The ultimate fate of his most illustrious Sir John of unshakable determination.

Here's the scene.

It's dark and it's raining in a city with a lot of multi-storied buildings; highrise apartment complexes and such. The sort of buildings with names like Madonna's. "I live in the Wittenborne." Oh I'm on the 17th floor of the Mitchell right across the way.

They're both crouched on the floor of the balcony facing outwards. She's half-asleep (I dont know why yet) and he's behind her with his arms draped over her shoulders crossing at the wrists.

He is simultaneously surprised, relieved, and overjoyed. He is terrified that it's all a dream. He is crying and laughing, literally at the same time.

"My Blue Heaven" BLASTS over the speakers. It's all too familiar, it happens all the time.

Pan across the city.

Two sides twist and then collide. Sometimes it just feels better to give in.

Cut to every scene of destruction that has resulted in this anomaly. Like the end of the Godfather. Everything falling into place.

Dull heat rises from the sheets. Double standardized suspicion is remedied, oh my blue heaven.

Cut back to them, zoom in on her, eyes shut. Everything's coated in rain.

A tiny voice starts to sing, 'you are safe, child. You are safe.'

Roll aftermaths of fated scenes. Every broken heart smashed open for the ridiculously unlikely ending being shown. Everything he engineered, and most powerfully, all the things he didn't. Fate tossed him one.

Cut to him.

It's you I can't deny.

Zoom in on his face. Eyes. It's exactly how you'd expect someone to look if they had just survived a trip through a black hole. Teary eyed joyous insanity. "I can't believe this worked" is what his face says, verbatim.

It's you I can't deny.

His grip on her tightens now. Spotlight them. Finally his.

Fade to black.
------

"And then what" is completely overrated. We saved the world! And then what? Go back to normal? Who cares. It's alright if the "then what" answer isn't much- getting there is everything. If you have done something so remarkable that it prompts an "And then what?" then you've already won.

That's how I know. That's how I know what matters and that's why I can use a term like victory in situations like these.


I'm not crazy, honest, but they're gonna be talking about us forever.

And even if they don't, they should.

his lordship's infinite extravagance part one: "Wake up, you idiot, they're all waiting for you."

My alarm clock was almost $120 dollars after all appropriate sales tax had been applied. The most useful function it offers is the ability to wake me up with either a CD or mp3. This is fantastic. Every morning I wake up positive and determined, and with ample amounts of dreamboner.

In the least tragic way possible, I have never been so motivated to get up in the morning.

I've traded brick for straw.

No huff and puff will dismantle us.


Do you exist outside of the mirror? I do not. People call me out constantly for catching myself in a mirror, or sunglasses, or a wading pool or your deep dark beautiful eyes.

I look in the mirror to remind myself that I exist.


Even conversationally, I have no idea at all what I look like. I'm completely unaware of myself unless I can see evidence that I'm real.

Times like this I wonder if I'm not dreaming all of you-- but rather, am I part of someone else's dream?

I can't even see my own nose without closing one eye.

It's this lack of existence that makes interaction so damned meaningful. If I can't see myself, let me see myself in you. Our conversation is evidence that we both exist for real, cause I'm not clever enough to come up with your lines myself.

How powerful could you be if you paid attention to the image you gave off in every conversation? Is that dishonest? Or is it more efficient?

What if you postured yourself perfectly to convey an idea- so well positioned physically, that you basically didn't have to say anything at all?

What if you're already doing this subconsciously?
---

sometimes, the worst thing in the world is admitting someone is right. It is rare and dishonest to easily admit that you're wrong, if you're at all invested in the subject.

The reason this is so disarming is because whenever you make an important decision, you pass it through several logical filters in your head, that you've developed over the years to make the right decision. Abortions, gunshots, moving days and 'goodbye forevers' shouldn't ever be impulse decisions.

When you're dead wrong about 'goodbye forever' it's embarrassing as hell because your whole fucking brain was wrong. Every checkpoint was just leading you in the wrong direction. No one ever elects to do the wrong thing by choice, we all think we're doing what's best for us.

The hardest thing in the world is to admit that every single step you've taken has been dead-ass-wrong. You're covered in lava and you broke your mother's back. Watch your step next time.

Harder still is the opposite of goodbye forever. Whatever that is. Getting someone's character completely wrong makes you feel like a real idiot. To the point where you might just fake it to keep from having to change your outlook.
---

Push ups keep me focused. With the heat, I shower a few times a day. I don't get in the shower without first doing a ton of push ups. Around 500 a day or so. Some with the Perfect Push Up, some without. They make me feel better about what I'm eating, and the huge chiseled pectorals don't hurt either.
---

Everyone's got these threads coming off them, and they're all connected to me. I don't cut any threads. Everyone I've ever encountered, I remember. Someone I sat next to in Comm 103 four years ago is still more special to me than some stranger.

These threads are also why I spend so much time digging around the cache of my life. Whether I'm ignoring your call or checking in after eight years, I've always been looking backwards while falling forwards. Maybe that's why my future calendar only ever goes as far as two weeks from now.

---

I wonder how much of drinking is the alcohol clouding the senses, or the inherently accepted fact that you can get away with more while you're drinking? That is to say, the drunken outbursts we experience-- I bet they are more EMOTIONAL than PHYSIOLOGICAL. Feel me?

Cause when I'm physiologically drunk, I'm pretty gone. I definitely exist; it's everyone else whose existence becomes questionable. But when I'm buzzed (you too) that's the time where I'm just doing all the shit I know I can get away with because of this mask. Probably.
---

I've been looking for purpose and in the process have spent a lot of time on myself, which has been rewarding. The more content I am with me, the more disappointed I am in all of you. Not really. That's harsh. What I mean is,

the more time I spend on myself, the less I worry about existing to other people... so when I *am* focused on you and yours, I'm a little rusty. A bit salty. Me me me.
---








Please remember that your life isn't the Hills or any other location-based pseudoreality show on MTV. The camera might sympathize with you but your real life friends need more than that. Even if it would make good television, it's not. My life could be the greatest movie of all time. It's volatile, but you don't have to touch and go.

You've just gotta live it and let it write itself.

man you can't go gambling with your last arm

this ain't vegas. these ain't chips. that's your ARM, man.


Something I'm going to be doing (if not now than later) is I'm going to dig up some old writing I've done and examine it. See where I'm at now, compared to where I was at then.


--break


i just took 30 minutes and flipped through past stuff. Its different. Way different.

maybe it's a bad idea.

run for your life.

run for your damned life. the future is here. it is.


I batted so badly on drunk dials tonight. Only the reliable ones answered. You have my everlasting gratitude.


want something poetic? Here. This is what I've got. This is what they've done to me.
---
[don't read too much into this.]


He wasn't a bad kisser. Not bad in the sense that you wouldn't want to kiss him again. She was startled, though, by the voracious desperation that he displayed any time his lips met hers.

Like he needed to kiss her to save his life. The kind of frantic, passionate desperation someone exhibits when they jam an epi-pen into their own thigh. The clenched, tooth-grinding desperation heard rattling like pills when someone's heart stops beating and the medicine lid is child-proof.

His obsession and her sadness were like poison.

He kisses her like her tongue had the antidote.


Like her breath would make him live forever, if he took in enough of it.










One kiss and he's building castles in her name.




---
five syllables in
and we're still so hopelessly
inevitable.


---

there's another line on the end but it's zero syllables. Sometimes it goes without saying.


----

here's good advice. Pick something and do it. While you're trying to figure out what to do, the world's not waiting up for you.

two heartbeats in and you know what's coming.

This is going to be disastrous. Hooray!

tbc.

Nochés de Passion con Señor Solis.

Léon is a good movie. It reminds me of Sin City. And V for Vendetta.

It reminds me a LOT of V for Vendetta.


however-

There is not nearly enough flatulence/genital related humor.


** 2 stars out of 5

the kind of kid who jerked off to the idea of falling in love.

Time flies, man. It totally flies.


It's fast and slow at the same time. The days seem long. The shit I did this morning seems like I did it last year. At the same time, I can't believe how often it's Friday. It seems like my weeks are full of Fridays. Maybe it's because I'm not in school right now and I'm caught in a prescription daze... I don't know.

I'm feeling really good.

My shitty facial hair is back. It's like the worst of both worlds. My facial hair grows REALLY FAST, so I have to shave all the time. At the same time, it's very patchy. Like I've got some crazy skin disease or I'm 14.

So it's ugly as hell AND it's high maintainence. SWEET!

You're not gonna recognize me.


Here's something I want you to think about. Post your answers if you have them.

Tomorrow, you wake up, and it's September 10, 2001. You know everything you know RIGHT NOW, but nothing else.

So maybe you don't know the terrorist's names, or even the flight number. But you know about the planes.

How do you alert the proper authorities without sounding crazy? By preventing 9/11, are you going to cause an even deadlier attack? If it never happens, then the suicide bombers are still alive. What do they do then? Is your evidence broadcasted nationwide?

If it happens anyway, do you go to jail for conspiracy? Told you so?


This is frustrating to me. I don't know what I would do. Before 9/11, we really hadn't paid much mind to an outside attack. Even the Oklahoma City bombing was fading in our minds by the time 2001 rolled around.

If I ever wake up and it's 2001, I might be fucked. Plus I'll still have BAD hair. I got a haircut today, and I like it. Next week I will have new eyes too.

I was hit by a car last week, while in my car. I feel fine, but I'm also pretty medicated. And my doctor says I can't sign anything for a month (insurance) because some chronic muscle spasms could develop in time. That would suck.

I want you to check out a band called The Cribs. Some of the best music I've heard in a while. But also keep in mind that I'm basically content at the moment and maybe that's what's appealing about the upbeat style of music they produce.

If you're going to go to a game where Barry Bonds has a chance of hitting homer no. 755 or 756, please bring a baseball with you. If you are lucky enough to get a hold of one of the lucky baseballs, throw the one you brought back into the field.

This will show that you hate steroids or Barry Bonds, and it will also prevent you from being stabbed to death in the stadium's parking lot over the ball. They have serial numbers printed on the inside; you can verify this later, once you're safe.

So yeah. If you're going back in time or catching a million dollar baseball, remember the stuff I posted tonight.





You find this clarity right after you're not an animal anymore. For about 15 seconds. And sometimes you use it to call out to your angel.



Then you hang up before she can answer.

this is funny if you saw it; reading it as text- not that funny.

ACT 2 Dave isn’t one to gossip; not one to spread rumors, but he heard a story this morning that shocked him.

Dave phones the intern Samantha upstairs to have her tell her story. Samantha corrects Dave on two points: She is not an intern, but a staffer for the past 7 years; and her name is Amanda, not Samantha.

Amanda went to the Maury Povich show recently.

It took her ten years to get tickets. It’s a very popular program.

Amanda went to the taping and during the commercial break, Maury came up to Amanda and barked, “Hey, Peggy, you got $20?” Amanda replied, “I do have $20 but my name is not Peggy.”

Maury was livid and barked again, “I don’t care if your name is Helen Reddy, I want you to go out and buy me a pack of cigarettes!” Amanda snapped back at him, “Why don’t you get your own cigarettes?!”

Things got ugly. And then some Air Force dudes bust in and tasered Maury.

falling from space. the altimeter will save your life.

I want the kind of happiness I feel guilty about later.


That 'wrong' shit. That sickness.

Maybe I'm too high on this and that to even tell the difference right now. Check this out.


They say misery loves company, but it's not true. Miserable people don't love anything.

It should say "weakness" loves company. Weakness loves to share in weakness because it legitimizes weakness.

It feels really good to a) identify or b) create a problem, and then accept it. It makes me feel human. It's like coming to terms with your flaws. You get over the notion of being perfect (and all the stress that comes with pursuing perfection) and you just feel awesome.

Legitimizing weakness is what being a person is all about.


You and your friends can have all sorts of varied strengths. I'm sure that in your group of friends, you've got that book-smart guy. And you've got the guy you KNOW can count on to go to the gym with you. You've got a guy who gets you drugs and you've got a guy (or girl) who'll take care of you when you get too drunk. (Thank you.) You've got the guy who's gonna be your wingman. These are all potentially different people, but I'd bet you guys share in the same "weaknesses" every time.

I bet you and all those guys never really know where they stand with the girl in their life. I'll bet that you and all of them aren't sure where you're gonna be in five years, and you don't know what you'd do if you had to go back in time and prevent a disaster without seeming crazy.

I bet you and all your friends made fun of that fat kid, and maybe you felt bad about it later.



Am I the only person who smiles when they think, "This is wrong?"


Someone has a ridiculous and hillarious accent. And they don't speak English well enough to verbs the place in the right locations. (yes that was intentional.)

So you and your friend overhear him/her. Who's gonna laugh first? The answer is irrelevant, because you BOTH find it funny, and the moment one of you cracks, the other one will too. You've just made a bond out something "messed up."

Could this be out of line?


Yes. And there's nothing wrong with that.

the new hardness: part one of three: John the killa

sometimes you get the flash just right.




In the last week or so, I've been overcome with this sense of carelessness. Maybe care-free is the better word, but I'm hardly pulling any punches.

down, downforward, forward, fierce.

it's not a short fuse. A short temper. Short man syndrome. It's not any of those, but I've been pretty damned straightforward lately.

It's no coincidence, I'm sure, that I've been living at home for a week.

Without any responsibility, I've sort of regressed. I'm a badass 14 year old kid and I'm growing pubes and my voice is changing. What a tough guy.


for reals though, it's like I don't care what people think anymore. Not as much. This isn't a teenage rebellion thing. I'm not faking it, I'm just kind of over it.

living at home is different now. I've been living on my own for a very long time. I was worried about going back, but things are, as I said before, different.

And it's not home that changed, it's me. I'm not stressed anymore. You pay rent and handle roommates and scrounge for food long enough and mom and dad's house seems pretty cool. I'm not worried about what people will think of me when I tell them I live at home. I know I'm eating well. I know I'm not paying any rent. My roommates aren't telling me to do any dishes. And I'm not doing any, because other people are doing them. And cleaning the house. And cooking me dinner.

Girls? Please. Like I was having so many girls over last semester anyway. They're right; guy's rooms do smell. Now mine doesn't, cause my mom has good smelling things all over the house and it's well ventilated.



It's working for me, and it's sort of spilled over into my day-to-day. I feel lighter. I feel like a jerk. Like I'm getting away with things.





There's nothing sadder than a nice guy telling himself he's not one. I don't feel that way though. Kindness isn't weakness, etc etc. Right now, though, I feel like nails.




If you never tell a lie, you don't have to remember anything. Ever. You can make mistakes and fix them later, but as long as you never get caught in a lie, you'll be credible forever.



I wasn't a serial liar before, but I feel like a real straight shooter right now.




This is a good time to talk to me. You'll get something abrupt and abrasive and genuine and we'll eat snacks and marvel at what it's like to tell the truth.














This thing I'm building... man, I've got no idea.

I'm awake? I should never be awake...

I'm only human when I'm sleeping.


This is it. This is the gap.

I'm going to finish my las vegas story sometime soon, but I can't do it right now. I'm too demoralized.

We're not necessarily going to die though. What? Where am I?


Anyway, here's what I'm getting at.



Maybe I'd do better for myself if I didn't force adventure where there isn't any. I'm going to write the rest of this, and I'm going to do it honestly. Friday was eventful but no one cares about the car ride, no matter how many big words I throw into the description.


Goodnight and good luck.

John of the Exceedingly Hispanic Pompadour

At least two shades of drunk. He crossed over like a point guard and sunk it. The captain went down on the ship, but was guided home by the grace of God. Woke up embarassed.

lightning, bro.

I am zonked. Straight wired. Count Dracula might tap into my neck if he needs an energy boost. Caffine. Buck stars, I'm on it.

Study, study, study. I am blasting rap music and taking practice tests. I'm not even sure this is real.


I wanna swim to Japan and back.