffer from sunburns from the glow of a medium sized campfire.) Come to think about it, I look like...... Do you remember the end of Return of the Jedi? When Lord Vader implores Luke Skywalker to remove his breathing apparatus so that he can truly look his son in the eye. Well, that is about what I look like.


So to review, I'm: completely bald, alarmingly pale to the point of being almost totally translucent, covered in oddly shapen scars, and facing a humiliating death at the hands of my effeminate Jedi warrior son. Well if I'm being honest here, all of that's not totally true.

I'm not completely bald.

Thursday, February 14, 2008

Happy VD

God I hate this day. It is hands down the most insufferable holiday of them all. Sure, Christmas sucks. But at least you end up getting some presents out of the deal. And Thanksgiving is tough, too. Having to spend time with your family? For me, it's a nightmare. But, at least you get to eat until your stomach explodes, and then it's totally acceptable to take a 5 hour nap. In fact, it's expected.

But Valentine's Day? Ugh. Shoot me. Even if you're not single, it's a pain in the ass. It's just having to look around and seeing all of these sickeningly happy people.... and I mean, everwhere you go! At the coffee shop, people cuddling and cooing. At the supermarket, couples holding hands and kissing and planning out their romantic evening. Even at the Home fucking Depot! I'm sorry, but anywhere where there are power tools and roofing supplies, PDA's should be illegal. They should be hauled away and taken to the gallows and given the punishment they deserve.

And perhaps I'm being petty and self-pitying, but I don't care. It's not like I've never been with someone on VD (as I am wont to call it.). Even when I was with someone, it was difficult to get through. The anticipation and the wondering whether she is going to appreciate and love what it is that you got her. And what do you end up getting out of the deal? Being forced to pay for a dinner that is usually above your means, watching a movie that even feminists would laugh at you for watching, and in all likelihood, mediocre sex. Woo-hoo!

And this year, I'm not even going to get the mediocre sex. And my dinner: A frozen chicken pot pie. The movie: None. I'm watching LOST, having a whole half gallon of ice cream, maybe a bottle of wine, and then it's off to bed where I will watch The Daily Show, some of The Colbert Report, and fall asleep before midnight (as per the usual). Come to think of it, that is an ideal evening for me. Anyone else think so? I'll even throw in a foot rub. That is, if you can stand touching my feet.

Roy Orbison- Only The Lonely

My VD theme song.

The Everly Brothers- When Will I Be Loved

Edith Piaf- Non, je ne regrette rien

Wednesday, February 13, 2008

On the Precipice of a Literary Revolution

So, I'm starting a new blog. Yes, in addition to the two that I'm already inadequate in keeping updated. But this is no ordinary blog, my friends. No, no! I am attempting to revolutionize the way people read books. The key: No actual book to read!


It's going to be a completely new work released online and open to anyone who wishes to read it. I am starting the outline of the novel itself this evening. And I should be moving on to the actual writing of it tomorrow. Or the next day. It's dependent. But, unfortunaely, I have some free time on my hands in the near future, so I've decided to actually do something with it.

It will be a serialized novel (Just like Dickens!). I will release a chapter or maybe two a week. However, it will probably not be up and running for a few weeks, just so I can get a few chapters (or ten) written and I can get out ahead of everything and I'm not working on a deadline every week. But once I get rolling, it will be every week. On a specific day I will release the next chapter(s).

Is this interesting to anyone? I'm going to be doing it on a subscription basis. (Don't worry, the subscription is free. All I want is your interest.) So just leave a comment that you are interested, and we'll work it out from there.

I'm really excited about this. It's a story I've been kicking around in my head for years. And I really think this is going to work.

Viva la Revolucion!

I feel sorta bad, but I'm not going to do anything about it.

So it's just a hideous day out today. Snow, rain, ice, sleet, frogs.... friggin' everything is coming out of the sky. And I sit here, perusing blogs (Overheard in the Office, mainly. Seriously, check that site out. God damn hilarious.)

And for the last hour, I've been listening to my neighbor trying to dislodge his car from the snowbank he's stuck in. I've been considering going out to help him. But then I'd have to get dressed. And put on my rain gear. And then I would have to exert myself. It sounds like an awful lot of work just to get a guy unstuck who was too stupid to park his car in his friggin' driveway. He just had to park on the street. Like the he didn't know the plows would bury him.

No, I think I'm just going to sit here in my sweats, callously ignoring the sounds of spinning tires, smoking, surfing the net, and eating my incredible homemade granola. Eventually he's going to get it out himself, or he's going to run out of gas. Either way..... I'm still warm and dry.

It Just Seems Backwards To Me

Why does Floyd insist upon taking a shit on the floor and then comes and lets me know he needs to go out? Hi, I'm logic. Have we met? I was so mad, I didn't take him on his Chinese Skillet tonight.

(It's a long story. Okay, here goes. I can't say the word walk in front of him, or he goes insane. And I mean crazy guy hanging out in front of the liquor store in January wearing shorts insane. And I tried spelling it, but that became a nuisance having to spell W-A-L-K every time I needed to use the word. So I decided to just replace the word walk with "chinese skillet". You know, a wok?

It takes some getting used to, and visitors find it odd. "Hey, so yesterday, I was chinese skilleting down the street... You'll never guess who comes chinese skilleting around the corner? That's right, Janette the street chinese skilleter.")

I know I could have said prostitute, but then the joke wouldn't have worked.

Tuesday, February 12, 2008

A Stupid List

This is a list of songs that I will sing at Karaoke. Notice how the songs get gayer as the drink total rises.

One drink (probably a rum and coke)-"Screw you. I'm not going to karaoke. It's gay."

Two drinks- "Okay, I'll go. But I'm not fucking singing."

Three-My Way Sinatra version

Four- Tubthumping

Five drinks (and one shot of Jägermeister)- I Will Survive
(Cake Version)

Five and a half drinks- Copacabana

Six drinks, two shots of Jäger, and one Long Island Iced Tea Once again, My Way, but this time I do it with a Julio Iglesias impression. Surefire crowd pleaser.

Seven drinks, two shots of Jäger, one Long Island Iced Tea, and two body shots of what I think was Aqua Velva- Lost in Your Eyes Yeah, fucking Debbie Gibson. Got a problem? Wanna fight about it, asshole? (I'm a belligerent drunk)

Eight drinks, two shots of Jäger, one Long Island Iced Tea, two body shots of what I think was Aqua Velva, and a whiskey sour that I thought was mine, but it turns out it was this giant biker's. However, we make up and we sing- I Will Survive The Gloria Gaynor version, together.

At this point, I try to sing this song back to back. I usually get halfway into it, before the bouncer tries to forcibly remove the microphone from me. I resist, which more than likely results in a crack across the temple. I then awake, several hours later, somewhere in Little Italy, eating pasta fazool with an elderly man named Giuseppe, and two of my friends are passed out in the poor man's bathroom (Yes, it's his home, not a restaurant. Don't ask, because I don't know the answer.)

I really hate going to karaoke. But I'm thinking about going this Friday night.

If only because the pasta fazool is fucking incredible!


Profound disappointment.
In me and in you.
In you for your actions,
For not being true.

In me for my willingness
In thinking all that you do
Was ever about me.
Because God knows,
It was all about you.


I'm not being "over dramatic".
I believe I'm being the perfect amount of dramatic.
If this situation doesn't call for passionate exchanges,

Then what does?

When I feel threatened, I react.
And that reaction is empassioned and forthright.
And completely measured and called for.
If I didn't care so much,
I wouldn't react as such.

Come to think of it,

Why are you so calm?


I'm a broken down fool
Hiding my shame behind stilted laughter.
The smile I wear?
It masks the torment inside of me.


Excuses, excuses.
That's all I hear.
Why this can't be,
It never seems clear.
It's one thing today,
And another tomorrow.
Let's not talk about yesterday.....
Far too much sorrow.

If this isn't happening,
Then why bother with me?
Why string me along?
Why not let me be?
Is it done out of love?
Or affection? Or fear?

Excuses, excuses.
That's all I hear.

Monday, February 11, 2008


I never write about happy things.
You know,
A dewy meadow at sunrise.

There's a logical explanation for this:

Those things are evil.

A deeply philosophical yet intrinsically flawed take on the perception of perceptions

Pretty little things......
Can be so ugly inside.

Love is.....

Love is a four letter word.
So is hate.
I hate love.
It's not real.
It doesn't exist.

Confused (alt. title: Fill in the Blanks)




I don't understand.





Everybody wears them.
Never revealing who we are.
They are little lies,
Helping us to hide our faults.
But you can't hide from them forever.

Saturday, February 9, 2008

A Sad State of Affairs

I am a sorry excuse for a human being.
Here it's another Saturday night, and I ain't got nobody.
(hey, that would make for a good opening line for a song!)
I'm not really doing anything.
I wrote for a fair portion of the day.
I'm just languishing here.
I have some housework to do,
So I suppose I'll do that.
I have a few emails to write.
I should probably return those.
(People are waiting on those repsonses, Adam.)

Just another rocking Saturday in the Raymond household.

Cat Stevens- Another Saturday Night

Frank Sinatra- Saturday Night

Oh, I feel like getting happy. Maybe this will do it.

Stevie Wonder- Sir Duke

Ahhhhhh. That's better.

hold the phone

i have hit a creative wall.
my sense of what is good and interesting,
well, it's no longer there.
there is no rhyme or reason to it.
there is just no conflict to resolve.
i thrive on conflict.
something that puts a situation on tilt.

and i'm level. totally level.
and it fucking sucks.

i can't write.
that is not to say i don't have time to write.
or that i don't have the physical ability to write.
i.... can't..... write.
it just won't come out.

god knows that i have millions of stories in my head.
they're all bouncing around like...
i can't even come up with a good simile, for christ's sake.
bouncing around like.....


so i've been watching these totally terrible movies recently.
the titles aren't important.
(mainly because i fear ridicule for it.)
and they have been pissing me off.
they are all the fucking same.
two beautiful people are looking for love,
only they are too blind (or stupid) to see that....
GASP! they are the loves of each other's lives.
what a fucking surprise.

just once, i'd like to see the awkward, socially inept
and moderately funny (but conventionally unattractive) guy
get the chick.
and she doesn't even have to be a fucking supermodel.
she should be smart.
perhaps a little awkward herself, but with redeeming charm.
her looks are totally inconsequential.
i just want to see something where two people who aren't
fucking runway models get together.
where something vaguely approaching a real life scenario is
the storyline.

there just isn't anything out there for normal people.
for people who maybe have a receding hairline.
for people who are maybe a little self conscious about their body.
for people who are not exhibitionists.
for people who drive a beat up ford thunderbird.
for people who live in a stupid tiny town that they fear is crushing their will to live.
for people who just want someone to appreciate them for who they are,
and not have to be criticized and judged by every person they meet.

where are these stories?
where the fuck are they?

do i have to write it myself?

fuck it.
maybe i will.

Friday, February 8, 2008

Head Trauma
So, I just finished shaving my head.
Not that I was planning on shaving my head.
It just kind of... happened.
It all began as a simple beard grooming.
My winter scruff was getting a little unruly.
So I fired up my beard trimmer.

Everything was going quite well.
Nothing too crazy.
I noticed that my side burns were a little uneven,
So I evened them out.
Then they still didn't look even.
A little more trimming was necessary.
So I started to take down the hair around my temples.

When all of a sudden,
Floyd lets out a cry like he was being murdered.
Needless to say, my hand slipped.
And I was left with a 1 inch wide, 3 inch long bald spot.
"This... is not good," I said.
I was torn between punching the mirror,
or going to see if Floyd was okay.

My mirror is fine.
Floyd, however, is an asshole.
He was barking at a cat on the porch.
And I was left with a decision:

To shave, or not to shave?
That is the question.
Whether tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings
and arrows of outrageous laughter (of my friends),
or to take arms against a sea of follicles?
And by opposing, end them.
To dry, to comb...... no more.

So I shaved.
Now, let me say, it's not abnormal for me to shave my head.
Just not when it's 2 degrees outside.
It's more of a summer thing.

And it most definitely is not summer.

My head is cold.
And I need a hat.

Wednesday, February 6, 2008

The Belle of Amherst

Departed to the judgment,
A mighty afternoon;
Great clouds like ushers leaning,
Creation looking on.

The flesh surrendered, cancelled,
The bodiless begun;
Two worlds, like audiences, disperse
And leave the soul alone.


To know just how he suffered would be dear;
To know if any human eyes were near
To whom he could intrust his wavering gaze,
Until it settled firm on Paradise.

To know if he was patient, part content,
Was dying as he thought, or different;
Was it a pleasant day to die,
And did the sunshine face his way?

What was his furthest mind, of home, or God,
Or what the distant say
At news that he ceased human nature
On such a day?

And wishes, had he any?
Just his sigh, accented,
Had been legible to me.
And was he confident until
Ill fluttered out in everlasting well?

And if he spoke, what name was best,
What first,
What one broke off with
At the drowsiest?

Was he afraid, or tranquil?
Might he know
How conscious consciousness could grow,
Till love that was, and love too blest to be,
Meet—and the junction be Eternity?


I read my sentence steadily,
Reviewed it with my eyes,
To see that I made no mistake
In its extremest clause,—

The date, and manner of the shame;
And then the pious form
That “God have mercy” on the soul
The jury voted him.

I made my soul familiar
With her extremity,
That at the last it should not be
A novel agony,

But she and Death, acquainted,
Meet tranquilly as friends,
Salute and pass without a hint—
And there the matter ends.

All poems written by Emily Dickinson

Because it hath no Bottom!

A windowless box is now my prison.
I rather enjoy the lack of sunlight.
I have no use for it anymore.
Not that there is a lot of sunlight in February anyway.

It's entirely too cold here.
Which begs me to ask (myself):
How, good sir,
does one abhor both the sunlight and the cold?
It would follow that one would be accpetable over the other.
But no. I hate them both.
Give me warm darkness, that's my Shangri La.

So, I had a dream last night.
"Get out!" you may say.
No, no. It's true.

I dreamt of my own funeral.
There were so many people there.
More than I would expect at my real funeral, to be sure.
As I lay in my coffin, I can hear the voices.
People whispering.
Some of the whispers were prayers.
Others were people cursing at me.....
At my own funeral!

But I couldn't see anyone.
I heard them just fine.
I knew they were there.
But strangely, I didn't recognize any of the voices.
I tried to peer over the side of the coffin.
To see the faces of the mourners.

I lay there, immobile and yet cognizant.
Finally, I heard a familiar voice.
I tried to scream out to her,
"Please.... Let me see you!"
Amazingly, I think she heard me.
She leaned in, but it was very dark.
I could almost make out her face.

Then, a light shone on her.
Like the flash of one of those old-timey cameras.
It allowed me to see her face.
But it..... her face.....
It was blank.
No face at all. Just a head... with no features.

The voice still spoke,
But there was no mouth to speak through.

"It's happening again," the voice said.
I shouted, "What? What is happening?"
I hear a camera shutter,
Like someone has just taken a picture.

"That's good. i like that."
"Oh, yes. Now have him roll over."
Shutter. Shutter.
"Can we see him cry again? That was great fun!"
Shutter. Shutter. Shutter.
A flash bulb goes off.
"This is boring. Change the channel."

Shutter. Shutter. Shutter.
Shutter. Shutter. Shutter.


I awoke, screaming.

"Don't change the channel!"

My heart was pounding. My back was dripping in sweat.
I was breathing like I had just run a marathon.

I know exactly what that dream meant.
Even though to you it must have seemed like... I don't know.
Abstract. Surreal. Fellini-esque. A Twilight Zone.
Just like any other dream, you might think.
But you'd be wrong.

It can't be happening again.
I won't make it this time.
I can't do it.
It's too much.
I'm just not strong enough.

Tuesday, February 5, 2008

.....And Start All Over Again

Day one.
A year and a half.... down the drain.
One night. One stupid mistake.
I regret every moment of it.
Every wonderful yet self-destructive moment.
Spent the day yesterday vomiting and sweating.
It's hard to sweat when it's 10 degrees outside.
But I managed.

But mainly, it was the headache that hurt.
Not in the physical sense, although it did.
It hurt because I had put so much effort into staying clean.
I was happier (sort of).
I was healthier.
I had regained use of my brain.
Well, the limited portion that still processes reasonable thought, at least.
And now, I must begin again.
What a waste.
I couldn't be more disappointed in myself.

I made a promise to never slip.
And I broke that promise.
I am ashamed and at the same time,
I am happy.
Happy because I have realized my mistake.
The error of that one moment of weakness.
And the fact that I have recognized the error,
That makes me happy.
It means that I am past that particular part of my life.
I can now move forward, knowing I have not made some giant mistake.
I have made the right decision.
And the fact that I have reacted so viscerally to my slip up
Means I am no longer under the spell of that useless drug.
No longer compelled by it's siren song.
I believe that I am now stronger for having relapsed.

I can see that it is a fruitless pursuit,
This unattainable search for the perfect life.
I may not be perfect in my living.
But who amongst us is?
I am happy with who I am.
A statement I could not have made even three months ago.
And again, that makes me happy.
As fleeting as that feeling may be,
I must take it in the moment and cherish it.

For who knows what tomorrow may bring.
We must start all over again.
With each new day brings new problems.
New questions.
New answers.
New everything.
Just new.
Every morning that the sun shines is a gift.
A chance to start again, and to do it better than the day before.
We may not win every battle that we fight.
In fact, we will lose far more than we will win.
But we must take solace in the little victories,
Pyhrric as they may seem.
Because in those seemingly small events,
What is real and true and good about ourselves is revealed.

It's morning again.
The sun is up.
And today,
I start all over again.

Robert Frost

House Fear
by Robert Frost

Always--I tell you this they learned--
Always at night when they returned
To the lonely house from far away
To lamps unlighted and fire gone gray,
They learned to rattle the lock and key
To give whatever might chance to be
Warning and time to be off in flight:
And preferring the out- to the in-door night,
They learned to leave the house-door wide
Until they had lit the lamp inside.

Monday, February 4, 2008

About Last Night

Well, the evening started out quietly enough. I had just finished making a pizza (yes, from scratch), and I was ready to settle in with Floyd and watch the Super Bowl. I heard him barking outside, begging me to let him in. I opened the door, and he came running.

“Hey!” I hear a voice shout from next door. It was my neighbor, Dick. Ugh. I had tried so hard to avoid him specifically for this reason. “You coming over to watch the game, Adam?”

“You know it,” I yelled back, because I’m a spineless coward who can’t say no to anyone. I just didn’t want to go. It was as simple as that. But if I was going to go, as I had now committed myself to doing, I figured I may as well get extraordinarily drunk. So I went to it. The next 20 minutes were spent guzzling down a six pack of Miller Lite. God, that’s terrible beer. Piss water as far as I’m concerned. I’m an Amstel man myself. But this is what was available. So I toiled away. I waited until the middle of the second quarter to make my way over to the party. I couldn’t put it off any longer.

As I approached the door, I heard squeals of delight. Naturally, I ran towards the door and fervently rang the doorbell. “Come in!” I heard them all shout. I was pleasantly surprised at the group that had assembled. It was my neighbor, Dick, and his wife Linda. Their daughter Elisha and her boyfriend Matt, whom I have known since I was a little kid. That was it. Okey-dokey. I can handle this. At this point, I realized that I was , if not drunk, well on my way.

And what is this? Oh, a bottle of rum and shot glass sitting right in front of me. Suddenly, I was the de facto bartender for the evening. Doling out shots to any and all who sought them. And I couldn’t ignore myself, of course. One for you, one for me. One for you, one for me.

It was then that trouble arose. From upstairs came Dick’s son, Eban. A good kid, if not a little misguided. A few months ago, his father had asked me to speak to him about the perils of drug use and over consumption. Boy did he pick the wrong guy. Instead of talking to the kid and giving him sage advice and imparting the wisdom I had accrued over the last 15 years, I ended up just shooting the shit. Telling stories about some LEGENDARY evenings I had when I was younger. The conversation ended up doing the exact opposite of what it's intent was. Which was to make the kid straighten up and start to be more responsible for his own actions. Instead, I merely corroborated his beliefs that doing drugs and drinking to excess was cool, and it can all turn out OK. I mean, look at me. I turned out fine. (?)

But I digress from the story at hand. Halftime of the game arrived. I was more excited for this than anything else that evening. Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers were going to be playing. I love Tom Petty. It made me think about the concert I had seen in…… oh boy, maybe 2001. Great show. Tons of energy. Petty is incredible live. If you get the chance, go. Anyway, we all sat there and just enjoyed the show. Free Fallin‘. American Girl. Won’t back Down. Runnin’ Down a Dream. All classic tunes. A great set.

It was then I decided I needed a cigarette. So I got up, and reached into my pocket. “Come on!” I shouted. Everyone looked right at me, which is exactly what a drunk schizo needs. I started to get antsy. “I need a cigarette. Does anybody have one?” I asked. “No, but Eban would have one.” Fantastic. I went upstairs to his room and banged on the door. “Come in!” he slurred drunkenly. I opened the door, and what did I see? A den of iniquity, that’s what. There were maybe 10 of them in there. I wasn’t even aware of their presence at the party. But again, I was pretty drunk. “I need a cigarette. Whose got one?” Six hands went diving into pockets simultaneously. I decided to take the first cigarette offered to me. This proved costly though. It was a Newport. Now, for those of you not familiar with cigarettes and cigarette brands, this is not good. A Newport is a menthol. Just a disgusting cigarette. “If I wanted a mint, I would have asked for a mint.” I said to the young lady who was offering me her pack. She looked confused. I laughed and took the cigarette. “Thank you,” I said. “Now……. a lighter.” I demanded.

And immediately I was “enjoying” a “nice” “cigarette“. After about 5 minutes, after my smoke was done, I noticed a slight aroma in the air. It was a beautiful aroma. One that evokes memories of days gone by. One that makes me stand at attention every time I smell it. The aroma: Kine bud. Kine bud is a type of marijuana. It is a glorious, magnificent, sublime form of marijuana.

To be honest, I have (had) not smoked pot in about 17 months. I was clean and sober (so to speak). But there was just something about that smell. And the fact that they were passing around a blunt so big I can only compare it to a kielbasa wasn’t hurting anything. I (begrudgingly) took the blunt.

“I’m going to regret this,” I thought out loud. Nobody seemed to notice though. They were all, let’s just say they were all…… well, they had had a nice evening. Then, some kid decided it was a good idea to start giving out shotguns. Now, even as a kid, I didn’t like shotguns. There was something oddly homo-erotic about it. How do I mean?

A shotgun consists of two people. One will take the blunt, and turn it around and put the ash end INTO his mouth. With the non-smoking end sticking out of his mouth, he will lean in and blow the smoke into the mouth of another guy whose face is now 2cm away from his. Like I said, homo-erotic. Don’t get me wrong, it’s effective. And you can’t really say “Pass” when the dude is blowing smoke into your mouth. So I took it like a man.

Holy shit.

Holy………………… shit!

I was finished. After sitting there for another 10 minutes, stewing in my own juices, I finally stood up (pretty gracefully, considering my altered state). “I have got to get the fuck outta here.”

After shaking hands with these kids, I bummed another cigarette from the same little girl, and I was on my way back down to watch the game. Truthfully, I didn’t care about the game anymore. I planted myself in a barstool and pointed myself in the same general direction as the television, so as not to arouse suspicion. I managed to have a few moments of lucid thought, offering some insights into the game, but I was there in body only from that point on.

I began to drift away. I could hear people whispering.

“He doesn’t even get it.”
“Oh my god.”
“Should we do something?”
Maniacal laughter.
“Are you serious? Look at him.”
“This is hysterical.”

I knew they were referring to me. But I was unsure if the voices were even real. Mixing alcohol, illicit drugs, and anti-psychotic meds can fuck with your head, especially a head already ravaged by years of untreated, unrelenting madness. Old demons were coming to the surface.

I stumbled to my feet. Luckily, there was a straight shot to the bathroom. “God I hope there is no one in there,” I thought. I opened the door. Empty. Beautiful. I fell to the floor in one graceless motion. My head lay on the cold linoleum. It was very soothing. Seconds passed. They quickly became minutes. I could hear the shouts from out in the living room. Reactions to the game. I thought if I could just get to my feet, I could slip out the back door, and nobody would be the wiser. If I could just make it to my bed, everything would be alright. I grabbed on to the bathtub, steadied myself, and quickly realized I wasn’t quite ready to give it a shot. Back to the linoleum. Oh the sweet, cool linoleum.

I passed out. Maybe 20 minutes. I was suddenly jerked out of it.

“Where did Adam go?” I heard Linda ask. “Anybody?”

Dick responded, “I think he went home.” If only Dick. If only. Almost immediately thereafter, the bathroom door came flying open. It was Eban. Stone cold drunk. “Found him!” he shouted. “ I found Adam!”

Great. I’ve been found out.

“Hey, you alright buddy? You need anything?” He asked. Linda appeared at the door. She was gone too. “Oh Adam. Are you alright?”

“Dandy.” I managed to spit out. “I’ll be on my way soon. Just give me a second to compose myself.”

“Honey, take it easy. You want me to get Dick to help you home?”

“I’m good. I’m good.”

“Ok.” The door closed. I passed out. Again I was jerked out of it by shouts of admonition at the game. Apparently, we weren’t winning. Back to sleep.

A knock at the door roused me again. I shot up to my feet. Then I dropped to my knees. I….. Expelled, let’s call it. I was praying to the porcelain God, okay?

As always, this made me feel ten times better. I ambled to my feet and made a b-line for the door. This was my chance. I apologized to Dick and Linda. At least I think it was them. It may have been a coat rack. Either way, I apologized. Finally I was on my way home. But not without suffering one last indignity. Going around the corner, I slipped on a patch of ice, and fell flat on my ass. “Ouch. I should have seen that coming.”

I slipped inside of my house. Floyd greeted me with his usual peppiness. Jumping all over me. I threw him out to go to the bathroom real quick. As I finally made my way up to my bed, I said to myself, “You know Adam, you may have over extended yourself tonight. You deserve what you get tomorrow. Enjoy the hangover.”

I fell face first onto my bed. Floyd joined me, cuddling up into the crook of my legs as always.

“This is what you get Adam. Maybe next time you can learn to say no. Fucking coward.”

Good advice. But I have to ask, who said that?

Saturday, February 2, 2008

Friday, February 1, 2008

A Good Walk...... Spoiled

The year: 2001. I am 3 months away from my 20th birthday. It’s a cold February 2nd. As if there is any other kind of February morning. The day began simple enough. I went to class (I was still in college then) first thing in the morning. Then I cut my last class to go smoke a few joints with Matt Girard and this girl Amy. Matt was one of my closest friends. We grew up together. From the time we were 6 years old we were close.

So we finished smoking our joints. And let me say, we were supremely roasted. I mean, we were cooked. I was having trouble walking straight, that's how good it was. I ambled my way over to my car. Not being able to locate it for about an hour was kind of fun. I didn‘t so much find it as much as I finally stumbled upon it. But what was this? I couldn’t find my keys! What the fuck? “Dammit! They must have fallen out of my pocket in Matt’s car,” I said. He was long gone at this point. No doubt he and Amy were at his place by now, doing what college kids do: making macaroni and cheese and playing Playstation. “Ahh, macaroni and cheese,” I thought. I could go for some of that. Hey, I was stoned. What do you want from me?

It was at this point I began searching for someone, anyone to give me a ride to Matt’s so I could get my keys. “Simple enough,” I thought. “There has got to be someone I know coming out soon.” I waited for another hour. Not one god damn person I knew exited or entered the building. Finally, I realized my only option was to walk to Matt’s. It’s only 20 miles or so. How long could that take?

Quite a while, as it turns out. Especially when you are baked. “OK, good. This will give me time to think about some stuff I’ve needed to think about, but didn’t have the time. Or the will.” So I threw my book bag over my shoulder, and began the long journey to find my keys. The walk was nice. I needed a good walk. It reinvigorates the soul to go walking in the woods. I took the woods because it would cut maybe 3 miles off of the trip. But it was treacherous terrain. Rivers were my main enemy. And the C.H.U.D.s. But that in and of itself is another story entirely.

Three hours later, and I was sweating my balls off. And I was still 5 miles from his house. I began to wipe the sweat from my head. It’s not good to sweat when it’s cold out. You can get hypothermia. I took my hand and wiped it over my head from front to back. While rubbing the back of my neck, I noticed something. I felt what I had determined to be a lump on the back of my neck, just behind my right ear, at the base of my hairline.


I was paralyzed with fear. After a few minutes, I began walking again. Partly because I was freezing, partly because I had to do something. I was apoplectic. Cursing and shouting , I had no idea what to do. I just kept walking. Every few minutes I would feel back there, hoping it was just a knot in my neck that I could work out by rotating my head in circles. Doing this made me dizzy. So I found a log and I sat down. I don’t know how long I sat there. Maybe 5 minutes. Maybe 30. I was lost. Not in the physical sense of being lost. I was lost in my head. Telling myself that it’s nothing. That I’m just imagining it. That I’m dreaming. And any second I was going to wake up and laugh about how stupid I am to think that it was real.

I never woke up. I was stuck in this awful reality. I trudged the last few miles to Matt’s house. I banged on the door to tell him I would be going through his car to find my keys, and to see if he would give me a ride back to campus. I spent 10 minutes ripping apart the backseat of his car. Nothing. I literally pulled the backseats out. Nothing. Under the seats, glove box, the trunk. Nothing. What…..the…..fuck! Can anything go right for me today? Now, I really needed a fucking cigarette. Because nothing makes your lungs feel better after a 20 mile hike than the cool crisp flavor of a Parliament light. But don’t you know, the pack was empty. Jesus. “Anything else?” I shouted. Matt just stared at me, quizzically.

Luckily for me I kept a spare pack in my book bag at all times. I put the bag down, opened it up, and grabbed the unopened pack. And as I pulled it out of the bag, I heard a very faint jingling noise.

“You have got to be shitting me.” Sure enough, there were my keys. At the bottom of my bag. Right where I had put them before class. At this point, I was able to recall that perfectly. You have to remember, I was high when I was looking for them. One time, I looked for my keys for 5 minutes while I was high, only to find them…… in my hand.

I couldn’t help thinking that this was a sign. I’m not a religious man. Not by any means. In fact, I’m an Atheist. But deep inside of me, I couldn’t shake the possibility that there was some higher power that was guiding my actions that day.

I vacillated as to whether to go to the hospital or not. On the one hand, I wanted to know what it was. On the other hand, I didn't want to know what it was. Ultimately, I decided not to go.

I spent the better part of the next two years convincing myself that it was nothing. That I was alright. And if it was something, I didn't care. I've heard of far too many people living for years with tumors the size of grapefruits. It was only when they were told that they had the tumor that they began to get sick. The mind is a powerful thing. If they told me I had Cancer, I would have sunk into a horrific depression, and would have probably died within months of the diagnosis. But, after two years, I bit the bullet. I went in to find out what was in my head. I was scared shitless.

After all of my worrying and equivocating, the tests finally revealed that it was nothing. It was a slightly enlarged lymph node. Nothing to be too worried about. But in the course of the examination, I had some psychological tests done and a pet scan and a cat scan. And those tests helped to find another problem with me: I actually was sick. Just not from the lump. They told me that I have a chemical imbalance that was causing delusions and severe paranoia. I was prescribed several medications for it. And the meds helped, a little.

Honestly, I don’t usually like to discuss this with anyone. But I felt it was time to let my secret out. But please, don't make a big deal out of it. I told the story. The cat is out of the bag. I'm demented. Let's go about like it has always been common knowledge. Because in a way, it has. Come on. You didn't think that I was normal, did you? Be honest.

Now, I don't want sympathy. That wasn't my point here. I just wanted to tell a story. And I was thinking about this today because.... well, because tomorrow is the day it happened.

There is a moral to this story, though. It’s a good one, too. You ready? OK.

Smoke pot.

Pot is bad, yes. And I no longer smoke it. But if that day, I hadn’t been so high that I forgot where my keys were, then I wouldn’t have gone walking in the woods. And then I wouldn't have found the lump. And then I never would have gone to the hospital (eventually). And I wouldn't have been diagnosed. So kiddies, listen to your Uncle Adam: pot is good. It’s okay to smoke it. Just don’t abuse it to the point of delirium. (Some in the medical community have hypothesized that smoking it actually causes psychiatric problems. There is no definitive proof of this. Only conjecture.)

Well, how’s that for a moral? It’s nothing out of Grimm, to be sure. But it worked for me.

Sort of.

Dreaming of an Oasis

More to the point..... some Oasis.

Half The World Away


Guess God Thinks I'm Abel

The Importance Of Being Idle

I mainly like this song because of the title. "The Importance of Being Earnest" is my favorite Oscar Wilde play.

Obviously, I'm less of a Liam fan. I'm a Noel guy. He's incredible.

Snow Day!

What a beautiful day here!
If you consider beautiful to be driving rain,
turning to sleet, and finally ice.
And I do.

That is all ice.
Maybe an inch of it. Just wonderful stuff.
Great for driving in.
There were absoultely no accidents on the highway.
OK, maybe one. Or 30.
It's like people forget how to drive.
Like they have never seen snow or ice before.
It's friggin' New England!
We tend to get a little snow here.

And yes, that is my swingset. I use it often.
It's been ravaged by the wind.
Sweet Jesus, the wind.
Blustery I'd call it.
No, not blustery. What am I looking for?
Whipping? No.
Gale force?
Yeah, that's good. Gale force.
I feel bad for Floyd.
I just put him out to do his business.

On the plus side, I got a day off from work.
It's like I'm back in school. I got a snow day.
I got halfway there, and I was like,
"Fuck this! I'm going back to bed!"
Oh, my warm bed. How I love you.
How could I ever survive without you?

Also on the plus side, I got to write a little.
I have a nice story I'm putting the finishing touches on.
It's about me, and something that happened to me a few years ago.
Something I think about a lot this time of year.
So, be looking for that.
I'm sure you're all shaking with anticipation.

I've got to go.
My dog just blew away.