Monthly Archives: January 2015

My first girlfriend was a lesbian.

Was a lesbian. I guess. Maybe she wasn’t. Maybe Bi, or Pan.

I don’t really know. Maybe neither.

This is rather long. I’ve been nursing this one as well as a cold for throughout the week. Which hasn’t been sooo bad except for not sleeping last night. At all.

Anyways…

6th Grade.

Weirder things have happened, but I guess a lot happened in my brain or to me… during this time. Maybe I woke up and started seeing things for what they were. Probably not though. I don’t think that happened until I was about 16.

I had just moved across the country again. CA to NC. Harrisburg, NC. I always have to emphasize that, because people jump to Harrisburg PA in excitement, but are always disappointed when I correct them to NC. In which case is generally followed by a conversation about NASCAR and the proximity to Concord NC. People still usually don’t know where it is.

NC was harsh to come back to. Kids were close minded and judgey, caught up on doing drugs or the idea of doing drugs, and fixated on bad rap tunes (that east coast bullshit) or grunge music martyrs (Kurt knew what he was up to). I was way too busy with Lego’s and Nintendo to pay any of that shit any attention.

I made friends with some flannel covered kids that sat in back who were just as bored as I was in class. I guess somewhere between passing notes and talking in the hallway I managed to get this one flannel covered girls phone number.

We talked all the time.

We eventually decided to go to a school dance. Together?

The dance was boring. We sat in the bleachers talking with a few friends. Then at some point they played something other than fucking boyz II men or the electric fucking slide…I guess they had to validate forcing us to learn those stupid dance routines in P.E. …

They played some Offspring. Maybe it was come out and play. Could’ve been Green Day.

Whatever it was, I jumped down off the bleachers. Something pulled me to the floor, something told me, commence head banging.

For some folks, head banging is or was a casual thing. In 6th grade, to me, it was a furious flail of attempts to dislocate something.

After almost blacking out and seeing white spots for awhile, I notice that quite a few people joined in and that I was now in trouble for something. Apparently inspiring a cult like head banging consortium is disallowed behavior. I was led away. Scorned. And brought back just in time for some shitty slow dance song.

The last song of the dance. My last chance to dance with her. We danced. Then it just so happens, we kissed.

It was a weird mixture of bad breath, Marlboro Reds (her), and pickles. I have no idea whose fault the pickles were.

I guess that was my first real kiss.

Anyways…

After that we started using the word love in some of the notes we passed around. That was a first too.

She’d come over to my house sometimes, we’d ride bikes, sneak in to the race track across the street from my house. I’d awkwardly try to figure how to makeout. I didn’t know what the fuck I was doing.

We fooled around a bunch, which consisted of her telling me what to do.

Nintendo, nor Lego’s teach you anything about those sorts of things. And it wasn’t like my brother ever told me anything about anything like that… I had no reference, or how-to’s. Maybe that’s natural.

We never did anything much more than makeout until much later in our lives.

When we couldn’t do that stuff, when we couldn’t hang out, we’d talk on the phone. As soon as I got home from school and I’d grab the phone…704-455…

3 way calling was some sort of future technology to us as kids. It was like AOL instant messenger but better. When we figured out how to use it, we’d always have someone else on the phone with us.

Mainly our friend Crystal.

Who I think was the center of, or at least the main cause of the first of my mother’s hilarious attempts at a parental proverbial birds and the bee’s conversation.

Let’s talk about that. Because it’s a fucking gem of my existential naive-ety.

We’re on the phone, on one of these 3 ways. And to me, we’re talking about going out to dinner. The girls, Crystal and my girlfriend…. They ask me how many times I’ve “eaten out”.

I promise I didn’t know what the fuck that meant. To me they just asked me if I’d gone out to dinner or eaten outside of my home. I didn’t understand anything other than that.

I start explaining how my brother and I go out to Arby’s sometimes, how that 5 for 5 was a damn deal and those jamocha shakes hit the spot. How we’d “tornado” all the sodas they had and see how many we could drink. Then burp as loud as we could because we weren’t with our parents. How my brother would drive his first beater car as fast as he could without killing us, and we’d listen to Tupac and Biggie rival each other with his hand wired actual home speakers in the back of his car…

They  giggle, and correct me repeatedly or try to, by asking the same question again…

“Have you ever eaten out?”

I say, yeah, I eat out a few times a week I guess.

:: loud click noise ::

My bedroom door flies open like it was possessed. My mother appears. Maybe it was possessed then…I guess she was listening in to the entire conversation, or a portion of it at least…

And this was one of the loudest times I’ve ever heard her use my full name.

“Hang up the phone!” She screams.

I comply.

This is followed by a grounding. A conversation about being disgusting and vulgar. Then a long talking to about having a parent-parent-child-child meeting.

Great. Another situation in the 6th grade where I literally had no idea what was being discussed or why I was in trouble.

What the actual fuck…

I went to my favorite place to think. The closet. I had Xmas lights in there and blankets and pillows. And a CD boom box.

I didn’t figure anything out.

The next day ish, I was taken to meet with the girl I was dating and also to meet with her mother.

In her mother’s flower shop of all places. Hilarious symbolism.

I guess my mother thought her mother cared. Or that she wasn’t so high that she wouldn’t laugh at all of this.

Surprisingly her mother maintained composure.

I was enlightened to what it was that I was actually “in tribulatione” for. Something that was so wrong to speak of, even though such acts took place in the Vatican to vet the cadre of the church…

Eating out, apparently, meant eating pussy, oral sex for or on females. Something.

I didn’t know this. How the fuck would I have known this. At this point I’d never even seen a pussy. I may have touched exactly one of them or not really. But no way had I seen one, or thought it was even a thing to put my mouth to one.

What?

So I was told all of this was wrong and I needed to be guided back on to a path of moral subjugation-a-tude. Whatever.

We all talk. I was red faced and unaware the entire time. While the girl and her mother smirked, and fleeted glances at me during my mother’s berating  of my moral turpitude, and sexuality, or lack thereof ..lack of knowledge of even, ensued.

That was all a bunch of bullshit, and a play put on by her and her mother to appease my mother. We never did anything even bordering on sexual before or after for years to come. I don’t even remember grinding. Or dry humping or whatever the fuck it’s called.

Anyway…

After a long break in 3 way calls, out of fear for another one of those handy you’re doing it wrong motherly conversations.

Myself, Crystal and the girl I was dating, have a call. This time about, I can’t remember. Probably something about how crazy the new Smashing Pumpkins album was that I hadn’t heard, because I had no damn MTV.

I remember having to go or something, so I let them know I was on my way, and switch off the phone. I didn’t actually switch it off though. I accidently hit call waiting and hear a dial tone. So I hit the button again, and over hear them talking about what they wanted to do to each other later.

That was interesting. So, feeling entitled I listen a little longer. And discover something else I had no actual idea that existed.

I seriously didn’t even know a word for it back then.

Girls that liked girls, moreover girls that did the same things to each other that boys did to girls?

No one now would ever even entertain the idea that I’m naive. But I was. I still am. Sometimes.

I don’t mind it. And it wasn’t a choice back then.

Living in CA, I was exposed to a great deal of things on a first hand in person type of way.

Gay men, I didn’t know what that was called, but I asked about it. Why were they holding hands. I was told they just liked each other, a lot. That was my mom’s explanation.

Drugs, I was told they were bad. Stay away from them. Someone tried to sell me some once and I said no. I was beat up for saying no. When I got home I was given 5 dollars for saying no and standing up to them.

These and many more…

But I was never exposed to nor had thought there to be a situation in which girls liked girls the way boys liked girls.

Then, at that point in time, in 6th grade, it confused me.

Anyways…

I hung up the phone. Didn’t say a word. I thought a lot about it. I asked another girl, a friend of mine at the time. She confirmed it like it was common knowledge. I asked the girls about it, Crystal denied it. The girl I dated denied it as well.

I heard what they said.

Years later the girl I dated corrected what she said. Said I was right. But never apologized.

I guess I was angry in the 6th grade. About it all. I didn’t understand it.

I didn’t know what it was. Or a word for it.

I was totally and utterly stuck on defining it.

Well…Anyways…

I wasn’t smart enough to ask enough questions of her or of that. Thinking back though, I’m not sure I was owed any type of explanation or entitled to believe that any of that was wrong. There were never any explicit terms of datery-ship that I can remember.

Then, some years after her explanation, we found ourselves back to fooling. Around.

That was quelled with another relationship for both of us.

Hers with a woman, mine with a woman.

Both of those relationships had their time.

I was involved with a high school sweetheart or whatevershit. Then married to her. Then sometime later, not married to her.

Her girlfriend  eventually left her for a man she fell madly in love with. Almost immediately…One of my best friends. One which I had introduced to them both. I felt guilty for a period of time. Mostly because of the introduction, somewhat because of the misuse in my judgment for their relationshit. The girls. I miss those friendships.

I made some assisted mistakes. Some selfish, some induced by other means. I regret that…

The girl I had dated in 6th grade, now in a relationship with a man that she seems to be crazy about.

So now…maybe it’s Lesbian or Pan or Bi or a variety of other words to describe what it was or what it is. Terms. None of which matter, it’s just people loving each other or on each other in many different ways, however they want to, which is really fantastic and how I see it altogether fluid.

There’s still really no defining it or need to. It changes I suppose.

Whatever. Narnia.

My mother told them I was hung like a bull. Them being Jedi Knights. And Nurses.

I guess a bunch of people have seen my dick.

I don’t think it’s anything special. The most ridiculous description I’ve ever heard in reference to my dick was …It fits me like a puzzle piece. I thought that was particularly hilarious. And outside the normal, that cock this that dick this. I’m not worried about it. It’s an average size according to Google. It goes up and it goes down. It has made a baby. So I appreciate it as a functional piece of equipment, but I’d take a ride on a forklift over having a dick anyway. Forklifts are really cool. I used to have a job driving one. You can drift them…

Anyway,

Sometime…A long time ago, back when frosted tips and backstreet boys were something I’d thought I’d involve myself with… I studied martial arts. Taekwondo.

I’d always been interested in martial arts, because Chuck Norris. I’d been interested in other sports too but my mom was adamant that they were too dangerous and I’d end up hurt or that it wouldn’t work out because health reasons.

Asthma, constant nose bleeds. Leg braces too, complete with an actual friend named Ginny, with red hair. I promise she’s real. We used to play bubble bobble a bunch and she lived directly beside me.

Forest Gump?

…blah blah blah. I had lots of things going against me health wise.

I remember doing a lot of ice skating though…taking ice skating lessons…Wtf?

Anyway,

When I was about 13 or 14ish, she let me sign up to learn how to kill people. Because that’s not dangerous.

OK maybe not learn how to kill people, but definitely how to kick someone. A bunch. TkD isn’t one of those learn how to kill people things. But a huge portion is actually fighting people. There’s some pads involved.

I thought I did well, and excelled quite a bit. I did all kinds of competitions, took classes on using weapons and did demonstrations breaking loads of wood or blocks of cement. It was fun. Jump, kick, punch, and get belts. Kick people, and get medals. Kick more people and go to AAU junior Olympics.

So I did that. At the time I thought it was a big deal. I worked pretty damn hard to get to that level.

Last match of the AAU competition resulted in a fancy gold medal in sparing. Somewhere in-between there I took a few illegal swift kicks to the back.

Lots of doctors get involved. One says I have some cancer things. Plays with my butt a lot. I didn’t love that. I eventually told him if he asked for another sample I’d knock him the fuck out. Another doctor says it’s all in my head and refers me out to therapy.

Sure yeah, being awake is painful and I’m faking that.

After a few more months of medical tests, somewhat immobilizing pain, and missing most of my freshman year of high school.

Fly to Stanford. CA.

A doctor finds out that my back is broken. Finding out that I had an entire vertebrae free floating above my sacrum. From there things moved quickly. Because not North Carolina.

My mother and I stay in the Ronald McDonald house.

Place was fantastic. The other kids made me feel small and weak for complaining about back pain. These other kids were in way worse condition. Cancer, heart transplants, kids were actually dying while I was there. I made some friends. We watched Wayne’s World and played SSX on PlayStation. I even kissed a girl there.

Come to find out she got in a significant amount of trouble because she was there for heart surgery and was supposed to be taking it easy. Which means maybe don’t kiss dudes?

Hey Wayne’s World is a romantic movie. Couldn’t help it.

After about a week goes by there, lots of tests and x-ray things.

Back surgery.

During the surgery my body decides not to cooperate with the drugs. I think I almost die. Or do. I don’t know if it was the drugs or what but at some point during the surgery I woke up. Or felt like I woke up, I saw myself laying there watching TV. I saw my grandmother in the TV and me watching her on the TV.

Whatever. They get me going, close my back up.

I’m not sure what the hell that was about. But I was on morphine and dilaudid (super crazy pain meds).

Day or two goes by.

Drugs.

Lots of drugs.

Sleeping.

I wake up a lot because nurses fucking with me. Always playing with tubes and lines and poop pans.

And catheters. I fucking hate catheters. Thing hooked in to my dick for peeing. Get the fuck…not about them.

I guess like a week goes by and they want to rip this thing from my dick. So I can pee like a big boy again.

So there’s this nurse looking up my skirt, and she says blah blah about removing this thing. I slur curse words.

Nurse says wow.

My mom says “I know he’s hung like a bull, right”.

Unsure if my mom is making a statement or asking a question I try moving to give her a “the fuck?” look.

As I turn I notice a person standing in the corner.

Dressed…Differently.

Alright, so I’m on some extremely powerful, very heavy drugs…

This person is dressed up as a Jedi Knight. Burlap sack hood, saber, head bowed, and dark face.

I guess this was an initiative of the hospitals, to cheer kids up.

I freak 10 kinds of the fucked out. I probably shit myself, or the bedpan.

I didn’t see a Jedi Knight. I see death. Like I’m dying and this thing is here for me.

Well…Anyways…

They have the Jedi leave.

And I’m all…How many people just saw my dick?

Maybe also a little, how many times has my mom seen my dick?

Also, too, at 14, a little, is being hung like a bull a good thing?

I think, hope, that was the last time my mom saw my dick.

Narnia?

…On a serious note.

I don’t remember much else of what happened at that hospital. I remember leaving.

Finally getting to eat an actual meal.

Not a tray.

No jello. No squared up portions.

I remember getting a full plate in the hospital cafeteria. Fried chicken. Mashed potatoes and gravy. Corn. Green beans. Cornbread. And some chocolate pudding.

One bite of corn. I’m full. Felt sick to my stomach.

Back at the Ronald McDonald house, things had gone full circle while I was on the inside.

The girl I had met was in the intensive care unit, the transplant stuffs had gone wrong.

The friend I made playing SSX on PlayStation was gone. Later found out he died. Liver cancer.

My back was fixed, and I was on the way home.

Oh and yeah….I stopped listening to Backstreet Boys and dying my hair.

Baptized with gasoline at church. In the eyes. Really.

I’m not making this shit up. Which is insane.

So there’s this rather large church here in town. It started way way small. 20ish  people.

When I was there it was around 5-800, now it’s something like 14-15k worth of folks from all sorts of walks, or not walks of life.

Stupid walkys. People with movey legs and stuff.

It’s kind of funny to think about, all the growth, and the unknowing-y folks. Because they totally were one domination, then kind of not, but still mostly that…and no one knew it, or didn’t believe it anyway. I mean it said it outright on their website for a long time. No one knew they liked that hellfire  or the brimstone shit.

Yeah yell at people! But who doesn’t love a fire breathing god…?

Yeah anyway. Mostly hipster-ish folks or their wannabes, flooded this place. Loud music and bright lights carried them in. Sundays turned in to a frenzy of J-Crew, boat shoes, and jean jackets with arms rolled so tight you could be sure someone would pass out before the end of a service from blood loss.

Nah that was Jesus knocking them down. Because. Sin or something.

HEALED! CLEANEDNESSEDED! WHITE AS SNOW! SOMETHING!

Even 40 somethings dads risked it all on Sundays. JEANS AND TENNIS SHOES AT CHURCH! HOLY MOTHER MARY.

Hell even a very interesting group of folks started showing up recently, and being accepted. Which I like the idea of. But if they watched some on the old sermons on tape….they’d lose their shit. Evolution of tithing.

What these folks have money too?

But this church does do some super selectively amazing things for some people and the rest just feel all warm and fuzzy from said select acts. So… I don’t hate the church or church or religion…so I’ll stop ranting about misconstrueties.

Anyways.

When I was there it was a first for me. Being excited to be at church. Being at a church regularly. Volunteering at a church constantly, 10-15 hours each weekend, and randomly throughout the week.

I signed myself up for this. No one else pressured me to.

I’d wake up Sunday morning around 4 AM and head to the site where service was held. Truckloads and vans full of audio video equipment had to be unloaded, setup, configured, and tested. Quickly.

The amount of audio video equipment we used was pretty impressive. So impressive in fact that at some point someone at the site we used informed the church they were on their own for power in the auditorium.

Which is where the jesus’n took place.

Probably had something to do with blowing circuits or overloading them or some fancy eeeeelectrician stuffs.

Oh noes?

Nope.

LETS BUY GASOLINE POWERED GENERATORS. THEN CONNECT ALL THIS EQUIPMENT TO THEM.

This wasn’t my idea. Connecting amazingly expensive equipment to something that generates power and surges constantly. With no UPS.

Anyways…

It somehow quickly became my job to make sure these generators were full of that brownish liquid gold, before each of the services.

Hmm ok fine…Now I smell of burny things and gasoline all day at church. That’s soo breath of Jehovah-y. Seems legit.

Doth kindle it….Get it…brimstone? Maybe….?

So there’s one dude who calls all the shots in the auditorium, the production lead, he’d bring these huge containers of gas in to use in the refueling process.

One this particular morning he brought them in, empty.

“Go buy more fricken gas!” …This guy loved the word “fricken”. I guess because he wasn’t supposed to say fuck?

Fricken is almost cursing! Excitement! Fringe!

I can’t, I rode my motorcycle.

“Take my fricken truck then, go!”

OK.

This truck had seen better days.

Standard beat up truck. No A/C, no working power anything, no working radio, full of McDonalds food bags, other trash stuffs, bench seat made from stone, complete with the steering wheel from a ship. No really you could turn the wheel a full quarter turn with no response…unregistered, covered in dents….oh and the rear view mirrors would spin in the wind past 40 MPH.

Anyways…

I get to the gas station and start filling up these huge gas containers. One of them had buckled a bit and was trying to implode on itself because it had been sitting outside and heated up. I go to unscrew the lid and it lets out a puff and shoots a really awesome mist of gasoline in to my eyes.

Shaking my first in the air, I rejoice…HOORAY!

I may have not rejoiced or said hooray.

After the initial pain wore off, I call my “boss”…Hey man I got gas in my eyes I’m in a ton of pain and can’t see so great right now. I shouldn’t drive back, so I’m going to need some help.

“WALK IT OFF PANSY, GET BACK HERE OR THE GENE’S ARE GONNA RUN OUT OF FUEL”

…No, I can’t see right now and my eyes won’t stop watering, this is quite painful. I can’t drive like this.

“JUST OPEN YOUR EYES AND WALK AROUND GET SOME AIR AND GET BACK HERE” – Hangs up.

Well…Anyways…

I’m not sure that’s exactly what turned me off from that place, but I definitely didn’t go back much after that. Sure as hell stopped volunteering. I tried years later. Same culture. It was a combination of outright douchery and an overwhelming ambiguous sensationalistic superficialism so thick that you could sell it as a substitute to mayonnaise to Paula Dean.

Spread some on ya’ll.

That and the hug culture there is real wack. It’s beyond the bro hug game. This hug game is like a secret squirrel handshake or some shit.

It goes something like this, these are the minimum requirements…

  • Glazed over wide eye endearedness-ness
  • Closed mouth look, like an angry puff daddy
  • One hand grabbing other persons hand into a ball, other hand out and extended slightly upward
  • Once hands are balled into each others, pull hug-eee into you
  • Use upright hand to reach over hug-eee’s back, pat twice
  • Push hug-eee away from you with the balled up hands
  • Stare at him like he/she just dropped the N word. Or he/she shit your favorite pair of Aldo Men’s Distressed Leatherette OR SUEDE, Oxford Dress Shoes.
  • Start any conversation, immediately, using the word “Brother”.

Oh and I guess being told to walk off my temporarily blinding injury and concern for my safety or others while driving a 1 ton truck actually full of barrels of gasoline. That could have been a turn off.

I guess I was smote-ted-eded that day. Just another sinner in the hands of an angry god.

How do you walk off temporary blindness anyway?

I sure do miss the free pizza for volunteers though. Totes worth some gas in the eyes…

Narnia?

Five Guys Burger weed fuckery, bastards stole my Balzac.

Yeah the burger place.

Five Guys is a local burger generating establishment. They have hot dogs too. They have French fries that are made from real potatoes (as opposed to fake potatoes), from different farms…all over the US too. They boast about this. I don’t think anyone gives a shit about the damn potatoes.

I’ve had so much potatoes. Never noticed a difference in taste myself. Maybe I’m doing it wrong. Maybe I’m “Holding my mouth wrong”.

Fuck Five Guys and fuck that phrase.

Anyways.

I had this apartment, lovely place. My porch backed up to a large pond area with water fowl and things of that sort frequenting the person made amenity. Beside the pond area, a large grassy hill at least 900 feet in length by 25 feet wide. Perfect for the dog to run about, or to sit on and watch fireworks shot off nightly by a local amusement park. This apartment complex was located directly behind a quality grocery store, a 2.7 star restaurant and even a bar. The pool area had multiple grills and an outdoor T.V. complete with fire pit and a covered area for lounging with couches.

It had a lot of other things. It was nice. I paid for it too, it wasn’t cheap, because my previous apartment was a hell hole nightmare shit storm that never stopped. I hated that place. So I left them a shit review.  You can read it… Or skip down to the red line, where I’ll continue the actual post.

I rant sometimes, and this review doesn’t have much to do with the post. I hate apartments. Seriously though, scroll down to the red line because this is a long review and mostly just a rant.

Things people should know about living here….

My apartment was awesome. High countertops (I’m tall), huge rooms, looked brand new at move in, and had no problems at all throughout my stay there. However the following should be considered.

  1. Student housing. The place is like an Art Institute dorm. Most of the students don’t have cars and ghetto school via random white vans that pick them up and drop them off anywhere between 6:30am and 7pm. The Vans speed through the area, are loud, honk their horns to alert students to get on. I’m not talking a brief honk, I’ve heard honking for over 2 minutes straight before. The bus stops are also a gathering for noisy students who yell and curse at each other and yell to others standing on their balconies. They leave trash all over the place, curbs, stairwells, INFRONT OF YOUR DOOR…. They stomp up and down the stairs all day and frequently play the doorbell game. But there are no doorbells, instead they bang on your door then run away. Also the ones that do have cars can’t park or drive. One asked me to move my car because she didn’t know how to parallel park. This was a weekly thing. Her reasoning was also that that spot was closer to her front door. Insane.
  2. This a pet friendly community but management complains about you having your pet on the property. There were flyers put out stating pets were not allowed on sidewalks…or near landscaped areas or grass. Yet there are pet waste cans and bags (always full of student trash and the bags are always missing) in landscaped areas. Where should we walk dogs, in the road? Also I was told my dog barked and sounded aggressive when the groundskeepers knocked on my door. Really? What he supposed to do, invite strangers in?
  3. The pool is full of artificial hair. I understand folks have different types of hair, and styles. But I’m talking on multiple times, clumps of weave. It’s disgusting. The pool is also full of unattended children that will verbally abuse you when you don’t share your food with them. These kids also never ever wear bathing suits, most of the time they just swim in their underwear. Nasty. These are the same kids that occupy the clubhouse bathrooms and leave all kinds of horrible messes that aren’t flushable.
  4. Your rent will jump up and down with every bill, due to ridiculous water fee’s that don’t make sense. When you move out they will try to send you 3 water bills saying you were always a month behind, but when you receive 3 separate bills, they can’t explain why just that you must pay them.Basically don’t live here. Unless you’re a loud obnoxious student, that needs quick access to the Food Lion for money orders or a quick fish sandwich from Burger King. It’s also a cool place to live if you like sitting in your freaking car listening to music to ensure that everyone knows how awesome your car is. Oh and the fire department is behind the complex, that’s fun to hear literally all night. There’s also a train at 1am that blows a whistle for 3 minutes. Also there’s a potato chip factory one street over that smells disgusting, especially in the summer when it’s hot. Also the free Wi-Fi is a joke, it only works in the office.I liked my apartment. Not the complex, or the people that lived there.

http://www.apartmentratings.com/nc/charlotte/colonial-grand-at-ayrsley_704583002428273/review-1298466/

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Anyways…

I loved this apartment. I was on the bottom floor. First time being on that floor. Previously I had lived on the top floor.

Oh yeah I had that super annoying neighbor below me that beat on the ceiling with a broomstick if my noise level was deemed inappropriate by her standards. That crazy bitch never answered her door if I went down there to ask her why she was beating on the ceiling. And I could hear her ass walking to the door and pressing against it to see who it was…It was the same whacko that asked me to move my car once because I had parked in her favorite spot and she couldn’t parallel park in any of the other nearby spaces. Because she didn’t know how. WTF. Nah not my problem.

So I expect a little noise to be heard, being on the bottom floor. Whatever. I went through two “tops” in my year-ish long stay there. The second was a rather large fellow. I could hear him moving throughout the unit above me. Not a big deal. I understand. Their kitchen was above my second bedroom, where my 3 year stayed. The amount of noise coming from that one area was mind blowing. It woke my 3 year old up constantly. At one point he started throwing toys at the ceiling in anger and yelling at them.

Impressive. Their shit will not stand. Not even to a 3 year old.

Anyway…

That’s not really even what irritated me.

I worked from home. I sat on my patio almost every day, until it warmed up outside. Cup of coffee, a pipe and writing code. My favorite part of the day. Soooo BIG BOY moves in.

I call him that….Because Bob’s Big Boy Burger, and he worked at Five Guys Burgers, and they aren’t cool like Bob’s Big Boy burger…because they don’t have a fucking statue. Bob’s Big Boy burger has a cool fucking iconic statue. Five guys has stupid fries from local farms, big fucking damn deal, fuck Five Guys Burgers.

So dude moves in. Come to find out, this one older dude type dude, is an important Five Guys dude. A regional manager or something.

Apparently a bunch of dudes move in subsequently. All these dudes work at this Five Guys across the street.

Fuck Five Guys.

They all walk there every day. I see them. As I’m sitting on my patio, they alternate shifts like clockwork. Cool they live close enough to walk.

So I guess service/retail/food service things are stressful. I’ve worked them. When I get done I want to go relax. These dudes too. So they come home, and go to their patios.

And roll doobies. Well try to anyway.

They really mostly just dump their weed on the porch and it falls through the cracks, and down on to my patio.

I don’t want weed. I’m all set on that. I don’t use drugs. Fuck all that. I do coffee and alcohol. Those drugs.

After they finally get a good one or few rolled they smoke them openly. But still freak out when people come by.

How is shushing people going to make passerbyers not notice the smell of your shit weed?

I thought I was being shushed a lot, by the gods, not sure which ones. Took me a few times to realize it was them. I thought they were shushing me, but they were shushing themselves. See if you’re high, and quiet, everyone is a Tyrannosaurus Rex and can’t see you. It’s true because Jurassic Park.

This is typical pothead paranoia. So. Whatever, fuck it.

After a few moments they’d get loud again.

This happened a few times before I started to really questions these dudes doobie assembly techniques. So I walk upstairs and inquire…Hey could you guys not dump your drugs on my patio.

“We don’t do drugs, must have come from the third floor.”

Ok, well I hear you and see you smoking weed from my patio. So. You have a good one.

This happens a few times. I start actually collecting the weed they drop. Within a week I have about half a cup. I examine this half cup of weed and seriously think about what to do with it.

Ahh you know what, I’m going to be a good neighbor. I’ll return it.

Knock knock.

:: guitar hero turns off ::

Hey here’s your weed back. You dumped it on my porch a bunch again. This is probably costing you money you know.

“That’s not ours, we don’t smoke weed or do any drugs.”

:: 5 ft tall blue glass bong in the background ::

Dude that’s a bong right there.

“No that’s for pipe tobacco.”

Anyways…

I dump the weed on his floor and walk off.

Days later same shit, but an actual bag of weed on my patio. I examine this bag of weed and seriously think about what to do with it. Hmm…this would be…Nah… I call the cops. File a complaint. They talk to the dudes. Nothing happens, still all puff the damn magic dragon up there and shit.

I got flipped off a lot more after that.

Generally I wouldn’t be that dick guy who complains about weed. But with a kid over frequently… Plus I just don’t want the drugs on my property or linked to me when they aren’t mine.

Well…Anyways…

I ordered a Balzac some months later on Amazon prime, first order on Prime, free shipping, hell yes. The UPS guy always just left shit laying around. Because no one steals shit at apartment complexes.

If you don’t know what a Balzac balloon is, then…well…you’ve never had any amount of fun.

I know those fucking Five Guys dudes took my fucking Balzac balloon ball.

So I don’t eat Five Guys burgers anymore, and fuck Five Guys.

Fuckers.

Took my Balzac.

Bowel movement death trap Monday.

Our floor at work has a Hispanic man that serves as our bathroom janitor. That poor, poor man.

Yesterday. The return of the work force. I’ve worked in mostly super mega corporate environments. Every year around the 2nd or 3rd week of December, everyone magically vanishes. Vacation time or not.

Roads clear, driving to work in the morning is almost a pleasure.

You can hear yourself think at your own desk.

I no longer have to eat lunch at 10:45. The line at the salad place is even shorter. Fuck yes, salads are exciting.

Anyway.

Everyone magically vanishes, but not their shit.

The Monday after a holiday break…almost of any length… is a complete nightmare for support staff of any kind. But the bathrooms. I was dreading it coming in today. I knew by the abundance of SALT LIFE or SALT LYFE stickers on cars I passed that morning I’d have to put up with someone’s awful, awful compounded holiday shit.

The janitor does his detail around 7:45 each morning, replace TP, wipe the counters, it’s an in and out job. But not on bowel movement death trap Monday, no sir. He just stands outside waiting. That’s an indicator that I’m not going to fix my hair for at least another 15 minutes.

I’m not really sure how it happens, how these people let it get so bad. They’re in there huffing and puffing like crazy and I can’t deal with that.

It gets worse. These damn bastards fucking love BIGGEST LOSER interoffice competitions complete with hundreds of dollars in the winner pot. Simply translated, biggest shitter. Some take supplements to help them fire one to 7 shits a day. Unacceptable.

These vitamin fueled blowouts often result in the shit shaming of my favorite stall. The large roomy stall. The one where I can pull the toilet paper down without performing cirque du soleil acts. I don’t know if it’s how I was raised, but if you shit all over something….generally you at least make an attempt to clean it up? If you leave poop all over the back of the toilet seat, or some sort of shit spray in the toilet…you wipe or flush a few times? Hell no, not in super mega corporate land.

Some of them pick their favorite time of day to warm up the bathroom. Mine is around 2:40 PM. The janitor makes another round, and cleans just before. I know a lot of the building support staff, they’re good hard working people. I get good intel.

Anyways.

I worked with one guy who everyday no matter what would shit up the woman’s bathroom at 8:50. He got to work at 8:30, then like clockwork go destroy the women’s room. The women in the office hated it. Now these were single person bathrooms, so maybe if someone was desperate and couldn’t wait….sure but not this dude, not every damn day…that’s fucked up, stop eating fucking Bo-jangles.

I know why he did it though, I’ll give him that.

The men’s toilet in this place was horrendous. It also had a window with blinds that didn’t really hug the window well, in a fairly creepy spot. Ants. Fucking Ants. This building had piles of red ants in this specific bathroom, they came in through the window. The toilet seat itself was actually melted and abrasive in the front where your pee pee is supposed to hang out, and the rest of the seat just appeared to have been chewed on by a large dog. Gouges like you’d see on a cutting board in a kitchen.

If you had to use this thing, this throne of filth, you’d be facing one of those accordion closet doors. Inside the closet was all the IT networking gizmo’s for the building. So pretty much, you’re staring at red blinky flashy lights and things. I wonder how many people opened it up thinking there was a camera back there.

Sure I get why he didn’t like that room. It was cold, people could see you from outside in partial shitting view, it was full of ants, the toilet seat would give you cuts or stab you, and it felt like you were being taped.

Regardless, I didn’t like the guy. I had figured out his routine. At 8:45 that Monday morning, I removed everything in the women’s room that could even be thought of as improvised toilet paper. That morning I also learned that the women’s room had baby wipes, aloe toilet paper, hand lotion, candles, and a wicker basket with Sudoku books and actual full books in it. At 8:48, shortly after dismantling the women’s room of wipe-able materials, I do the same to the men’s room.

(Men’s room had single ply and cardboard for paper towels….WTF)

I quickly stash all this shit in the cube across from both bathrooms. Later I regretted this because that cube was always full of water because the toilet upstairs in a separate business office leaked through the ceiling…oh I don’t know…all day everyday…a lot of stuff got wet. Oh well.

8:50. This dude makes a break for the bathroom.

At 9 AM give or take a few minutes this guy yells in the bathroom. “Ah damn what the hell”.

His NJ accent and shittery echo down the hall.

Unexpectedly, he emerges from the bathroom. Pants not even all the way up, wiggles himself into the adjacent men’s room.

Hmm ok weird. This guy is dedicated to wiping I suppose.

Not even 10 seconds later. “What the fuck is going on in this place”.

He actually left the office after that. I’m not sure what all happened. And I’m not sure if I’m a dick. But this man did fowl things in the restroom, men or women’s, justice needed to be served.

I replaced all the wipey goods.

He came back later in the morning. He seemed irritated.

Well…Anyways…

Narnia.

My friends video taped me having sex.

Tried to. Kind of did. I didn’t want them to. They didn’t ask.

Back in high school, my parents went out of town. It was the end of the year. So I did what every high school kid that has a thirst to vicariously live like their lives are the movie can’t hardly wait…or MTV…or some shit.

Fuck that movie.

I had a party.

I wasn’t too awfully popular in high school. I had maybe 10 friends total. Maybe 2 that I actually hung out with outside of school hours… I invite my friends. And friends of friends are invited too.

I think I themed the party. The all American party. Because fuck terrorism or because team america or something.

Anyway.

My friend had this fake ID, think it was a new jersey ID…So we go and buy a comical amount of beers. Turns out to be exactly 200 beers. I think we got a bottle of jack and plastic bottle vodka…The finest aristocrat available.

I hate vodka. Mostly because I ruined it for myself that night by mixing it with blue PowerAde. Tastes awful.

Anyway.

People actually show up.

  • Creepy really old dude stranger no one knew, but had a cool camero.
  • Another creepier guy, that we knew, with 4 cases of Sams brand sodas. (Party?)
  • Cookie cutter college guy who kept telling us all how awesome his fraternity was.
  • Chick in caffeine’s that kept trying to do raving shit.
  • Guys with beards in all black that were in some shit metal band.

These people show up. Word got out?

Actual friends show up too, with more booze and god knows what else.

Good friend of mine decides this would be a great time to utilize his new sony super mega amazing nightshot video camera. Sure.

He documents the night.

We all start getting pretty amazing. I think I had a break dancing contest in the street, this one dude was running around in the hood screaming “all american, bomb iraq”…

Which was particularly fantastic because the hood we lived in was almost all folks from middle eastern type countries…

We get him back inside immediately. But not before walking past my girlfriend drunkenly being convinced to show everyone her tits. Pervy precursor.

But they video tape them this time. Her tits. Damn it…?

Inside…the fraternity guy…the Pi Kappa Alpha guy …Jacob?… Became incredibly drunk at some point, and began puking everywhere. Bad spaghetti puke. Bad bad puke food. We get him in to the bath room, where bomb iraq guy is already kind of asleep in the tub….but still conscious enough to keep hitting on the girl I was dating. He did that a lot, he made her a mixed tape once. That shits fucked up.

So we put Jacob in front of the potty.

Jacob starts looping, “ALL AMERCIAN”. Guy gets stuck on repeat. Between pukes. At one point falls asleep face on the toilet seat. Yikes.

This is all on tape.

Raver girl is now angry, because cookie cutter college pike guy is face down in the toilet. While talking her off the ledge of glowstick mountain, she convinces me to listen to raver music. Then she leaves. And leaves Jacob the pukey pike at my house.

I’m sitting there vortexing out of my mind on techno music.

Vortexing is a process in which you’re listening to boomy type musics, while observing repeating visual stimulation, like a disco ball…it’s a zoning out sort of thing. Booming, flashing, and drunk stuffs.

Anyway.

I get involved with activities with this girl I was dating. Closed door activities.

These dudes, my friends I guess, think it’d be awesome to just come in and video tape what happens during the course of the activities. It was mildly funny the first time, but an invasion of privacy and kind of fucked. The second time they unlocked the door with a skeleton key of sorts that one of the dudes had on his keychain, maybe because he’s a practiced deviant I dunno. Fucked. Not really sure how I found these people.

That second time they got a few half witted girls gone wild shots. Invasion of privacy. I’m not sure why they left the room. But they did.

Then the third time they attempted to portray their antics as a C.O.P.S esque, going after my own heart, but again invading my privacy with their weird pervy bullshit…They turn on the fancy night vision camera gizmo and try to video through the blinds of my bedroom window. But are quickly discouraged by how little they’re able to capture.

So I find out about this footage a few days later. From a friend who watched it in metal band dudes garage. Oh wait, his moms garage. Watching creepy pervo not even good not even porn in his moms garage. I guess I wasn’t immediately pissed, just mostly confused, definitely not happy. I didn’t see the pervy sexual deviancy benefit(s) of this video. Everything but the sex stuff was kind of hilarious though.

Well…Anyways…

Some years later before my wedding. As a wedding gift, my friend gave me what was to be the last copy of said tape. It doesn’t take a free readin’ from miss cleo to tell me several copies of this tape were made and maybe even still out there. He wasn’t too deeply involved in the pervery… I think he and his wife got us another gift too. Maybe mixing bowls.

How the fuck was this a wedding gift. Oh well.

Entitlement.

Deviants.

Whatever, fuck it.

Narnia.

That time I may have accidentally shot a crackhead.

Well it’s the new year. New years day or something.

Yesterday evening (new years eve), was fun. I saw all my best Charlotte friends, my love and her sister. Good people, loyal caring friends. Love these people. They’re few, but we get each other and none of us can keep a straight face for too long before cracking over some dirty or inappropriate jokes. So yeah I had fun. I didn’t really drink, played the DD roll. Really appreciative of people that get in to that shit. With one exception that kind of topped off the night, everything was great. Beers, cards against humanity at a local beer shop with friends and complete strangers, visited a few house parties, hell I even slapped a bass guitar for a few minutes, then we called it a night.

Last year I choose to celebrate my NYE at a church. Most of which consisted of waiting outside in the freezing cold, then getting my ear drums destroyed by loud music inside. Afterwards I hit a diner and had french toast, went home and went to sleep. Thinking back, I didn’t have a good time at all.

Anyways…

The year before that, myself and the girl I was seeing at the time decided to visit her family in Charleston SC. Well…North Charleston, SC. There’s a clear distinction between the areas. It’s called….oh yeah that’s right, it’s called gentrification. It’s close enough to touristy things downtown. We planned on doing NYE in downtown Charleston. I contested this decision, thought it was a bad idea. Mostly because how expensive everything is there and how little parking there is.

So before we went out, her stepfather and I decided to go buy fireworks…because why not. America.

Collectively we probably spend around 200 bucks on fireworks. I get about 50 dollars worth of roman candles alone, because they give off the “fooomp” sound when fired….I could hardly wait. The night now had purpose.

Get these people to a bar, pound some beers in to them, get home and chuck norris double fist roman candles into the sky while listening to the star spangled banner and riding a bald eagle chugging mountain dew, maybe even high five a bear and kill some indians. Then throw all the trash on the ground and go to bed. Murica.

Getting to a bar in downtown is extremely easy, there’s a bunch. Seriously, if you throw a boatshoe or a sailboat belt down there you’ll hit….a bar, or someone wearing a la coste pink polo.

Getting inside any bars for under 100-200 dollars however…not so easy. So after some searching we find a hole in the wall.

12 dollar Michelob ultra….that all you have?

“Yeah brah”

:: Fuck ::

give me 6.

20 minutes before the ball drops, it was decided that we should leave because it’s lame in the bar, they have no TV’s to watch said ball drop. Which is apparently very important, because dick clarks weekend at bernies dead body says so.

We race home. My station wagon goes plaid. I get us back just in time for Justin Bieber and other assorted pop stars to lip sync the destruction of some classic songs.

I contemplate killing myself….

Ball drops!!!

I’m out the damn door. In one hand I have a lighter, and a handful of AMERICA in the other. It’s pitch black outside. Cold and windy. I fire up a tube of roman candles and so does the stepfather. Completely awesome.

Rad. Cool.

Let’s go total america with this shit. Let’s shoot roman candles and bottle rockets at the same time. YES.

We were about to effectively cross the beams. We light up, take aim, and fire.

Anyways…

Turns out we aimed directly at a woman who had been either just standing there watching, or sleeping in the yard. We had no idea she was “there”. We had created a world in which we were comparable to Odin and controlled the realm in front of us with balls of fire and explosions….we may have just been distracted by how amazing this experience was.

Well…Anyways…

We had fired for effect and this woman had become a casualty of war from our danger close incoming rounds. After some flailing about, screaming, and cussing….this woman ran off down the road.

At which point the stepfather turns to me and says, “it’s ok shes a crazy crackhead anyway, we’ve seen her around”.

We go inside and have a cup of coffee and call it a night.

So I guess the lesson here, well what I took away from this event, is that it’s no big deal to blast crackheads with fireworks. Not in North Charleston South Carolina anyhow.