No Title is...Well, titleless

So much has been going on lately but none of it really seems worth writing about. Training, studying, and killing time until I end up moving out to California. But when that happens, adventures galore. For sure.

War is hell. Pt 2

A few days later corpses lay strewn across the floor. Most of them, surprisingly, were cockroaches. I’d love to say that the insecticides we (as a household, personally I participated in none of this malarkey) laid down had been steadily eliminated the cockroach invaders, but my imagination knew better. The ants, quite similar to a swarm of bees slaughtering some no-named pointless character in one of those terrible made for TV Killer Bees movie, had ambushed the quarter sized cockroaches. Though certainly some of the ants perished in the attacks, the cockroaches had ultimately expired on the cold wooden landscape of the cold wooden floor. At least five of their upside down, thousand mile stare corpses littered the realm. The ant tally was incalculable.

The ants, a more civilized society, collected their dead for burial tributes and memorials. No doubt little baby ants were already hearing stories of how their valiant brethren fell bravely on the battlefield. Or they were being recycled in one of the many awful ant genetic experiment labs. One can never be too certain. Regardless, it appeared on the surface that no ants had been harmed in the battles. Not in any of the major assaults that is.

In the bathroom, home once to ant and spider peace accords, chaos reigned. Ants, caught up in spider webs and dust bunnies, lay crippled from 8 legged furies. It seems that the cockroaches, in a final move of desperation, had driven a wedge between the ant and spider alliance by offering up previously disputed lands to the cockroaches.

Clearly, I needed to look at the former cockroach holdings and analyze them for new and upcoming spider holdings. The ants as it were, remain strong in their dominance of kitchen counter and abandoned What-A-Burger wrappings spaces. But the cockroaches remain no more. All are gone now, except the lone sentry standing guard on the cockroach cache. I wish him the best in his journeys, for it will be long and arduous as long as the ants and the spiders wage war. For none are safe.

*And this entry? Total crap. But I have a head cold and felt like writing something. So fuck off.

War is hell. Pt 1

There’s a war going on. I see it every day, in all aspects of life. Though at first, I didn’t know it, this war has been raging around me in everything I do.

I first became aware of the mayhem when I spotted a cockroach standing sentry underneath the dining room table. He was clearly standing guard over some cache of cockroach weaponry, but to what extend I didn’t quite get. Then, clear as daylight reflecting off of the spilling water on the kitchen counter – an ant colony. Or convoy. I’m still debating is a group of ants marching one after the other is a convoy, or merely a prisoner procession. I suppose if there were other creatures standing guard angrily and prodding them it’d for sure be a procession, but I have the feeling these ants were packing so they were most definitely a convoy. But there they were, marching circles around (figuratively, and actually in no way were they even in the same room as) the cockroach envoy. And like that (shameless Usual Suspects reference), it was clear to me.

The cockroaches and the ants? They were at war.

The cockroach envoy whom I at first thought to be guarding the underside of the dining room table remains there still, showing ever the diligence in waiting out not only time, elements, and the occasional dust ball, but also random roving spider patrols. The spiders it seemed, like mercenaries, held on to no clear sides but allocated assaults on either civilization depending on whom the highest bidder of the day was. And here’s how I learned this…

A day after noticing the initially placed guard under the table (whose cache I have yet to analyze partially based on my fear of his pending assault, and partially on my unwillingness to be caught observing said guard and having to clear him out of the area) I saw yet another cockroach warrior patrolling the walls of the kitchen. The upper walls. And from cinema alone (be gone evil Army training!) we all know that the high ground, is the…best? Sure. The bestest even.

So there he was, poised for flight or to signal his cockroach superiors to inform them that I’d acquire any number of items from the fridge (possibilities include liquor, beer, or beer and liquor at the same time) so that later they might raid my wares. Cockroaches, in case you hadn’t been aware, are mostly unable to steal into the stores of frigid airs, and must steal those treasures from the unwitting. So being a good journalist (lie) I stood by to observe. The roving patrol (yes, a real term) did what looked like a sideways “S” pattern around the walls until getting lost in the depths of “behind the fridge” no man’s land. But his movement intrigued me, so I ventured towards the living room and noticed another member of the C-clan. He was standing guard atop the entrance to the bathroom, a place I knew to be a stronghold of ant and spiders in arms. At that moment I had no true idea just how deep the lines were drawn between the two forces. But that was then, and this is now.

Another Weekend Gone Blurry, part 3

The next morning Jamie and I shared a cup of tea in the lobby. Mine was English Breakfast with a splash of milk and sugar. His was Earl Grey, condiments unknown. We walked Lydia, still clad in an evening gown, back to the hotel she should have been staying at. It cost us breakfast with Melanie, but we weren’t concerned. We knew our adventure wasn’t over quite yet.

When we got back into his car the 40s and the Steel Reserve sat waiting, no longer cold but still drinkable. We didn’t touch them. Instead we went and stopped at every Texas Historical Marker we could find between Austin and Fort Hood.

Not a single one was remotely historical.

The first started with, “According to Oral Tradition…” which I knew instantly to mean nothing of interest to me. The second we found contained the line, “rumor has it.”

I half expected to find a marker claiming how Sam Houston had fought a Cyclops on these hills, the leader of the demon horned Jews found roaming the lands. Or one simply saying, “Yeehaw!” I’m sure they’re further towards the coast though.

Jamie mentioned that a friend had claimed to know of a drive through Safari the town over. After failing to find it, we stopped by Hollywood Video for information and DVDs. The cashier gave us directions, a random man gave us attitude, and a woman said she was fairly certain there were no lions.

Mazda 3 in a safari? Entirely possible in Texas. I’d love to say that the animals were wild, varied, and awesome. But they were mostly diseased. Incestuous and horrid herds of deer molested the bars of food we had. Fly covered sheep, jumped on the car in an attempt to eat while indifferent buffalo grazed elsewhere. Donkeys stared blankly at windows and breathed heavy layers of moisture onto the glass. Even the singular lion was sad, lying angry or upset in his electric cage; he was able to watch the prancing of elk and ram alike, but could do nothing to slay them. The worst though, were the llamas. Llamas, in history and cartoon and even folklore are sweet, kickass animals whose main purpose is to rock out, carry lots of weight, and spit at you. These llamas were sinister. Not a one of them appeared healthy, and all seemed to be filled with malice toward the vehicle. Jamie and I quickly realized our folly in offering the demon beast’s food, and rolled up the windows with a quickness not seen before. But that didn’t stop the llamas, they boxed us in as one terrible camouflage faced llama, obvious their leader, stood in front refusing to allow us passage. It was only with a quick cracked window, a deft throw of pellets, and some excellent heel-toe action that we got out of there. And into the zebras.

Zebras, if you are unawares, are horses who have for whatever reason decided to dress like zig-zag lines and also treat you indifferently. Except these zebras. The zebra on the passenger side, where I was, felt nothing but admiration for me as he permitted me to pet his flank and feed him the remainder of my food.

But on the driver side was the antithesis of that gentle creature. It, besides having the exact opposite coloration in coat, wanted nothing to do with the food Jamie offered it. No, it wanted Jamie. As we started to drive off, all food expended, the zebra reached his huge horse-like head through the driver’s side window, and bit Jamie in the shoulder. I freaked out. Jumped in my seat and screamed “what the fuck!?” while Jamie made a sound halfway between pain and rage. I would like to say that he also slammed on the gas, spinning the tires and shooting rocks at a big fucking zebra face, but that didn’t happen. We were shocked, and rightfully so. Not even the lion gave us any flak as much as that zebra did. So we zipped off, exited the permissible safari zone, and parked. Deep, shallow breaths. Excitement to be alive, and not in confinement. And then we saw the extra exhibits.

A peacock. A sea turtle. A white rabbit. Two tigers, both angry. Some wallabies and a kangaroo. More goats. A golden pheasant. And out of nowhere, a screaming angry I’d-Kill-You-If-Only-I-Could-Get-Out-Of-This-Cage Monkey. The little one, from Indiana Jones. Exact replica. Except instead of being nice and eating ppoisonous dates, this little jerk was screaming at me. I was simply standing, wondering why it was so mad. Mad enough to attack the rope next to it in fury. Mad enough to jump across the entire pen and shake the bars with its little monkey hands. Mad enough to climb, limb over limb, to the bottom of the pen, claw at the ground, climb back up, and chuck a handful of dirt at my chest.

“Fuck you, monkey!” I shouted in retort.

Hours later I was still furious. Still bitching. “I can’t believe that little fucking monkey threw dirt at me. What a fucking prick.”

“Bro, let it go. You keep talking like that, and the monkey wins.”

Another Weekend Gone Blurry, part 2

Jamie and I stumbled into a tradition of doing absinthe strike out shots at a country bar cleverly located above a gothic dungeon looking establishment, and below an open air rooftop club.

So, despite our vows to not get criminally drunk, Jamie and I went to the bar we’d drank out of absinthe two weeks prior. They still hadn’t re-stocked so we slammed shots elsewhere, bounced to a Flaming Dr. Pepper shot or two, and ended up walking behind a crowd of 9 or 10 women in evening gowns and pregnant looking stomachs. A random man on the street commented to his friend that he thought it was fake. Jamie, ever the man of class, retorted that he knew they were. Upon question he simply said, “because I’ll be throwing that pillow on my floor later tonight.” We all laughed.

The false pregos were heading into the same bar we were destined for, and instantly I knew why there were dressed as such. A friend, Melanie, had invited us to a post tournament rugby social in which she and her team were dressing as denizens of the 1980s. The false pregos, I decided, were an entirely different team. I was right.

Inside the bar we went from beers to shots to shots to beers to shots to someone informing us that the venue was changing, as per the tiny piece of paper they had. So we, now 30 strong, bounced jovially to some other bar. I’d tell you the name, but everything gets too choppy.

In between flirting with random girls and hounding the bartender to write down drink recipes, Jamie and I consumed somewhere in the realm of seven or eight rounds. We harassed locals. We demanded to know why a Latino looking individual had no resemblance to his Korean sister. We did drop shot after drop shot and danced like bastards. We partied.

We changed bars again. This time across the street.

If you’ve never been to 6^th street, allow me to explain. Austin, like most towns, has many streets and those many streets have many bars. It just so happens that a horrible College Town-esque conglomerate of shitty bars and shittier clubs reside entirely on 5^th, 6^th, and 7^th streets. On Friday and Saturday nights, 6^th street is blocked off from all vehicular traffic and opened to pedestrians. So you’ll end up seeing people standing in groups in the middle of the street, conversing on nothing. Or police, huddled in threes and fours, waiting for someone to decide they wish to spend the evening in jail. You’ll also end up seeing drunkards devouring hot dogs from a cart at all hours. And then you’ll see me, standing on line to go to a bar, surrounded by a man of Herculean size, women dressed as 80’s glam stars, and a fleet of pregnant debutants.

One of the false pregos walked nearby and I jabbed her stomach with a quick left. She laughed, we flirted, and a drunken traveler stumbled up and demanded to know why they were all faking being pregnant. I grabbed the false prego by the waist, hugged her close, and told the man that this was my wife and she was carrying my child and he should be more respectful. If you’d asked me then I had no idea why. If you’d ask me now, I only know the results. Ends justify the means?

He bought it, head held low, and walked away.

6 hours later after bailing on everyone from that rugby social to go drink solo with Jamie, 5 hours after hitting up a final bar, 3 hours after missing the house party entirely, two hours after eating at a kebab stand, an hour after jumping in a bicycle taxi from hotel to hotel to hotel to hotel looking for vacancy, and thirty minutes after throwing down the worst Farsi I’ve ever spoken to a night concierge at the Four Seasons, I was staying in a 1500 a night suite. An hour later I was still drunk, naked, and lying next to a girl named Lydia.

Who, truth be told, was not pregnant after all. I know, because her dress and accompanying pillow were thrown on the floor next to me.

*Recovery of combined debit and credit expenses would put him and I in the realm of $700 spent on liquor alone that evening.

Another Weekend Gone Blurry, part 1

“I can’t believe that little fucking monkey threw dirt at me. What a fucking prick.”

“Bro, let it go. You keep talking like that, and the monkey wins.”

Jamie was right, after all. The monkey, that little four handed bastard, he was only the end result of another weekend.

Friday. Friday started it all. Friday was just another weekend at first. Rendezvous with Jamie at my place or his, slam a couple of beers and then figure out where to go. We ended up at , which, despite its name I loved for Blackened Chicken Sandwiches. Extra black, some mysterious little sauce on top, BAM! Delicious. Two beers later we left, and I got the feeling that the 17 year old hostess was flirting with me. Maybe it was the beer. Maybe not.

Hours later Jamie and I were slamming beers playing Depth Charge at the kitchen table of some soldier’s house, smashed off of tequila and Coronas. Ever show up unannounced at someone’s house and convince them not only to drink with you but also to drive you to the bars? We got them jumping into a car to stop by a local dive, escorting us to a fast food restaurant where I couldn’t stop giggling ordering things. Fifty dollars later I still hadn’t been able to order the one item I wanted. Fucking Jack in the Box. I remember my evening ending with a DVD of Brisco County Jr. playing hour after hour on loop.

We woke up either independently or collectively, heads not yet throbbing but not yet level. The plan had been to rent a double seated bicycle and tool around Austin. The weather seemed non-responsive. Buckets, cats, dogs, take your pick. It was coming down, just like that Cake song by the same name. With the plan scrapped, we went to the movies. Did some laundry. Drove down to Austin with zero intent on finding a hotel room, just wanting to find an adventure.

Every single time we went to 6^th street it ended up being a deluge of liquor. Shot after shot after shot, never in the same bar for very long, always drunk to the point of memory loss. Jamie and I vowed that this time would be different.

So we started out by picking up 40 ounce bottles of Old English, a couple cans of Steel Reserve, and finding word of a “homeless” themed party.

We never made it there.

Paranoia, paranoia, they're coming to get me.

They’re coming to get me. I think.

See, the way it works is at times I feel like I’m starting to lose my mind. The first time I felt really, truly paranoid, I didn’t think it was a big deal. Years later, I’m realizing that maybe I’ve picked up some residual nonsense from being in the Army. Allow me to recap my few, but silly, moments of worry:

The first time I can remember taking evasive actions I was on a date with a girl I’d call…Crazy. I’m not sure what her name is anymore; this was back in 2006 I think. So I’ll just reference her as Stephanie.
Stephanie and I met in the Netherlands at a club during Carnival, a European bacchanal style week of bizarre costumes, carts of beer, and debauchery. Dressed as a Mexicantje (little Mexican) with a furry cowboy hat, a poncho, and a fake chrome six shooter I was living it up in some club where the music pulsed between raging techno and obnoxious polka. Between rounds of tiny beer slamming and shouting nonsense I ran into a girl dressed like a little cowgirl. We chatted, she played with my gun, and I left with her number. A week or so later she picked me up from a location near my apartment.
I’m not sure at what point we decided it would be a good idea to drive to her stables (wtf?) and visit her horse. (A side note: I hate horses. As a child I’d repeatedly be brought to horse…places, and forced to ride them by my parents. Each and every time I can recall I was kicked. The last time I was promised it wouldn’t happen again. And while on a horse, another horse kicked me. So I hate them. Passionately.) Due to my disdain for horses the event was less than pleasant. And my jokes about eating them didn’t go over too well. But she seemed indifferent, as the more I realized, crazy. Her train of thought didn’t move in ways I was familiar with, or understood. She seemed to be in love with her horse. I know this because a few times she told her horse, in Dutch, that she loved it. And her affection was legitimate. I was clearly disturbed.
When she dropped me off in my village I told her to let me off at a random street, claiming a building I’d never seen before to be my home. Then I walked for 3 blocks, doing random surveillance detection routes (SDRs) to ensure she had no idea where I lived. At the time, I thought it was normal.

The second time was more recently. A couple of weeks ago I went out in the mid afternoon with a friend to grab some food. We met up with a few other friends and had a late lunch. An hour or so later, I left. In the parking lot I observed a man, early twenties, sitting in a gold colored Crown Victoria. Watching me. Observing my movements, and possibly writing them down. I jumped into my car and queued some music while watching him in my side mirror. He continued to stare. So when I left the parking lot it wasn’t very surprising to me that his engine started and he also left the parking lot. Having a small, fast, foreign car with some mystery performance exhaust has its benefits, so I quickly darted onto the street while watching his car. When he turned to follow, I gunned it past two more side streets, made a quick right, hand braked a u-turn, and parked so I could watch. And I waited. And waited. 5 minutes later, I slowly drove forward and looked down the street. And there was no car following me. No purpose to my irrational thought.

Just a few days ago I had a date and I wasn’t sure why, but I wanted to bring a knife. Something about it seemed…Suspect. I would have actually brought the knife, a nice spring loaded Gerber my father sent me, but I completely forgot as I was writing down directions. But the rampant paranoia made me realize that there is something growing inside of me which keeps making me feel crazy. Suspicious. Worried. Paranoid. Made me think about the other times. Made me wonder when the next time will be.

Then again…It’s only paranoia if they’re not after me.

My stomach is growling and I went on a run; unrelated.

So I'm sitting here on a Friday night, ignoring the bars and clubs (more so the bars) which are beckoning my name, because I'm playing the good friend.

Or rather the helpful one.
Earlier I ran 5 miles on the Katy (?) Trail in Dallas. I'm dying to know who this Katy character was, but I'm in no way motivated to look it up. If that isn't laziness I'm not sure what is.
But regardless, at the moment I'm terribly hungry waiting on this rice to boil, or water thats boiling to fix the rice, I'm not terribly certain of what I'm waiting on. But the rice isn't ready and I'm starving.
And I'm starving because my friend, in preparation for his upcoming back to back filming of adult entertainment movies, needed a workout/healthy living buddy for a couple of weeks. So being that I felt I could also benefit with some workout training, I said "certainly, Steven ******, I'll help."
But double (or triple) workouts a day and egg white sandwiches (seriously?) for breakfast are starting to break me. Not to mention, I want to go out and get drunk.

Soon, I suppose.

A drink, a drive and a drunken Keith

Most people, when noticing someone in a jogging outfit running alongside a road at seven AM, think something along the lines of, “There is someone who woke up early and went for a run.” Or, “Look, a dedicated runner with self-control and motivation.”

Most people, most people would be wrong.
***
Jamie called me and I laughed. A few days earlier he’d been posing on his bed in the classic centerfold position; head resting on hand, body lying across the bed, all smiles and fuck me eyes. I couldn’t help but snap a photo with my camera phone of him holding that pose and surrounded by posters you’d only find in a preteen girls room. Although in an attempt to annoy his superiors he adorned his room with the posters, the giant puppy saying “Who needs a hug?” just didn’t do the proper justice outside of image. I had forgotten that the photo was set as his caller ID, so when a centerfold Cheshire grin looked up at me during phone vibrations I hit “accept”.

“Hey bro, I’m on my way over.”
“Cool. I’ll start getting things ready for dinner.”

Jamie arrived and in a blur he and I threw together what ended up being a marvelous dinner. Like a good quarterback sneak it came in looking like a regular performance and ended up being a spectacular play on a normal option. In the midst of it he threw down the bomb which would essentially ruin my evening.

“So, Hack is down and wants to go out. So we’re headed to Silver Wings.”
“Oh..?” I said with anticipation.
“Yeah, you want to go?”

Of course I did. I had no job. No reason to wake up on time for anything, except my workout schedule. And that was my schedule, so it was at my whims.

“Of course I do. Lets roll.”
***
At the bar the sole worker walked out from behind the wood counter and gave us hugs. When you go to a dive that small, they’re bound to remember who you were. Some nonessential chatter later, we had two frosty mugs and a pitcher of Miller Lite sitting at a table. And then it all slowly went downhill.

One pitcher turned to two turned to Jamie ordering Porn Star drop-shots turned to me accidentally ordering another pitcher turned to me drinking every remaining item on the table. By that time Hack and others had come and gone and I was lit. Jamie was kind enough to drive me back to my place where I thought long and hard about the upcoming few hours and decided, fuck it. Why not?

So I grabbed the remaining beers in the fridge, sat down on the couch, and started watching TV. It was only midnight or so, and my 5 mile run could wait until I woke up.

And then I started getting phone calls and more drunk, and chatted with some friends on different coasts and in Europe. And before I knew it, I was 10 more beers deep and the sun was rising and it was 6 am. And I knew without a doubt that any attempt to sleep would end with me waking up sometime in the afternoon, completely unable to function and worthless on a run.

So I did what any self respecting drunkard would do and I downed a Red Bull, are some chips, brushed my teeth, and went for a run. Early in the morning and jogging along to a beat only found in my head. Finished my 5 miles and went on to have more adventures in the day. Slightly buzzed and heavily delirious. Because if you see me running at 7 AM on a Tuesday and thought I was an early riser. Well, you’d be wrong. I’m just in for the ride.

Wake-Up Call

Fuck*. What the fuck was I thinking? It took me more than a minute to ask that simple question of myself, but it made a world of difference.

The phone rang. And rang. It was on vibrate, so the sound was minimal but I could feel it through the sheets. I’d fallen asleep in the fetal position thinking as some last crazed idea, “It has enough battery to last the night. I’ll charge it tomorrow.” Didn’t matter either way, but I still thought it. Forty minutes later I was vibrated awake by some phone call. My eyes, too blurry to read the name, focused on the photo. A girl, early twenties, bright red lipstick, drunk as shit, smiling. Someone I met weeks, or maybe months before. She meant nothing to me. Never had. I hit the button for answer.

“Hello?” Hello. What a word. I could see the picture and not the name so why was I really answering the fucking phone? Because an adventure was, well, an adventure. In whatever form.

“Hey ***, you awake?” She didn’t call me Keith. She knew me as something else, something cuter. How could I not say yes?

“Yeah I’m watchin’ TV.” I lied. Maybe it’s the years in an industry where my purpose is to tell people what they want to hear, or maybe it was because in that delirious stupor I didn’t know if I was or wasn’t watching TV.

“Can you pick me up from Metroplex?” Her voice sounded high. Stoned. Far away.

“The movie theater?” What the hell else would be named that, I mean, really? And didn’t this girl move to Houston shortly after we started hanging out? I live in central Texas. Literally 3 hours away.

“No, the hospital. The emergency one near Fort Hood? You know where it is. Can you come get me? They won’t release me since I had morphine.”

“Oh. Yeah sure. Give me 5 minutes.” If you asked me then I’d have no answer as to why I said yes except I recently watched Yes Man and the idea struck me as valid. Just do it. Even if you’re not into it. Just. Say. Yes.

So I gathered my clothes. A pair of shorts, top button missing but fancy belt adorned. A wife beater. A neato little $5 in Europe sports jacket made of some nonsense material. Felt more like canvas than cotton. Like business than style. No worries.
Jumped in my car, threw some tunes on, and started laughing. And why wouldn’t I? Band of Skulls started playing a track called Friends. And if anything, it is the antithesis of my adventures. Advocating staying with familiarity, locality, and friendship, as opposed to adventure, mystery, and creativity. But I love the song anyway. Enough to turn it up to about 80% volume. Windows down. System up.

I pulled into the Metroplex parking lot after an interesting ride. My car, swerving side to side in a singular lane, would have been a cop’s wet dream at midnight on a Tuesday. Drunks tend to stick to nighttime and weekend schedules. Every now and then I like to mix it up with a good daytime drunk. But this was different. I couldn’t stay straight on the road because my eyes kept closing at the mundane indifference I felt towards helping this girl out. I mean, if everyone I know knows you as “Super Skank”, then you’re probably not the best character to rescue.

I got as far as the window before I realized I should have paid more attention to the last text message sent to me. “***, come to the emergency room and ask for Michelle *******. They’ll move to you me.”

Oh, of course. Why didn’t I think of that? At nighttime the front desk isn’t open. No one is bringing in children for fucking pediatrics. Only drunks, crazed folk and legitimate accidents make it to the emergency room. All of those and Michelle, of course.

Earlier, on the phone, she’d tried to explain what it was had been ailing her. As best I could understand she was in pain. I relocated my car into a useful parking spot and walked straight to the attendant dressed in military camouflage despite his civilian job. I mentioned nothing of the strange style he had chosen and instead said, “I’m here to pick up Michelle *******.” He clicked a few times on his computer and granted me access into a more medical world.

“Follow me,” he mumbled while getting up from his chair. “And meet me in the hallway.”
What the fuck? You want me to follow you and meet you somewhere else? Okay…My movement was punctuated by indecision rather than neglect. Should I move right or juke left? I moved right, took a left, and could have tackled the desk clerk if I was jogging. We walked through a hallway to a security keypad where he diligently smashed the numbers 433751 on the pad. Remember I thought. This could benefit you in need of an escape, or a re-entry. Later, I’d wonder why that of all numbers seemed important. Much later I’d realize it wasn’t important at all. But I still remembered.

We went in, and suddenly a slurred voice from my past piped up. “Hey ***…Let’s go!” I ignored her and focused on the nurse. She seemed to hate us both.

“You need to sign here, here, and here,” random nurse lady instructed Michelle. After asking what each signature was she informed the nurse that she wouldn’t be eating any of the pills given to her. Like the nurse gave a shit.
Michelle kept informing me that the doctors and nurses (collectively) had been conspiring against her because they fucked up originally and couldn’t keep it together. Being of course a friendly person, I admitted yes! They’d done the same to me. Since I didn’t even know the hospital was named Metroplex, I’m surprised she didn’t pick up on my obvious lie. Well, she isn’t the brightest.

Ten minutes later we were walking out. Someone said a muffled ‘goodbye’, a muffled word of advice. We ignored it. Fifteen meters out of the doors I gave Michelle a hug, said her perfume smelled nice, and wished her good luck. She, eyes dilating madly from the drugs and possible brain hemorrhages, said I looked cuter than she remembered and promised not to crash her car. I walked away, figuring that in-so-much as karma rewarded me for waking up and helping someone out, I’d be equally punished for releasing her evil ass unto society behind the wheel of a car. Kind of like Frankenstein. He made the monster for good, but it all turned out so evil...

Not to mention, all I was doing was balancing what I had been presented with. What sounded like an adventure at the start had turned into a cruel joke. And it made me laugh. Even if just sadly.

A week later she’d message me thanking me. My response? Just give me those drugs you won’t eat. I haven’t seen her since.

*I drove into my house and recorded all of this on tape. I have not listened to a word of it since that night. Either my memory is incredibly sound, or my imagination runs rampant. Strange choices. Also, this was written two weeks ago and has been sitting in the hands of my “editor” ever since. I gave up on her. Melanie, you’re fired. Let run rampant the errors.

Rolling Stone

Beat. Step. Beat. Step. Beat. Step. Chorus. Step. My steps were in synch with the music. Green headphones I found through trial and error ignored the sweat dripping into their little musical ports and continued to pump out the melodies I mouthed or shouted during my trek. Schoolchildren clad in red shirts and khaki shorts scattered from my path as I continued to jog, run and sprint. The beat helped me find my pace, helped me find my path, helped me think. And my thoughts were random and crazy. Concrete and asphalt paved the train of thoughts which came and went.

Future plans falling in place to the beat of the run. Post military activities formed a little layout in my head. Each step hammered down another point of focus. Another stage in my plan. Beat. I would travel to New York for a week. Step. I would move to Dallas. Step. I’ll complete personal trainer certification and the Texas Alcohol Bureau Certification exam. Beat. My move to San Diego will come shortly after. Yes. Chorus.

Faster and slower, ebbing and flowing my own tide, I passed things of no consequence. Discarded bottles hidden in tall blades of grass. Hundreds traveling to unknown destinations. Bird and sun and wind and sky. Everything I passed was insignificant. Meaningless. Trivial in comparison to my own thoughts.

The running wasn’t what helped level things though. It was motion. Movement. Travel. All of it brought a sense of euphoria. It always has. The simplest drive through directionless streets left me feeling alive and refreshed. Cross continent flights and last minute tactical landings forced a grin onto my face unparalleled by any conventional means. A long distance run in a giant loop? Same effect. I just chose the activity that coupled exercise with decision making. And it worked. My future perfect lay in a simple track, piece by piece.

Step by step. Just a matter of time until I ran out its course. The first stage of which will come in but only a few days. My legal, and no longer contractual, separation of service from the Active Duty military. T - 6. And counting. Beat by beat.

Waking up in Austin.

I woke with a shudder. Memories from the night before rushed back in waves of clutter and confusion. The usual drinks. The meaningless conversations. The feeling that everyone in Texas is suffering from some sort of pretentious delusion that the 28th state, and themselves by residency, are better simply because of land mass. Vague and blurred images of bars, cabs, and a house party. Purchasing a pint of vodka because it fit into my jeans pocket. Meeting a news producer at a trendy bar I was too under-dressed for. Screaming at a cab driver. Apologizing. Scores of police waiting for the chance to arrest anyone of interest.

And it left a bad taste in my mouth. The sullen realization that these people, these places, all of them were unfitting of who I was. I didn't wake loving the things I did the night prior. I didn't wake with a smile. I woke with a massive hangover. I woke $200 poorer. And I woke wondering why.

As the liquor waited to process through my liver, it further reminded me of the foolish choices and ideas I continually pursue. What benefit was my acquisition of phone numbers from girls I never plan on calling. Or my consumption of terrible tasting liquor. The slamming of beers. Shots of absinthe. Irish car bombs. Double fisting a double gin and tonic with a stream of red headed sluts.

The scalding hotel hand towel wiped the dirt from my face but did nothing to alleviate the morning buzz- the type that demands you either push the envelope or call it a day. Sure, you can try and sober up like a functional member of society, but what benefit would that serve in helping find adventures. Excitement. Things worth noting. So I grabbed the liter of Smirnoff standing guard in the freezer and took a pull. Woke my companions. Escaped the hotel with its "courtyard" vista and semen stains. Chased the adventures I knew I'd one day have.

It was somewhere before stopping for Elk at an overpriced jerky cart but somewhere after swigging vodka in the mall parking lot that the epiphany hit me. It struck me floating along the Colorado River in a kayak that I am letting potential wither away. And potential-potential is a word I loathe. Potential is perpetually a backhanded compliment. It arises in conversation to inform you that yes, you're wasting time. Your time, my time, all time.

But the word wormed its way into my mind's eye. And lazily spinning in a circle, I realized that I'm better than this constant debauchery. As a child, you're told you can do anything you want when you grow up. But as an adult, you realize you've already eliminated so many options that failure isn't even a choice. It's a reality. But potential doesn't have to be spent on lofty goals or socially acceptable job paths. You can use it anyway you want. And my potential? I'll be using it left and right to obtain whatever I desire. What that is, I'm not sure yet. But I'm ready to start the journey of finding out.

And sitting there in water and hardened plastic I realized that I didn't hate the people and places, the acts and events. I hated myself for being so inundated with them. I hated myself for wasting my own time. My spite was self-directed and externally manifested. And completely pointless.

So I paddled back and stopped waiting for life to come find me. I set off to find my own adventure. To make my own adventure. Because this place? It isn't big enough to hold me. Because soon the things I'm going to be doing are going to be bigger than Texas.