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 want you to be doing your homework."

She looks at you with those wide, hopeful eyes. 

You want to be doing your homework, too, but it's fucking stupid. 

You don't say it, though. You think it and then think take that and then you go into your room and listen to Jello Biafra. On headphones. You're still a little high, and he's inside of your brain. And, goddamn, everyone is so annoying. Every thing. Every thing sits in your skull like dead vermin.
 
You lock the door to your room and pull a cigarette out of your pack, and you feel like a real man would light it, but you don't. You put it in your mouth and it tastes good. You play with the lighter and burn your hand. 

Eh. One more scar. 

Don't get you wrong. It hurts like a bitch. But, you know. Whatever. 

There's a few sips left in your whiskey bottle. It's hidden in the back of the closet. A few sips is enough, really. Plenty. And then a glass of wine because no one will ever be able to tell. No one knows how much wine there is. There could be infinity wine. 

Doesn't matter. 

It's like when you're stoned. Kory's house. Speakers in every corner, and it sounds like the fucking apocalypse. And you close your eyes and pretend you're El Jefe and you could ever play guitar like that. But it sounds right. Feels right. 

Band practice starts soon. God, you'd think a band that practices so much would be really good. But whatever. It's loud. Fucking super loud. And every once in a while, there is a moment of brilliant synchronicity. 

The other guys in the band get mad when you get high before practice, but they don't get that mad. So, you plug in your guitar and turn it as loud as it will go and you just start killing it. It's not even tuned, but it doesn't matter. It's so loud. It is truth and vindication.

No one knew where the whole thing was headed. What it would seem like in twenty years. And in most ways, it turned out pretty well. But there's always going to be a part of you that can't bring himself to leave the garage because what happened in there was at least honest. 

Ugly. But honest.  

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2 Minutes. Go!

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I am the blood from the slaughter. I am the glint off the huckster’s gold tooth. I am the sound of time imploding. I am filled with obsessive thoughts that bounce around inside my skull like buckshot. I am relatively strong for a weakling. I am relatively brave for a coward. I am the one that people seek out, and I don’t know why. I have been marked, but I don’t know where the mark is.

I am nailed to a cross of indifference. I’m fucking my life up fine without your interference. I am not a spy. I am not a crook. I have no security clearance. I’ll never be everything you want me to be, even if you give me a fair chance. Apathy and spite make everything right.

I am right. You are wrong. Care to dance?

I am a vessel of hypocrisy. I smell like old clothes. I hate myself, but not as much as I hate the rest of you. It could be worse. There’s that. There’s always that. Things could be worse. I have a shitty car and first world problems, but I don’t have dysentery. Not even a little bit.

I look at the sky and think pretentious things. I say things I think I believe and try to pretend I’m not pretending. I am my own harshest critic, and I cut myself way too much slack. I try to be good at the things that really matter and fuck everything else.

I’m a good dad. There’s that.

I am selfish and churlish and full of shit. I am the all-knowing jackass in the back of the room, throwing paper airplanes and making sarcastic comments. I am flip and arrogant. I know. A nun told me. In tears.

It was quite a day. Hell of an event.

I am too smart for my own good and too stupid to do the smart thing. I am just smart enough to always make the wrong decision, even if it is the right one. I am tired of the first person. I hate writing in it. I’m not fond of living in it. I’d rather live in the second person and talk about your stupid ass.

I’m not blind to my faults. I might be blind to my strengths. I might have more of one than the other, but I’m not saying. I am an explosion of red-winged blackbirds over a sunlit field. I am the bobber riding the gentle waves on the water’s surface. Potential? Stasis? It all depends on how you look at it. Aces.

I’m NOT a racist. There’s that.

I don’t care who you have sex with. Your sex life is none of my business. Do your thing.

I am scared, and I know you are scared. I keep telling myself things will be OK, but I’m not so sure I believe it. I’m afraid to check my mailbox ‘cause it might explode. I don’t know who I’ve pissed off – probably a lot of people. I’m small change. I’m nothing. I don’t even warrant an exploding mailbox.

I’m the guy that wrote all those books you tell yourself you’re going to read and never do. I’m the guy you expect to be really interested in your stupid job. The irony is not lost on me. But I don’t say a word.

Blasphemy.

I am typing these words that don’t even matter. They used to matter to me. I’m not sure anything matters anymore. I’m that guy glued to the news, masochistic chatters.

I don’t want to be a statistic. That would mean I exist and shit.

I want to be the puff of dust from a heron’s feet as it lifts into the warm air, searching for safer places to hunt. I am always aware. I am not so different from myself. You are me and everything else fits neatly on the shelf. Right beside your bowling trophy and your overflowing ashtray. Right where the books would be if you were more like me.

Don’t be like me. It’s not working out the way I thought it would, G.

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2 Minutes. Go!

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You sat with your mouth hanging open and those big eyes waiting, but I couldn’t think of a thing to say. What do you say when someone gives you their heart? And, no, not their real heart – the one that bleeds. I mean their real heart – the one that feels.

I tried to hold it. Not your heart, but your intention. I thought if I took good enough care of it that you might realize what everyone else already knew. It became my mission.

I was a dumb kid.

You could have picked someone worse. That’s for damn sure. But I ain’t Superman, and I had problems of my own. I still have them, though ... those bits of truth you whispered into my ears. I cherish them, build stories around them. I wonder where you are now and what you’re doing with your stories – if you still feel the same way about them.

All of this is just stupid insomnia fodder. Stuff to think about while my room is dark and my pulse is racing. You? Hell. I wouldn’t recognize you if I saw you. But I will always recognize the girl who taught me how to be brave, no matter what kind of woman she turned out to be.

I remember. And smile.

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2 Minutes. Go!

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What do they call them things, son? I ain’t never seen one before. All wheels and dials and blinking lights. Is that a weapon or a Halloween decoration? Time machine or pinball machine? I know it cost too much money, whatever it is. Even if it whistles and shits gold, you paid too much. That’s such an ugly contraption, I done lost my appetite. You gone and hurt my feelings.

I didn’t ask you to show it to me – you out here parading it around and expect folks not to ask questions? Shit. Now, you don’t gotta be offended, son. Yeah, I reckon I’m old, but that thing looks like a computer fucked a tricycle while a rollercoaster watched, you feel me? I don’t know if its supposed to whiten my teeth or take me to Venus.

Now, you just hold on a second. Yeah, I’m razzing ya. You gotta respect your elders. I respected mine. Now, I’m old and you gotta listen to me. Yup. Sure ‘nough ain’t fair. You too young to know it, but fair is a fairy tale, boy. Ain’t never gonna happen. No way. No how. That’s for retards and people who make movies.

I ain’t playing some kind of game with you. I’m asking you a serious question. The world has changed – ain’t an old man got a right to keep up with the times? I got me a cellular phone. It ain’t one of the computer game ones like y’all kids got. Just makes my calls. But I got one. I sure as hell don’t know what that thing is, though. I don’t think I want one, anyway.

Actually, don’t tell me. I might want it and I don’t want to want it. You feel me? You manipulatin’ my emotions and shit as it is. Bringing out the envy. Curiosity. Both them things come straight from the devil. You know it and I know it. Don’t tell me. Just move on down the line.

Oh, now you want to tell me? Of course you do, son. I remember what it was like when I was an ignorant piece of disrespectful trash, too. Wasn’t that long ago. Now you take your space flotsam and git. I mean it. I ain’t afraid to take this cane to the side of your fat head.

Yeah, flip me off. I get it. You too fast. You too on the ball. You’re covered in too much shit you bought at the mall. I ain’t even curious anymore. I’m gonna talk to your momma, tell her you been parading around this place all high on yourself and shoving your magic skateboard microwave in everybody’s faces. And I for one don’t appreciate it.

Now, let me hold it for just a second. Come back here. Son! Just a second. I promise. Well, fuck you, too. I hope your electric surfboard dvd player there explodes and you lose a leg. I won’t be shedding no tears for yo' fool ass. Son?

Son? Come back …

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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.

So, yeah. I got this monkey on my back and he won’t shut up. Flat out refuses. He just keeps telling me things I don’t want to hear. Stressing me out - day to day, year to year. I saw the best mind of my generation become craven with desperation and fear. Methadone don’t do what it’s supposed to do. Not really. Not if you’re banging black tar on top of it.

Shit.

I love the monkey as much as I hate it. And part of me thinks: we tried to help – you didn’t want to be helped. And part of me thinks I should get into the car and start driving and not stop until I’m close enough to smack the shit out of you. You’ve been stuck in one posture so long, you’ll break if you try to move.

I get it.

Thing is; we had plans. And I know you didn’t bail on those plans on purpose, but I also know you bailed and the reason ain’t all that important. What’s important is that we had plans. You fucked those plans. And there but for the grace of God … Lord knows, I don’t believe in God, but I realize I got lucky. Doesn’t change the fact that I’m raising two beautiful daughters while waiting to get the phone call that one of the people I’ve loved most in the world is dead.

Why can’t you get it through your thick, fucking head. Brain shot? Get some backbone instead.

What you can’t do is doable. I know. I’ve been there. I’ve seen it too many times. You’re still living like you’re nineteen, but you got a forty year old’s body. Something is going to give sooner or later. I don’t know whether sooner or later would be better.

Keep standing in the rain. You’ll just get wetter.

And me? I’m gonna keep realizing I’m doing what I should be doing and hating myself for it. Remember that screenplay we were gonna write? I didn’t go anywhere. And part of me thinks I should call you up. Bolster your spirits. Get working. But I know you can’t get anywhere near it.

So, spin in circles. Try to pretend that the pose you wore in high school still fits. I’m not mad at you. Fuck that. I am mad at you. Furious. Because you didn’t let go. Hell, we were both curious. I’m mad because I love you and you wasted so much. Lost so much.

Sometimes, I try to blame myself for it. Doesn’t pan out though. Sometimes, I try to excuse it because of the things I know. That’s doesn’t do anyone any good.

You can be as hungry as you want. Can’t nobody feed you if your mouth is closed. If your mind is closed. If you still put up the same band flyers and wear the same clothes. You put your life on heroin pause, and that shit lasts a LONG time. Sometimes, the show stays paused until the TV dies.

It will break my heart. But it won’t be a surprise.

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