Say the word ‘suicide’ and it feels nasty coming out of your mouth. The implications of the word are terrifying, that someone would hate life so much that they would choose to end it. It can’t be so bad, right? I mean, there is nothing in this world so terrible that it would drive someone to that definitive act, one that cannot be taken back no matter how desperately the survivors wish it was so. In a word: no. It happens every day whether we like it or not.
This blog is a eulogy of sorts, I guess, but I am dedicating it to more than one person. The reason I endeavor to do this is because the theme is universal; we all know someone who has taken their own life and we are left in the wake of their passing scratching our heads, wondering why. There is always a reason, although some choose not to expound upon it by leaving the prerequisite note. Sometimes the reason is simply implied, something we gather from extenuating circumstances.
A few days ago a man I knew from my hometown of DePere, Wisconsin, chose to take his own life. I do not know the manner in which he did it, all I know is that the deed was done. He left behind a girlfriend and two foster children and countless friends. I had not seen him for over two decades yet had spoken with him on the phone about sixteen months ago, regarding the passing of one of his dogs. I’d sent out a group message on Facebook advertising the release of my latest novel and when he got it he took it to be personal in nature and messaged me back that he was down because his dog had died. I could commiserate, having worked with animals for the last fifteen years, and told him to call me anytime, leaving him my number. He didn’t call me that day, but did so a few months later and we talked for almost an hour about various things: companion animals, bands, concerts, people we mutually knew, the city we grew up in etc. I felt good about it afterward, that he had reached out to me, even though he and I had never been what could be construed as ‘good’ friends. Mostly, in high school, we rode to school together with another guy who had a car and we took part in illicit activities that bonded us better than words sometimes can. I don’t know much else about him except that we always got along; he was a nice guy, I can honestly say I don’t think he had any enemies. After high school I left that little town for a big city (big in comparison: Milwaukee) and never saw him again. About five years ago we became friends on Facebook and later the above-mentioned correspondence occurred.
He isn’t the only person I know that has committed suicide. A friend (someone I knew much better in high school, a kid I’d played in a band with) killed himself in 2006, for reasons unknown to me. Not that it should come as a surprise; I hadn’t spoken with him since the early 90’s when I ran into him at a bar in Green Bay and the thing I remember about it was him telling me that I was lucky I got out of there, meaning DePere. Small town life shouldn’t be considered a death sentence, but to him it was, I guess. As with this most recent case I have no idea what his method was, only that it happened. So that is why I say that I dedicate this to more than one person, and what the hell I’ll also dedicate it to myself.
I’ve often fantasized about suicide, being of a creative nature and a man who seems to be in a near constant state of ‘finding’ himself. I am a failed musician, a so far failed writer…I have tried and failed a lot of things in my life but sometimes I feel intrinsically that I would succeed at suicide if I ever so choose to take that route. It takes a certain amount of dedication to carry it out though (and a lot of guts to boot, no matter how ‘cowardly’ the act may seem), and so far (fortunately) I lack the courage.
With that said I am glad that I always find a reason not to do it, and I wish these two men had found that reason as well. But, going further down the rabbit hole, maybe they are happier where they are. I don’t believe we should impose our will on others, making them live when they don’t have the strength to. If someone wants to do it than it is their choice, end of story. Of course I agree with the old saying ‘suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem’ but who are we to place sanctions on people’s lives, who are we to judge?
Coinciding with this man’s suicide (coincidentally?) I am presently reading ‘Heavier Than Heaven’ the biography of Kurt Cobain. I’ve had suicide on my mind as of the past week and it is unpleasant that I should encounter it first hand, via someone I once knew. It always hurts much more when you can put a real face on it, when it was someone you laughed and talked and hung out with, no matter how much time has passed since you’ve seen them. The ghostly image of the obituary photo from 2006 still resonates with me; in fact I came across it last week while digging through a box looking for something else. In the photo he is smiling, happy, but the untold story was the darkness in his heart of a future deed he would perpetrate while all along everyone around him probably thought he was fine.
But all that aside, here is to you guys (I am figuratively raising a glass in a toast) and I hope that wherever you are (be it in an ‘afterlife’ or simply in the ground) that you have finally found peace. Amen.
Author photo courtesy of Aline Hernandez…
Having realized that most blogs people read are either about sports, politics, science or how to get others to read your blog I have given up the fantasy that anyone will read this, but I will continue this forum anyway despite such drawbacks. And what the hell, right? Can’t hurt. So without further adieu here is my latest post, announcing my newest book, the Sci/Fi speculative fiction masterpiece ‘Glitch In The Machine’. This book will be available in May as an ebook on Amazon.com, followed by the print edition in the summer of 2014. Here is the hook:
In an era of mandatory health insurance, why are everyone’s claims being denied?
It’s 2025 and America is a shell of it’s former self, staffed by a puppet government run by overseas despots and dictators. Big business has taken over, in particular health insurance companies, pharmaceutical corporations and weapons manufactures. The population is now divided between the 99%’ers and the 1%’ers, with food, drug and product testing no longer a part of the government’s social programs. In fact, there are no social programs anymore; government involvement has come to a standstill, defeated by their overlord’s crushing greed. For the 99%’ers this a nightmare world of unregulated food and drugs, one in which they are legally required to have health insurance if they wish to see a doctor, but inevitably will find their health insurance claims are regularly denied because of various ‘technicalities’. Enter Floyd Jasper, a hired killer trained by the 1% wealthy elite to sniff out fraudulent health care claims submitted by the impoverished 99%’ers and initiate a termination sequence…on their lives, that is.
His job, should he choose to accept it (and he did, oh hell yeah) is to mete out justice as he sees fit in a hail of bullets or a well-placed twist of his bone handled ‘killing knife’. He is good at what he does, a veritable one-man extermination machine, but eventually time runs out on his maniacal ways and soon the hunter becomes the hunted.
Accepting aid from a well-endowed, blood thirsty co-worker, they embark on an inquest to find out who wants him dead, only to become immersed in a world of suicide cults, megalomaniacal military leaders, population control demolitions experts and, ultimately, find he is to be groomed as the second coming of ‘Christ’ in a no holds barred, winner takes all battle royal of the classes. The 99%’ers versus the 1%’ers in a version of ‘Occupying Wall Street’ that the world has never known.
At times comically upbeat, at turns tragically brutal, Glitch In The Machine is a roller coaster, whirlwind of a novel that never pauses long enough for the reader to catch their breath. The first person narrative is reminiscent of Chuck Palahniuk, and was written from a ‘Vonnegutian’ point of view, intended for audiences who enjoyed his work, as well as that of Anthony Burgess. Glitch In The Machine is Clockwork Orange meets The Terminator with a dash of Texas Chainsaw Massacre and Bladerunner thrown in for good measure.
Look for it on Amazon.com as early as May 2014!
Expertly shot video of artist extraordinaire Edgar Swamp performing one of his classic masterpieces.
“We do this for tips, you know,” the Jack Nicholson impersonator said to me as I put an arm around him and leaned in close for a snapshot.
“I know,” I replied, handing him a crumpled dollar. And I smiled for the camera, trying my best not to look too drunk. My hosts, a couple of savvy spendthrifts in their own right, were taking me on the budget tour of Vegas, from crummy crack hotels in neighborhoods littered with the refuse of discarded humanity to the towering heights of the Stratosphere in which we gained free entrance to the top to ride the Big Shot, and stopping off at many sorted places in between such as a tattoo parlor boasting $13.00 Friday the Thirteenth themed tattoos and the Belagio for free Mojitos. As my buddy snapped the photo I belched and tasted French fries. At least that was better than tasting vomit.
Our excursion started at four thirty on a Tuesday afternoon when they picked me up at the Las Vegas airport. We proceeded immediately to the aforementioned crack house they were presently occupying (only $195.00 a week!) and drank most of a bottle of vodka while sketching out our plans for the next three days. In a drunken haze we determined we’d mostly wing it, but much to my relief they’d booked a room for two nights at the Circus Circus. As it stood, that first night I’d be sleeping on the floor. The following two nights I’d at least have a bed, even if I didn’t get much sleep in it (not what you think; I am a lousy sleeper).
The next morning was met with a pounding headache and sinuses (thanks to a cold I’d picked up two days before the trip) and in a daze I showered and shaved, anxiously awaiting better digs. I didn’t have to wait long. We checked into the Circus Circus and after dumping off our things we made our way to the lobby floor to hit the slots.
“We never pay for drinks,” Amir told me as we walked out into the mild winter sunshine to hit the Circus Arcade. “You sit at a slot machine, put in a buck, then wave over the waitress for a cocktail. Drinks are free as long as you are gambling.”
The trick for me became how long I could make a dollar last. By winning twenty-five to fifty cents here and there I found I could get about three beers off a buck. And to keep the waitress coming around my friends and I would take turns tipping her. As long as she was making a few frogs it was worth her time.
We whiled away a lot of time doing that, but in between we realized there had to be other activities to make this trip memorable. Since the three of us weren’t exactly what you would call ‘rolling’ we priced out shows until we found one for ten bucks apiece. It was a comedy club in the Riviera, which was perfect because it was right across the street from the Circus Circus. At all costs we did not want to drive, not with how heavily we were drinking. The show was a hoot, presented by two comedians whose names I now forget (I think one of them had the last name ‘Bizarre’, but I could be wrong) in which a drunk girl from the crowd was incorporated to our ensuing hilarity. This chick was either a plant or a total random score for these comedians. After the show we ended the night at the slots, drinking ourselves silly while losing pennies.
The next day we started by walking from the Circus Circus to the Belagio and drinking our way back through the casinos. The photographs accompanying this post adequately show our drunken procession from one end of the strip to the other. Suffice it to say I’ll let them tell the tale. Our walk ended at the Stratosphere where Amir showed us how to get to the top for free and avoid the $18.00 charge: take the elevator that leads to the cocktail lounge (under the guise that that is your intended destination) and when you are let off the elevator just wait a few minutes and then take the stairs up to the top floor to the viewing platform and the rides. We rode the Big Shot (a wonderful contraption that catapults you two hundred feet into the air where you experience zero gravity before it rapidly descends and then hydraulics bounce you up and down a time or two for a giddy extra thrill). Upon its completion we used a coupon on the ticket to get a five-dollar slab of pizza and a large beer. Good times. We then drank our way back to the hotel and I ended the night with a tallboy of Miller High Life purchased for ninety-seven cents at a convenience store.
The next day’s highlights can be summed up as such: 18 holes of mini golf at the official Kiss mini golf course (using a half off coupon it was only six bucks apiece); lunch at the Hard Rock Café (the gambler’s special which is only $7.77) and a tour; a mid-day showing of the latest Hobbit movie in 3D (had trouble staying awake after two nights of lousy booze sleep) and then a $13.00 dollar tattoo from a parlor that just opened (I got Charles Manson and my buddy got $6.66). And in-between all of these shenanigans we did the usual: played slots for free drinks
The last night we spent in the crack hotel, me sleeping on the floor again, but after all the partying I got the best night of sleep I’d had in days. The next morning I awoke refreshed and after serving me pancakes my buddy and his wife took me to the airport where they went the extra mile and accompanied me inside. They had a reason, of course: one last bet on an airport slot. Throughout my visit his wife Aline had been winning ten and fifteen dollar bets (maybe even the occasional twenty) and at the airport she went one further and managed to coax $80.00 out of a machine. Lucky them.
It was a whirlwind of an adventure (as the pictures readily indicate) and I won’t soon forget our exploits there on the Las Vegas Strip.
Can Green Bay survive this season and make it into the playoffs? That is a very good question! Their depth chart has obviously been challenged with all the injuries the team has sustained over the last eight weeks. At one point it seemed as if they were simply dropping like flies: James Jones, Randall Cobb, Jermichael Finely, Evan-Dietrich Smith, Johnny Jolly, Nick Perry and Clay Mathews just to name a few. And then the star quarterback Aaron Rodgers eats the turf and goes out, and the very next week his back-up Seneca Wallace pulls his groin (I pull mine all the time yet still remain in the game; go figure!) and ends his season. Holy crap it sounds like the trailer for a bad movie about replacement players. ‘When all the first-string players go down, who’ll be left to pick up the pieces?’ And then they’ll show a bunch of actors like Rob Schneider, Adam Sandler and all the other dudes that star in their movies. ‘Who will save them now?’
In Green Bay the fine folks are hoping to go five and seven before Mr. Rodgers makes his way back into the neighborhood, figuring if he can return by the Thanksgiving game against Detroit the season can be salvaged. Maybe they can get in with a wild card, depending how the season plays out. As a rabid fan I can only hope the same. There isn’t a lot of faith in the third string guy, Scott Tolzien, even though he led the Wisconsin Badgers to many a victory during his stint in Madison. Thing is, though, he lost out to another quarterback who replaced him, some guy named Russell Wilson who took the Badgers to the Rose Bowl. They lost, but it earned him a starting position at the Seattle Seahawks, beating out another Wisconsin/Green Bay alumni Matt Flynn. Hi Ho!
I am saying all this from a very unique perspective: I am presently staying in Green Bay. Why would I be hanging out in this mill town/slash football Heaven? Good question, one that I am not going to answer suffice it to say I will be departing next week and on to greener (ha!) pastures. My stay here has been interesting to say the very least, tedious and somewhat boring if I want to sound like an asshole, but the fine folks of this quaint little town have been more than generous, in their deer hunting, gun hoarding, binge drinking, racial slur spewing sort of way. Yes, this is the hallowed ground of the legends of Frozen Tundra lore, the kind of gridiron stories that inspire movies and books about muscle bound gods who attack one another viciously all in the name of fair play, where the name Vince Lombardi comes up at least several times a day in any manner of conversation. In fact, I am staying off of Lombardi Avenue, a mere mile or so from the stadium. In just about any place in this town you can see the stadium, a neon monolith that the Brett Farve era Packers helped transform from the once modest arena (replete with aluminum benches to keep your tush cold in the winter) to one of the largest sports venues in the United States. Sacred ground, Titletown, all that happy crap that I was so excited about when I lived far, far away from this desolate, backwater burg. Somehow it seemed much cooler to be a fan when I didn’t live here; now I am just one of many who refers to the team as such: “We kicked their ass last week!” or “We’re going to the Superbowl!” as if the citizens are actually part of the team, an extension, the fifty-third man so to speak. Yet in a town where the city does own the team I suppose one can say that as they do have some sort of say, even if no one in management listens to a word. Just ask Ted Thompson what he thinks of Joe Jerk-offs opinion. Ted would probably mutter “Go to hell” if you suggested back during pre-season that it wasn’t a good idea to get rid of Graham Harrell or BJ Coleman, the thought being that Aaron Rodgers (despite his almost inhuman feats on the field) might sustain some type of injury that led to needing a back-up. Seneca Wallace? we all thought. Why the hell would they want that geezer out there? He practically needs a walker for Christ’s sake. Does he even have any of his original teeth left?
Yet I digress. And I haven’t even touched upon the poor play of the defense, who’ve allowed far more points than I’d care to mention (I’d have to look up the stat and I don’t feel like it) and haven’t been able to make any plays on the ball worth mentioning (forced turnovers, etc), although AJ Hawk has been looking alive out there, not to mention Mr. Jolly, BJ Raji and to a certain extent Sam Shields, although he has blown several key plays, most noticeably during the Monday Night Football debacle against the Bears and their six foot seven receivers. Holy man…
Is the season going to be a wash? Can Green Bay arise from the ashes and make a play-off berth? Will they continue to lose first-string players, continuously testing the depth of their second and third string players? Will Green Bay ever renounce its love of killing Bambi’s mother, father, cousins and distant relatives? Will the fans ever admit how much they love chanting John Kuhn’s name simply because they adore being given a free break on saying the word Kuhn (pronounced coon) all together in the mostly white somewhat ethnically challenged town? Some of these questions may never be answered, but the season will play itself out as it may, and in the end it is just a game, a game that generates more revenue than I’ll ever be able to conceive of in my lifetime. Be that as it may, I’ll still be watching because, what the hell, I love football and I love the Green Bay Packers. Go Pack!
This is a story inspired by a technical school class I am taking. The following is a true story and everyone involved is now dead. The name of the school is not revealed to protect the guilty.
Ross looked out the window of the truck and saw the remains of a squirrel, squashed flat as a pancake, and for a moment the life of that poor animal flashed through his mind; its desperate hunt for nuts as the days got colder, its incessant movements and struggle for survival as the nights grew longer and the days grew shorter, drawing nigh up to its last precious moments on this world as it stared wide-eyed into the oncoming lights of a car that barreled down the road at him, taking his life. A lone tear leaked from one eye and he massaged his temples lightly, trying to rub away the dizziness that overcame him nearly every morning for the last several weeks, his cold fingers trying to bring clarity to a mind that was becoming increasingly confused, muddled.
“Where do I turn next?” his partner, an obscenely fat man with an unusually high voice asked him, and he turned away from the window and met the other’s eyes. The fat man’s name was Richard, and for better or worse the instructors at the not-for-profit semi-truck driving school had coupled them up, no pun intended. While one of them drove the other navigated, and they went back and forth like this while they learned.
Ross glanced at the directions attached to his clipboard, a sentiment of ennui bristling through him like an arctic breeze. He’d been feeling more and more detached with every passing week, had felt the icy ache in his brain becoming a vast, empty hollow. He looked at the piece of paper without seeing it, then placed the clipboard on the floor of the truck.
“Take a left at Roehmer and head toward I-41,” he said flatly, an odd, vacant cadence to his otherwise usually animated voice.
“I don’t think this route takes the freeway.”
“Yes it does.”
The fat man looked at him questioningly but did as he was told, putting on his turn signal and moving over into the other lane when it was safe to do so. Cars whipped by at a frenzied pace as commuters went about their day, rushing from here to there. When they reached the sign for the on ramp Ross pointed toward one of them and said:
“Take 41 south.”
“I don’t think that is on our route-”
“O-okay…” Richard answered hesitantly, creeping up toward the ramp, dropping into a lower gear. As he rolled around the corner he stole another glance at his partner and wasn’t sure what he saw there. “Are you okay?”
“Fine,” Ross murmured thickly, avoiding the other’s eyes. “Just watch the road.”
Every night for the last several months Ross had been awakened after only a couple hours of sleep by his arm or leg or hand or foot or shoulder jerking, spasms that left him completely awake. After about an hours time and he was about to drift off to sleep again another twitch would awaken him, and it would go on like this for the rest of the night. His sleep was gradually whittled down to approximately one or two hours a night, until last week, when the jerks started as soon as he closed his eyes. In the past seven days he’d had no sleep; his eyes looked hollowed out, his cheeks sunken in. When he spoke there was no life to his voice.
“You don’t look so good.”
The exit for College Avenue passed, then the one for Prospect.
“Which exit is it?”
The routes they’d been given weren’t that complex. Normally they went a few miles down the highway, exited, and then turned around and went back to the school.
“We’re going to try a more advanced route.”
“I’ve only been signed off for routes A through D.”
“You’re a big boy, I think you can handle it.”
Richard looked at him, his large brow furrowed, a frown creasing the folds of his cherubic face.
“We’re going off-route.”
“I’ll tell you when to turn.”
Another exit passed, and then another. Soon the downtown area was behind them and they were hitting the open road.
“Quiet,” he said softly, massaging his temples. “I know what I’m doing.”
And he did all right, he most certainly did. It wasn’t an idea that had just come to him, no, it had formed over the course of the last week, all those restless nights while he couldn’t sleep, turning over and over in his mind like a giant, slimy worm, flopping around and around and around until he decided to do something about it.
Because, for the sake of the class, he wasn’t supposed to know, no one was. Finding out had been an accident, one of those things that just happened.
“You’re scaring me,” the fat man whined in a voice that was higher than usual.
“Okay,” Ross said at last. “Take the next exit.”
“Thank God,” Richard breathed and for a second Ross wondered why the man listened to him; surely he could have turned this thing around long ago if he was that worried, but he was such a spineless degenerate that he couldn’t do anything on his own…well, almost anything. He did manage one thing, a singular, compulsive act that was sickening and terrifying, something that made Ross’s guts churn.
The ramp lead to a rural road, a cornfield on one side, a soy field on the other.
“Take a right.”
“That doesn’t lead back to town-”
“Take a fucking right!”
“Fine!” Richard wheezed, his jowly chops shaking like gelatin, “but if anyone asks this wasn’t my idea!”
“I’ll take full responsibility,” Ross assured him, turning now to face him, “just like you have to do.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You know what I mean.”
“I’m afraid I don’t.” Richard squinted his eyes, looking at him perplexedly. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Never better,” Ross said. “Turn here.”
“I’m not even sure this is on a truck route-”
“Take a right turn now!”
“Okay!” And he turned the wheel hard, the semi wheels almost coming off the ground for a second as the awkward turn was executed at an unsafe speed. “Have you lost your mind?”
“No more than you.”
After he’d stumbled upon the old newspaper article his appetite was reduced to a shadow of his former self, that in tandem with the sleeping problem, which had come up entirely upon it’s own. But the two together…not only could he no longer bear to live, he knew this piece of shit beside him didn’t deserve to either. And he’d see to it, that was for sure. It all culminated to today.
“How could you do it?” he asked in a low voice, not really sure if he wanted to hear the answer.
“She was only nine years old for Christ’s sake! You know you ruined her life, right?”
Richard’s massive head swung toward his, his eyes comically wide.
“How did you know that?”
“It ain’t exactly a secret buddy. Do the instructors know?”
“No one at the school knows…”
“Was it worth it?” Ross demanded, leaning closer and placing his foot over the others, pressing down on the fuel pedal.
“What are you doing?” The fat man’s voice was reedy, petulant. Fear showed in his eyes, emanated in waves from him like a foul odor, yet he clung to the wheel desperately.
“What the law didn’t, I suppose.”
“I did my time! I paid for what I did!”
“You can’t unfuck a child Richard!” Ross screamed in the other’s face, spittle flying from his lips. “You can’t take that kind of thing back!”
“Are you crazy? You’re going to get us both killed-”
And then it dawned on the fat man, clarity like a light bulb going on in a very dark room.
Good God, no…”
Over the hill down the road a piece was a stretch of the East River that was deeper and faster than the sedate portion that passed through town. The bridge that spanned it was old, the wood and cement a product of a bygone era, one that spoke of better times when men were men and women were women and little kids didn’t have to be afraid of their lecherous uncles, their unwanted advances, their sloppy, unwelcome drool that spilled over fat lips that looked like two slugs humping…
“Oh God, yes,” Ross confirmed, and by the time they hit the bridge and he spun the wheel the truck was doing better than seventy. As an airplane tore the sky above them to shreds and the miracle of life bloomed in every leaf, the sun burning hotly upon the trees with a fervor that was almost religious in it’s fanaticism he thought: here’s to the new day. And then the truck suddenly became airborne.
I’m standing in a club called ‘Excess’, a gay bar on Main Street in Green Bay, wearing zombie make-up and tattered clothes, wondering what the hell I’m doing with my life. The make-up artist and his girlfriend are on the dance floor shaking what they got as I lean against a wall and ponder my existence. First things first I did not choose this club; I agreed to come here because the drinks are cheap and nobody judges you, you are who you are. Gay, straight, zombie…none of that matters right now. I feel down because I wanted to meet someone tonight, anyone, preferably a woman, pretty, relatively young, but it is impossible because the make-up artist did such a good job that I am hideous. Beneath all this latex rubber and fake blood no one can tell what a handsome man I am, so I am drinking way too much and thinking about smoking a cigarette (I quit six months ago). Not that what I want can be achieved in this club; not more than two minutes ago I watched two chicks make out with each other in front of the bathroom while a guy in a full body leather bondage outfit lead another man around on a leash. The one on all fours was wearing ass-less chaps and a motorcycle hat Ala Rob Halford from Judas Priest.
My companions finish on the dance floor and we reconvene by the bar. We decide to leave, to go to the country saloon next door, and what the hell, right? Can’t get any worse.
We head over and people comment on the costumes.
“AAARRRGGGG!” I say convincingly, vomiting more fake blood by crunching a plastic capsule in my mouth that tastes like cough syrup.
As we navigate toward the bar I think about everything that has transpired tonight and it makes me more depressed. We started the evening at a party with so many beautiful women I was utterly overwhelmed. All taken, of course. And the guys they were with? Well, let’s just say there isn’t ad spaced reserved for them in Maxim Magazine for the next designer cologne. How did they get these gorgeous women? I wondered, and how did I get one? The world is soooo unfair.
No difference in this country bar: the place is wall to wall with smoking hot babes. Does the rest of the world know that Green Bay, Wi, is full of such amazingly stunning women? And here they are hanging all over beer-bellied guys in cowboy boots with obscene facial hair. I’ll say it again: “AAARRRGGGG!”
This leads me to believe that there is simply no point in carrying on, in continuing my useless existence. I give up, I’m throwing in the towel and calling it a night. I ask my friends what they want to drink and they profess to being drunk so I order a beer for me and two waters for them. The woman tending bar is nice to me but she outweighs me by at least sixty pounds. She is pretty though, and the fact that she is nice makes me smile. Hell, I could do worse than her. Maybe I should set my sights lower.
So I stand against a rail overlooking the dance floor, watching a guy dressed as the Joker strip a fur coat off of an otherwise shirtless, giant, hairy dude and proceed to lick his nipples and I wonder what they are doing here and why they aren’t at Excess. Is anybody seeing this but me? Yes, and no one seems to care. Do I care? No, not really, I just want to meet a nice woman who I can enjoy relaxing evenings with and have long conversations about nothing. I want to cuddle; I want to feel breasts pressed against my chest, warm, soft lips brushing against my ear. Instead I am alone, witnessing things I can’t erase from my mind if I want to, which I do, very badly
The evening comes to an end when the couple I am with decides they want to go. It’s probably all the hot women; he wants to get his girlfriend home and nail her. I don’t blame him. She’s a looker herself, all dressed up in a harlequin costume complete with zombie rotting flesh. I imagine they are going to have a mighty fine time, but I’m not, you know, imagining it. That would just be rude.
They drop me off at my place and we urinate (just the dude and I) on the lawn. Then they split and I give in to temptation and smoke a cigarette I bummed from someone at the country bar. Just another day in the life of a lonely man, a zombie all dressed down with no place to go…