Who's Ever Going To Read This Anyway

After an awesome day at the beach my ass was kicked. I was sunburned (with fingers crossed that this will be the time it becomes a tan, but convinced it’ll probably become cancer) and wanted to get some chow. Since I had eaten nothing that hadn’t come in a bottle the whole time at the beach I was ravenous.
Gorging myself on lasagna, sweet and sour chicken, and some watered down potato soup I was again fat and happy. Destined to return to my room to lather up with Sun Bum brand cool down lotion, I was continuing a conversation with a friend from the chow hall. He returned to my room with me and tried to get me to hang out with him.
Mind you, he was invited to the beach but didn’t want to go, this is the second such occasion he had asked me to go to the beach and when the convoy was rolling stock, he decided to leave his seat vacant.
But that’ doesn’t matter, I was full, tired, and lobster red. I just wanted to lay in bed and watch Hulu. After about an hour on conversation in my room, and he wasn’t letting up. He wanted to go see a movie. Problem: I’ve seen them all. Solution: Tell him to go see them with a group of friends who already are going to see Xmen. But alas, that did not budge him. So I pulled up my hulu and put on PROJECT RUNWAY. Figuring if anything would scare this guy away it would be fashion!
He stayed and watched a bit, I figured he’d question my sexualtiy or even just storm out laughing at me. But he watched it, and the next episode. Then came the best moment of my life. While watching a commercial for Just For Men hair products he looks at the girl in the video and says “Oh my god, what the hell is she wearing?”
He stopped in silence; for three seconds the room was quiet… then burst into outrageous laughter. Looks like Project Runway has an unique impact on people. By the next episode his roommate is in my room and all three of us are talking shit about designs.
I should probably do something more masculine today… maybe kill an animal or go drive something big. Or look at chainsaws at the hardware store.

My room still smells like flat coke. It’s kinda gross. I’m fairly certain that someone must have poured it into the air ducts or something. It doesn’t matter. I’m more worried about my brain (and why my computer has glitter all over keyboard, did it come that way?)
This damn logic course has me thinking in different number systems. I randomly think of things in base 12, or hexadecimal, or binary. I can figure a 6 digit number from hex to binary to octal in like 15 seconds. It’s getting pretty crazy, like to the point where I can’t even focus on anything for more than a few minutes before I start thinking about equations, set theory, or stupid puns/jokes regarding 2’s compliment in binary. Don’t even ask me about the cartoon I drew. I mean the highlight of my day was a joke about why the number two and three couldn’t see the number eight’s new best friend the square root of -1. HA!

I need to find more sleep. That’ll solve it. Right? I’m looking forward to this weekend. Maybe I’ll get some rest. Gotta Go it’s almost 1010. (…yeah…)

Snapped out of a dream by the alarm clock, I reach over and silence my pest. Buzzing alarms always remind me that there is somewhere I don’t want to be looming in my near future. I stare at the perfectly rounded numbers 08:00. The Chinese believe that 8 is a lucky number. Fuck the Chinese. Before I could even drift back to sleep I hear my phone calling to me, like a child that knows exactly when the parents awake, my electronics today refuse to let me miss this occasion. Fuck me, right?
I roll over to see what important penis enlarging offer was in my inbox that my spam filter found necessary to allow through, like a sentry heralding great news to the monarch of the land that is my groin. Or what great video online that my mother finally saw (after everyone has already forgotten about from it’s viral celebrity back in the ether of history that was 6 months ago.) Turns out it was neither, worse yet, it was a phone call.
I hate the phone. No one ever calls with good news, that’s what texts are for. Phone calls are always “we need to talk.” It was Andy.

“Dude, I’m here. Let’s go.”
“You said 9:00” I remind him
“I said 8.” He reminds me.
“I heard 9.” I lie.
“We’re gonna be late.”
“Let’s not go then. Nothing worse than showing up late.”
“You have 10 mins, shower and shave, I’m gonna get us come coffee.”
“Ugh, I hate coffe… sound great.”

I stumble to the shower and turn on the water. I stare at my reflection as the water beings its evolution from unbearably icy to managable tepidness and weight the decision of my shave. My three day shaddow had the distinguished look of a prisoner and the tender caress of sandpaper. All in all the look I was feeling, but was it what I wanted to put out there? How would that be recieved? Maybe they’d send me home. Or maybe I’d just be looked at as the pathetic loser I was. Shave it is.

By the time I shower and shave and found something decent to wear my coffee was is and Andy doesn’t seem to happy.

“We now have 15 mins to get across town” He chastises me.
“You’re right, we should just go to the casino instead.”
“We’re going, you’re gonna smile, and tell her you’re happy for her.”
“But I’m not.”
“Well it’s her wedding and she really wants you there.”
“Just not next to her.” I mumble; luckly the sound of his truck was louder.

The blade drags across the young boy’s palm. As the seam in his skin opens behind it, the blood flows. The other boy follows suit. After all, they did everything together what’s one more thing? They were already joined at the hip, what’s wrong with being joined at a wound? They shook hands, sharing the blood. Sealing the bond. “…No matter what.” That was the rule.

I was 14 years old when my best friend and I made the arrangement to die. We agreed that if either one of us died prematurely; that is, before the other one did (because after all, isn’t everyone’s death “premature” in our own minds? Save for the rare occasions of someone’s grandmother knowing she was going to die or was “ready” for it or some bullshit, feel good, “in a better place” kinda crap) the other would follow by their own fruition.

Suicide always seems like a great idea at the time. I mean, in the romantic way. Not the romance between and man and a woman. More like how the words “alcoholic” or  “drink” always seem to sound more wonderfully warm and delicious than the abrasive liquid it represents. But now, holding the New York Times, reading of Matt’s recent overdose in his Manhattan apartment, I suddenly question ever agreeing to such a thing.

I mean, we were just crazy kids. It was dumb stuff, right? I doubt he even remembers that night by the fort we used to play in. When he snuck his that old Remington folding knife from his dad. I mean, I haven’t even talked to Matt for six year. Not since Samantha.

Samantha was a gorgeous blonde. Matt always had an affinity for blondes. I guess it made the dating scene in high school and college easier for use. Whenever we would see any girls we just knew that he’d take the blonde. Even if they were both blonde, they still wound up with him. Since I had absolutely no luck with the girls, I used the excuse that I had a thing for redheads. 

See, our high school only had two girls with red hair. And both of them were rather unattractive (but that’s the redhead curse: the girls are either gorgeous or gross.) But the truth was, while I did like red hair- maybe I just watched too much Jessica Rabbit as a child- I mostly used this “fetish” as an excuse for never going after a girl.  I was shy, but at least I was creative about it.

  But that all changed the day we were all hanging out at Matt’s house. Matt,  Samantha, Samantha’s friend, Deb, and I were sitting around drinking. We had opened some O’Doul’s that Matt had stolen from the liquor store on the corner. We were all too oblivious to the fact that the non-alcoholic stuff looked and tasted the same. And thanks to our psychosomatic intoxication, It was just as good as the real stuff. As Deb got up to use the restroom, I took another swig of the awful fizzy swill.

“So…. Do you like Deb?”  Samantha asked, jabbing me in the ribs

“Uhh…” I suddenly realized this was a set-up. That’s why Deb was invited. She never hung out with us before. Damn it.

“She’s not a redhead.” Matt said, rescuing me.

“What?” 

“He only likes the fire crotches.”

“HAHA. Oh, is that so?” Samantha’s emerald eyes sparkled as she grinned. 

It was the next day at school when Samantha showed up in her white skirt, green low cut top, and fiery red hair.

Matt and Samantha were off and on throughout the rest of high school and the first two years of college, other than when we were picking up blondes for Matt during the “off” periods, when one night Samantha confessed to me over a bong and a six pack that she dyed her hair- and kept it- red for me.

The next morning I awoke with the slam of a door. Samantha’s red hair flamed across my pale, white skin. I was in ecstasy. Then my mind shot back to the sound, the door, Matt!

That was the last time we were ever in the same room again. He transferred out of our dorm room and the next semester he went to NYU.

Now here I am, sitting on my sofa in Los Angeles with the New York Times (pretentious as it is, it was a necessity for my job in advertising, and I had it delivered to my house mostly because everyone at my office stole it and I liked being the only one in the neighborhood getting it.) reading the story of Matt Lawson, age 24, the haunted and tragic ending to his rock star life. Apparently overdosing, with intent, as he left this world with a simple suicide note. A chill ran up my spine and I dropped the paper.

“What’s wrong, baby?” Asked Samantha, hair red as ever.

According to the paper, the suicide note read: “No Matter What.”

Standing up from the bed, He takes the covers with him. His nymph, the pixie, little blonde with the cute upturned nose and big gorgeous eyes flies for her shirt. Even after the ways he’s defiled her, she still feigns shyness. Maybe that’s what he likes about her. That innocence, her modesty  that appears only when he’s not inside her. 

He gets a glimpse of her right breast, her favorite of the two- she’s weird like that and it’s another thing he finds adorable- as she dons her white tank top and clad in her matching white boy short panties, the stark contrast of her school girl prudishness and his “look at me” bravado makes him laugh. Standing in the afterglow of passion with sweat and bodily fluids making their way down his legs, soaking into the carpet. The same carpet he had just paid three hundred dollars to have cleaned last week. 

A price to pay indeed, but one he’d willingly do again, his little cohort was worth the out of pocket upkeep of his newly christened flooring. 

As she viewed the object of her affections, she does her best to keep her eyes up, but absentmindedly she looks down between his thighs, licking her lips longingly. 

“Like what you see, babe?”

“It’s alright, I guess.” She retorts with her sprite-like smile. 

“Alright? You can call Merriam Webster cuz this is definition.” He says striking a pose.

She knew Merriam-Webster wasn’t a person, but she found his puns adorable. As pathetically obvious as they could be at times, there were the rare exceptions of true brilliance here and there. But hey, they can’t all be gold.

He cycled through all his poses, learned no doubt from his childhood watching all that cheap professional wrestling. His biceps deflating slightly as her giggles filled the room. He turns his back to her, as to bluff being upset with her lack of adoration of his body, after all he did work on it quite a bit.

She noticed what looked to be a mark, maybe a hickey on his left buttocks. 

“Don’t get butt hurt, it looks like your other girlfriend has been kissing your ass enough.”

“What?” 

“L-O-L, It looks like you got a love bite on your ass.”

Quizzically he looked her off and went into the bathroom. He was greeted in the mirror by himself. Other than a few “battle wounds” he thought he looked perfect. His eyes traced down his abs, as he silently worshiped his waistline. Thinking back to the cheerleader from high school who taught him how to throw up to tone up the muscles without having to waste time with crunches- after all “They are like totally bad for your back and stuff.” He grinned. Looks like cheerleaders were good for two things now. 

As he spun around to check his rear, he noticed the mark she was referring to. It was a red outline of a circle. Not quite like a hickey, for they usually leave bruising and fill in the circle, this looked like a ring. He noticed how it looked to be cut into the skin, how it seemed to be burnt into him, like a brand. And it was glowing- like lava.

What was most curious about the wound was that it didn’t hurt, he hadn’t felt the bite or whatever it was that was causing this, but the more he paid attention to it, the bigger it seemed to be getting. What was once the size of a quarter has become the size of an orange and before he could be sure it was growing it was the size of a mini-basketball. You know the kind. The ones you try to win a theme parks but the rims are always misshapen. He spent three summers as a game jockey at the local amusement park so he knew all the tricks. Except the rings on the bottles. Those were just impossible. 

As like most of his life, his tendency to lose focus caught up with him in a bad way, as he snapped back into reality as he saw the large ring glowing, The charring skin crackling and rolling away from the burning ring. Panicked, and not to mention slightly intrigued as to why this horrible devastating injury wasn’t causing any pain he reached for the burn. As his finger met the skin, the skin around the wound, while looked crispy was actually gooey and adhering to his digit. He quickly pulled away, fearing the fire spreading, but also unsure of what was happening, but the skin that had stuck to him started peeling away from the glowing ember ring. 

He was unwrapping himself. His skin folded away like a candy cane of flesh and lava. Spiraling up and around his gorgeous body. He started to scream for his dainty comrade in the other room but his voice was not coming out. He yelled, silently and his flesh continued to char and ooze away from the lava-like stripe encircling his body as he slowly watched his demise in the mirror. His thought: Thank God this wasn’t on the carpet.

It’s hard to believe it was just yesterday 
When that airplane took you so far away
And I’m left here all alone without knowing why
I was just ten mins from giving my heart
Now you’re hanging out under that Gateway Arch
And my bed’s so lonesome I swear that I could cry

All the things I’d do, Just to get to you

I’d fly three hours on an east bound plane
Or spend three days on an amtrack train
Just to get me back for one more night with you
I’d drop four grand on a taxi cab
Just to kiss those lips that I want so bad
You have no idea what I’m willing to do, Just to get back to you

I stay up late watching our old game shows
But I can’t seem to answer the ones you know
And the cartoons aren’t the same without your smile
When I lean over to kiss you goodnight
I’m forced to remember you catching that flight
And how we’re separated by over two thousand miles

All the things I’d do, Just to get to you

I’d fly three hours on an east bound plane
Or spend three days on an amtrack train
Just to get me back for one more night with you
I’d drop four grand on a taxi cab
Just to kiss those lips that I want so bad
You have no idea what I’m willing to do, Just to get back to you

With my necklace around your neck
Girl you know you make me a wreck
And forgive me for this pun but you see
You’re in St. Louis but I’m in misery

All the things I’d do, Just to get to you

I’d fly three hours on an east bound plane
Or spend three days on an amtrack train
Just to get me back for one more night with you
I’d drop four grand on a taxi cab
Just to kiss those lips that I want so bad
You have no idea what I’m willing to do, Just to get back to you

I walked in to work and asked a co-worker of mine for a word to get my 10 mins of writing done for the day. I only got about 8 but it was a good 8 mins for me.

Floating, falling, soaring, tumbling, the wind’s hands grab and throw the beautiful creature through the sky. With a small, insignificant twitch of a single feather the direction changes course. Tossing beautiful aerobatics into motion. All the world below like a static, stoic statue underneath it. Miles fly by in seconds, altitude changes in the blink of an eye. I yearn for the freedom and grace. The carefree splendor of a creature alone in his world of the open blue. Jealously I watch him paint the sky with his tail. his ease mocks me as I sit waiting to go into work. I won’t have the fresh air and sunlight. The sound, the ability to sing to my heart’s content. Instead I’m like the domesticated version. Grounded forever, my wings clipped, locked in a cage, society’s cage for me. With toys and mirror that don’t hold my attention. I pine for the sweet taste of freedom that will never come.

I got my advance copy of All Time Low’s new CD, “Nothing Personal.” It came with a T-shirt and a poster. The marketing was funny. At Bamboozle Left, and Warped Tour there are posters insulting the poppy emo kids who listen to them with the tagline “Nothing Personal” at the end of it. Even the T-shirt said “@alltimelow Your New Album Sucks- Nothing Personal.” And while I commend them on dissing their own album (something I’ve always wanted to use as a marketing strategy) the painful thing is that for the most part, it’s correct.
I said FOR THE MOST PART, calm down! I love ATL. They’ve been a part of 2 of the BEST concerts in my life. But this album is considerably lacking in some serious All Time Low action. While there are some good songs like the All American Reject-ish “Break Your Little Heart,” that shows some maturity in style, as does “Stella,” which would have been the best song without the techno CD track scratch near the end, only a few songs really sounded like All Time Low.
I’m not talking the “So Wrong It’s Right” All Time Low. I’m talking the “Put Up or Shut Up” All Time Low. That seven song EP was easily their best effort. Which is kinda sad at this juncture in a career. But back to the new CD.
I was about to give up on the CD when I was smacked in the face with the last three songs. After “Walls” had me wondering why Kelly Clarkson wasn’t singing and “Too Much” had me thinking they used TOO MUCH drum machines throughout the whole album “Keep The Change, You Filthy Animal” and “A Party Song (The Walk of Shame)” saved the day. Finally! I screamed. Some music with SOME kinda edge, hearkening back to “Jasey Rae” and “Six Feet Under The Stars”. That’s the All Time Low I know and love- I was wondering where the guitars and real drums were. Finishing strongly with the most beautiful song (Yes, even better than “Lullabies” and “Remembering Sunday”) “Therapy” was great. Alex sounded gorgeous with the back up harmonies and the simplistic guitar really focused Alex’s voice, it pulls you in. Great Job.
Some songs like “Lost in Stereo” was (to quote the song) “just like cellophane” and got LOST IN the album. “Sick Little Games” didn’t live up to it’s 7th song spot at all. Maybe some re-arranging of the songs (let’s not put all the good stuff at the end) would make it a better organized, easier flowing project. I’m probably going to adopt four of the songs into my playlists but all in all, I wasn’t exactly impressed.
I find it funny that All Time Low cusses up a blue streak and pretends to be the Next Blink 182 with dick and gay jokes on stage at concerts, come out with such a soft record and name it “Nothing Personal.” With the insulting marketing I was looking forward to a more in your face album “Damned If I Do Ya (Damned If I Don’t)” had the lyrics just not the attitude needed to live up to the title of the album.
If you love ATL, pick it up. You gotta. But if you don’t know who they are, go get “Put Up or Shut Up” and just see if you like that. Don’t let this album ruin your opinion of a good band.- Nothing Personal.

This is a poem I found the other day looking through some boxes. I’m not saying it’s a gem. No real rhyme scheme and I have no clue when I wrote it but I like it.

It’s 12:37 I bet you’re asleep
I hold my breath through your door I creep
Slowly and shutting the door carefully till
An audible click seals your fate

You don’t even stir as I fill the syringe
I’ll end our live as you ended my dreams
We’ll die together like shakespereian teens

I re-read your text “Let’s just be friends”
And we will, friend’s till the end
Stupid little girl, who are you to hold my heart?
Why I care so much about you, I’ll never know.

As I draw the needle from your neck
I watch the blood run down. I taste it
And load again for me to join you.

You look so peaceful as I enter my vein.
Maybe it’s the chemicals, but
I’ve never been more in love with you
As I lay down next to you I whisper in your ear “I’m sorry.”