2 Minutes. Go!

Write whatever you want in the 'comments' section on this blog post. Play as many times as you like. #breaktheblog! You have two minutes (give or take a few seconds ... no pressure!). Have fun. The more people who play, the more fun it is. So, tell a friend. Then send 'em here to read your 'two' and encourage them to play.

I am currently very stoned. Luckily, very stoned is a look I can pull off well. I have had lots of experience. It's probably one of my more impressive talents. I've talked to cops on acid...

But I digress. Because I was going to tell you about this one time when I was at a party. It was a typical high school cliché bullshit kegger. Literally, like it was being directed by some moron in a Ramones t-shirt and $300 shoes. 

So, most of us, we're not that happy about being at this party. Except for my friend Toby, who is a secret frat boy (at the time, he's a legit frat boy now) who just wants to get laid. Or try and fail. My friend Max on the other hand, unbeneknownst to us, is stealing expensive liquor and probably other shit from the house. 

We finally convince Toby to leave so we can go get fucked up properly, amongst our own kind. 

Then, this guy steps in front of me. 

"One of your friends tagged my car. Give me your backpack."

I swear to God, this guy is out of central casting. Blonde. Handsome. Probably the star quarterback. I want to say he was wearing a fucking letterman jacket. Me? I hate confrontation with people, but I hate someone talking shit to me more. 

"Fuck you. None of my friends did shit, and you can go fuck yourself."

Guy's pussy, yet dangerous, football friends step up behind him. Which I think meant that I was being backed by Max, Toby, Pat, Katie, and probably a few other girls. Of those people, I can count on Max possibly backing me up. 

"Give me your backpack."

"Dude, there's nothing in my backpack but a jacket and shit."

Guy comes menacingly closer and it becomes evident that fisticuffs are imminent. Me, having a history of getting hit and NOT enjoying it, decide 'fuck the moral high-ground' - here.

So, I throw the backpack at him and tell him to look inside - there's nothing in there but a jacket and some shit. I tell him off again and tell him that no one would tag his stupid car and we're leaving blah blah blah. 

Then, we get into whoever's car we got into and there is this cackle from the back.

Young Max, drunk as shit, on stolen liquor.

"Dude, I totally tagged that guy's car."

I am gobsmacked. And then, we proceed to the park where Max drinks a bottle of purloined and expensive Russian vodka. TO THE DOME.

And refuses to share one sip. 

While the rest of us drink warm malt liquor and wait for him to puke.

#2minutesgo Tweet it! Share it! Shout it from the top of the shack you live in! I will be out most of the day, but I'll be back...

2 Minutes. Go!

Write whatever you want in the 'comments' section on this blog post. Play as many times as you like. #breaktheblog! You have two minutes (give or take a few seconds ... no pressure!). Have fun. The more people who play, the more fun it is. So, tell a friend. Then send 'em here to read your 'two' and encourage them to play.

At the end of the trail, there was a boulder covered in lichen. None of the kids knew what it was, but they liked to scrape at it. To pick flakes from the rock’s surface and marvel at the shapes and textures. They absorbed sun from the sky and soaked up the warmth of the rock. They closed their eyes and imagined what the world would look like all green. Nothing but green. Green sky, green skin, green, green, and more green.

There were trees, too. They surrounded the trailhead and they were tall and omniscient. They saw everything in the forest and everything in the forest bowed to them. They were not power-trippers, these trees. They were not malevolent. They were protectors. They watched over the children and the boulder and the lichen and the hundreds of lifeforms that lived in the trail.

Every once in a while an adult, clad in bright spandex, would rocket down the trail on something that looked like a cross between a bike and a piece of sculpture from the museum they went to every fall. Sometimes, an old man with a dog loped down the trail. The bicyclists did not look at the lichen. They did not see the earthworms, pill bugs, earwigs, wonder – they were moving too fast. The old man and his dog moved more slowly.

When they closed the trail, the adults formed committees and wrote petitions. They were aghast. They were outraged. They called their elected officials and railed against the injustice – the destruction of their recreation of the destruction of the natural world. Their cries did no good. The crying of the children achieved nothing either, but there was an honesty in it, and, at the bottom of each of their pockets, they knew there would always be flakes of lichen to study.

The trail is long gone. It is a strip mall. The bikes have rusted. The old man is dead and his dog died before him. The children are adults now, and they move too fast. But every so often, they remember. When they find an old shoe box full of bark and lichen flakes. They remember.

If only for a second. 

#2minutesgo Tweet it! Share it! Shout it from the top of the shack you live in! I will be out most of the day, but I'll be back...

2 Minutes. Go!

Write whatever you want in the 'comments' section on this blog post. Play as many times as you like. #breaktheblog! You have two minutes (give or take a few seconds ... no pressure!). Have fun. The more people who play, the more fun it is. So, tell a friend. Then send 'em here to read your 'two' and encourage them to play.

They’re lying to you. Sugar sweet grin and dimpled chin – it’s a short con. You are being fleeced. But you don’t do anything about it. You are the glass bluebird on your Grandmother’s shelf in the room no one ever sat in. You are the echo of a silent scream. You are the insomniac’s dream. You feel me? Know what I mean? You are the crystal vase that your sister broke – the one you said you broke. You are the memory of that and more.

You are playing the game, but you don’t know the score. 

I once met a boy who loved chess. And I wanted to love chess because that seemed like the right thing to do. But I don’t love chess. And maybe I should have pretended. But I’m not good at pretending – never did like a happy ending. I am the flash of pain you feel in your chest when you realize that your tank is empty – you’ve got nothing left. 

I know I’m supposed to want it because they tell me I’m supposed to want it, but they say so many things. And most of those things are self-serving bullshit pucks shot directly at your teeth.

I killed Santa Claus, and all I got was this tacky aluminum wreath.

In the branches of the trees, there are birds that can astound you. There is so much to see if you just look around you. But there is also much to be seen from turning the lens back upon yourself. By dissecting and slicing through the layers of fatty tissue. Don’t have a scalpel? That’s not an issue. You have an internet connection and that thing will flay you eight ways from Sunday.

You better believe it.

And I’m just one more stupid monkey trying to tell you where to find meaning based on my own mental preening. Slandering. Meandering. Nothing is going to resolve itself any time soon. You just need to come to grips with that. And you should probably get on it soon. There I go again, being the clown who mocks the buffoon.

Picture this: there are freckles on her face, light and barely visible. They rest upon her nose and they’re beautiful, but she hates them. You could stare at them forever, but she’d scrub that shit with Comet if she thought it would work. And that’s everybody. That’s all of us.

Not seeing the freckles for the trees. I know you're searching answers, but you won't get them from me.

#2minutesgo Tweet it! Share it! Shout it from the top of the shack you live in! I will be out most of the day, but I'll be back...

2 Minutes. Go!

Write whatever you want in the 'comments' section on this blog post. Play as many times as you like. #breaktheblog! You have two minutes (give or take a few seconds ... no pressure!). Have fun. The more people who play, the more fun it is. So, tell a friend. Then send 'em here to read your 'two' and encourage them to play.

I shouldn’t feel bad for having long, slender fingers. I shouldn’t be looking over my guilt shoulder all the time. I feel like I’m wearing a hair shirt. Boo hoo. Poor me. I feel like a champion. Like I am on some quest, tormented. Like I am stoned black in the night, demented. Like I hide from siren songs, fermented. 

I like to rhyme

I do it all the time.

I rhyme while you’re talking and when I should be listening. I rhymed my way through your cousin’s whack-ass christening. I’ve rhymed and counted my way through my whole life and all I have to show for it is like forty dope-ass western shirts. 

I want to rescue a fireman. Pull him from a flaming automobile. I want to give him mouth to mouth and feel his rough stubble against my rough stubble and be all, “You’re gonna be OK, brother. You made it. Just relax, I’m here; you’re not alone anymore.” And then it will pan out all majestic as fuck. You’ll see. 

I want to do one thing heroic. And the fucked thing is I kind of have. I’m not trying to be a hero or anything despite what I just said, but I mean there are a handful of people who would credit me with saving their lives. And they might be goddamn right. I talk a real good ‘get down off the edge’ man. I really do. See, you gotta be fucking mean about it. That’s where people go wrong. Most times, someone wants to off themselves? Everyone assumes you gotta talk all hushed in gentle tones. Not me. I’ll yell at your ass until you’re not only sorry you thought about it, but you want to apologize to everyone. 

Don’t believe me? Ask around. 

I’m a one trick pony. Can you dig the sound? I know the most tricks out of any fucking pony in town. 

There are like two ponies. 

That’s a lie – there are no ponies. 

C’mon get your ponies. Johnny, get your gun. Jenny, get your ass in gear cause you’re. Not. Done. Never enough and it never will be, you and all the Jenny’s until Christendom, you’d all be better off if you let me speak this truth. 

I’m a dumb piece of shit with some delusional tendencies. 

Ignore me. 

I’m a brilliant logistic mystic with illusional appendices. 

Adore me. 

I’ll give you six reach arounds at once and ignore the middle. Strike up the band but fuck the fiddle. Listen to the wash tub thump, thump, thump. I bought LSD and explosives in the back of a garbage dump. It was good shit. Showy and blowy. Glowy – the explosions made the night snowy. 

It was a night HST would have appreciated. Me? I depreciated. My worth because less as I lost the stars in the night blindness from the repeated explosive, percussive repercussions. And every lost desert scream did nothing to redeem.

You were lost. You are lost. You’re repugnant.

#2minutesgo Tweet it! Share it! Shout it from the top of the shack you live in! I will be out most of the day, but I'll be back...