On Goals


The Fridge Won’t Fill Itself

Cris and I went grocery shopping yesterday. We have to travel a decent distance to receive reasonable prices on goods. The journey for budget pretzels is about an hour round trip, and is lacking in scenic views, unless you find visual serenity in the world of sheet metal buildings.

building2“Look at that one, Martha!”

Upon arrival at our destination, Cris needed to take a wiz. I stood at the front of the store, cart in hand, looking like a child who’s mother had given up on the traditional views on raising your own children. I pretended to be interested in the new brand of Sriracha Pringles, praying no one would notice my fear of abandonment by way of the tried and true method of break-up “I need to take a wiz”. I’m left leaving the store with no girlfriend, no food and no answers. I waited just long enough to create a profile on match.com, before I see Cris eyeing the produce. She had hoped to meet me there because true love.

grocerystorelove“If you like our sensual strawberries, you’ll love our lettuce panties.”

When I reached her, she was distraught. The look of worry made me realize that she missed me as much, if not more than I missed her. I told her I loved her, and quickly stopped composing my About Me section on okcupid. She stared me straight in the eye and said “The women’s restroom smells like a pile of rotting vaginas. You, as a man will never have to deal with that.”. I concurred and knew the grocery bill would be substantially lower because I no longer wanted to eat, ever.

Through nothing but sheer will and determination were we able to complete the shopping list. Between her dealing with the stench of unclean women and my new found interest in the same sex, we had a lot to sort out.

Our checkout lady, cashier person was our final challenge. I had stepped away to look at something when the initial scanning process started so I don’t know how it came up but I heard her mumble something about Dallas.

Cashier: “Dallas must have like a million people. Maybe more!”

Cris: *defeated* “Yes.” *smile*

Me: *blank stare*

Cashier: “Dallas Cowboys! I don’t like em’ but some people do.”

Me: *defeated* “Yes.” *smile*

Cris: *blank stare*

We wanted to run out the store but instead we lightly jogged. Driving home was as exciting as the ride there.

sheet2-022“I can’t stand all this beauty, Martha. Look at it.”


A Rehab Story

Spending time in an adolescence rehab facility will give you stories for a lifetime. It’s like summer camp for fuck ups and future felons.(They should have put that on the brochure and I wouldn’t have gone kicking and screaming.) Taking a bunch of rebellious drug addicted teens and removing their only source of happiness, leads to giggles of the strangest variety. The place I was sent was an extra special type of bat shit crazy. It was a converted dude ranch. The place was built to resemble an Old West town. Trippy shit. We had horses, the whole nine. Almost all of us were city kids detoxing on a Tombstone set for clowns.

Phillip was the new kid, full of life and not a shred of innocence, although, you couldn’t tell it by his looks. A curly headed, pasty white 14 year old just trying to make a name for himself. He stood about 6’2″ and weighed close to 250. He was big for his age.

“I’ll eat this locker for a bump.”

I can’t say I knew Phillip well. Phillip didn’t last long enough for us to get a good grip on what made him tick. If I had to guess, I’d say Tetris and date raping himself randomly.

We knew Phil had a temper, he’d get worked up and get sent off to the Lock Treatment Unit or LTU. The LTU was a shed of sorts with massive metal doors that took 1000 lbs of pressure to open once they were locked. The building had four parts. Two housing units with three sleeping areas each, a holding area, and a middle section that was plexiglass and held a staff member. You had your clothes taken away and replaced with white scrubs. It was demoralizing in a “Hey, this is what I’d look like in Huntsville!” kind of way. I’m pretty sure that was the point. Phil was on his own kind of high. He seemed to enjoy the place. I hated it. Once, I was there for about five days and by the end of it I was stark raving mad. Nothing made any sense. The only thing I had been allowed to do was read the AA books and stare at pink walls.

The LTU is where the genesis of this story really begins. Phil had been sent there, yet again, for God knows what. We all knew who was in the LTU at any given moment, even though it was outside of our boundaries. All of the staff had walkie talkies, and as soon as someone was put in, we’d hear it over the radios. Phillip couldn’t have been in the LTU for more than an hour when an S.O.S type of call went out over the radios. “Phillip has escaped the LTU! All staff! Phillip has escaped the LTU!”. At the time, I was having my lunch in the cafe. The cafe was on the main strip of our little Deadwood type of hell. It had massive windows overlooking the main courtyard. All of us future winners looked at each other in amusement because to our knowledge this was the first breakout of the LTU. We had all tried, only to be beaten into submission by hard plastic and strong magnets. Turns out, the main LTU door had been left slightly open and Phillip carpe diemed that shit.

A minute or two passes and we pretty much went back to eating because young drug addicts and short attention spans are the ying & yang of bleak futures. To our shock we hear a loud thud emanating from the front of the cafe, by the windows. I whip my head around to see Phillip in his underwear, with the largest grin I had ever seen. He had thrown his large body onto the glass, face smushed into it, arms in the air, and a beaming pride that I imagine any prison break participant would give a stamp of approval. Within a few seconds, we see a male staff member try to tackle poor Phillip but he bounced off and Phillip kept running. We ran to the window to see the whole staff chasing Phil in his tighty whities. It took about five grown men to subdue the man child. Phil was smiling the whole way down.
“Where’s your God now?”

Phil was transferred to a local mental hospital and we never saw or heard from him again.


Coyote’s & Chicken Shit

You know what happens when you live in the boonies without a soul for miles around, besides your gf who is sick and tired of your shit, and you’re chatty? You post irrelevance on the internet.

I’m pretty sure my punctuation is so jacked in the above text, What can you do? Fifth grade was a rough time for me.

A strange occurrence has been going on for the past couple of months. I’m losing weight without trying. I move less while eating just as much. I’ve been mulling over a new diet plan for the masses. I’ll call it “The Biggest Loser”. It requires you to quit your job and to stop seeing your friends. I know I’m stealing a title. Maybe I’ll change it to “The Biggest Looser”. I’ve noticed a common misspelling of the word on the internet so it works. Third grade was a rough time for some. I get it.


On to the bad news. I think I have arthritis. My left hand is giving me fits. I’m too young for such an ailment. It hit me that I turn 35 in a few months. Halfway to 70. Perhaps that’s why I have half the arthritis. I’m not a fucking doctor.

When I gave my pit bull/American bulldog a bath the other day I did so in the nude. My reasoning is solid and is based on not getting my clothes wet. My reasoning for mentioning it is to let you know how Cris has become immune to my ways. She didn’t even bat an eye as I chased him around naked. It’s nice to have someone get you.

We were offered fresh chicken shit to help our yet to be worked on garden. It was quite the gift. The gentlemen who wanted to give it to us, gave very detailed directions to his mounds of chicken shit. I found the spot but alas no chicken shit was found. He must have moved it. I didn’t know chicken shit was such the commodity that it required strategic hiding spots and black ops type of movements. I haven’t called him to find out its new location because that just seems like an awkward conversation.


“I sold the shit, Keg. Flu season is over. Walgreens needed a gimmack.”

Have I told you about Cris’s collection of beetles? No? Okay. Cris has managed to acquire two colonies of beetles that are of the eating dead flesh variety. They clean bones. We feed them leftover drumsticks and deli meat. The beetles make homes and breed in styrofoam. We feed beetles leftovers. I’m not sure where my life is headed.

I’m the worst hunter in the region. First off, I’m not a huge fan of killing. I don’t have the heart for it anymore. I do however need to keep the coyote population in check because they don’t share my stance on killing. I think they would if they had their own grocery stores. Secondly, hunting takes dedication, patience and stealth. I’m none of these things. So, what I do is grab my coyote call, set it up at way too close of a distance for any coyote not stricken with schizophrenia to get near, sit in the bed of my truck and play on the internet. I occasionally look up. I’m not distraught about it. I enjoy nature amongst the backdrop of dying jackrabbit sounds in the distance. I’ll play with the call features here and there by simultaneously playing dying bunny with female coyote howl. I feel like a DJ for a redneck rave. I imagine a bunch of camo’d up bearded men having spasms to the sweet melodies of my stellar nature mixes.


“You have a mighty fine erection, Carl.”

“DJ Buckshot gets me real amped up, Peter.”

I’m done being chatty now. All this socializing is mentally draining.


Release My Way

Deciding to start a blog was not the easiest decision for me. I, perhaps out of ignorance or maybe stubbornness, viewed blogs as a low form of attention seeking, a public diary for all to mock. My habit of writing mile long Facebook posts led me to research different avenues and to give blogging a shot. I tried a few other websites in my search but all were too restrictive on content or structure. I’ve never done well in being told what to do in creativity. I cuss, I make socially weird statements. Basically, I make written doo doo.
The normal schematic for attacking a blog is identifying your message, articulating and sharing. Most successful blogs are technical in nature, in that they tell you detailed ways to perform a task. Anything from raising a baby, playing cello, playing a baby cello, kidnapping in the modern age, or building a PC with witchcraft & kitty litter. I have no technical skills, even if I did I couldn’t use up what little energy I have into trying to position myself as an expert. The internet is chocked full of “experts”. I’m not thick skinned enough to deal with the ridicule of the web. I deal more in philosophical matters and human interactions, where right or wrong are subjective and debatable. Essentially, I’ve created the least likely to succeed form of blogging. No tips, plenty of opinions and no filter.
I went back to my Facebook news feed to find subject matter to write about. My desire was to find a snippet here or there that would inspire me to expound upon it’s seed. What I took away was my attention seeking ways were shit. My writing was low grade and reaching. I folded my laptop up. I ate dinner. While chewing my food, I beat the piss out of myself and digested my foolishness.
A big influence on my life has been the late Joseph Campbell. If you’re not familiar with his contributions, he spent his entire life studying mythology and how it relates to the human condition. A marvelous intelectual. He was discussing the symbolism of the dragon in certain cultures and how it represents fear. My dragon has always been my own creation. My own head. After a good bit, I decided to give in to the positive thoughts and proceed with this blog. My message is me. My goal is to articulate my meaning of life. I promise honesty and nothing else.
It better make a million fucking dollars.


Ruined People Go To Wal-Mart

We went to Wal-Mart. I’ve come to realize that that statement is the equivalent of “Nothing good happens after 2am.”. If you fancy the dregs of society showing off the latest in meth fashions, or people begging for a slow death while saving a dollar, than Wal-Mart is your place.

Walking through the parking lot, I saw a perfectly capable woman using one of those scooters meant for people who’s legs don’t effing work. She hit the gas, trying to beat me through the doors. I quickened my pace and cut her off, just to prove what moving your working legs can really do. I’m not saying I’m a hero but I do try to make a difference in the community.


“We need Gatorade, Debbie. I plan on getting up later.”

The first section we went to was produce. I watched a 19 year old, very tall for his race Asian boy pick his nose and directly proceed to manhandle the tomatoes. It was all one fluid motion. Booger to tomato ninja. I immediately looked at Cris, pointed at Yao Ming and explained to her his sin. After that, I feared every non peeling item. I didn’t want to be there anymore.


While loitering around the dairy section, pretending to check expiration dates on milk, a family of three strolled by. I noticed the mom first. Probably no more than 22, but she could have passed for 47. Her makeup was smeared in a way that only heroin can provide. She seemed to use eye liner as an homage to Pollack. The pail, clammy skin made me feel more black than listening to Jesse Jackson while watching Tyler Perry in ‘Madea Kills A Honkey’. The girls husband was rather rotund and could have easily played in ‘The Walking Dead’; no direction needed. The sad part was the screaming toddler in the cart. The boys face was completely covered in some sort of mess that could have been chocolate or dirt. I don’t know. Me being the piece of shit that I am, I ran to the cheese, where Cris was actually trying to accomplish something, and told her she needed to go look. These winners were hauling ass however, she never caught up.


To round out my trip down The Skid Row of Savings, I went to the restroom. As soon as I made the right into the potty, a woman was staring at me. Not an employee mind you. I knew I was in the right place because I saw urinals, and unless the women’s rights movements has gone too far, it was not a ladies room. The woman was covered in bad tattoos and looked like she smelled of spoiled cocoa butter. I give her props though. Her reason for being in there was to help her man adjust his drawers. I honestly have not the foggiest idea what they were doing. He had his pants about halfway down the crack of his ass, as she stood behind him pulling at something. I watched while I relieved myself. They occasionally looked up at me so I figured we were even. I thought that maybe she was helping him with his colostomy bag. My mind was on overdrive as I also thought they may be stuffing balloons filled with angel dust up his anus. I looked him straight in the eye when I walked out to try to get a read on his plight. He just gave me that “What can you do, life sucks?” look.

I hope this brings you some sort of peace about where you are in your life.


Introduction to WTF

I wrote this back a few months before moving to the nowhere I’ve now been for five months.

I’m about to walk into my bosses office and notify him that December 31st will be my last day. A new chapter, my friends. Join me in my journey of self exploration! For once, I mean that in a semi serious way, not as a way to get you to watch me make a pee. Cris and I are moving our life operation to a farm in West Texas. A farm in the middle of nowhere. No distractions, no humans, no coloreds or queers, and we plan on changing all that. We will be renting out the Dallas house and putting down the dogs. We even tattooed each others initials on our buttocks. It’s an exciting time. Love and ritual killings are in the air. Hopefully, you’ll understand that most of what I just said is nonsense. We are moving however, as life deserves a change of scenery.

Watching my work life become stagnated over the past decade has been a gut wrenching experience. A drop of time is all we have and I’ve spent the better part of it doing chores I do not want to do. Serving masters that are not what I want but what I’m told I need. Often times I’ll go into imagination land and dream up a scenario that I’m dying. I’ll attempt to feel all the emotions, all of the joys and all of the remorse. Usually I’m old in this scenario because a young death sucks thinking that way will only lead to group therapy sessions. Lately though, my dreary imaginary world has been me in my youth. I began to wonder why. The reason was simple, being old is not far off, dying is not far off. I’ll still feel youthful in my spirit yet my body will deceive me and decay into dusty dust, dust, dust. Very sad stuff. Wondering if I would look back on my life fondly is no longer an option I care to contemplate. I know these questions and thoughts are as old as basic human thought but they’ve been around for a reason. Accepting and fighting mortality is at the very nature of a balanced life and I feel as though the people who have the greatest grasp on this thought process also live the greatest lives.

Not that my work life has been some horrible Guantanamo Bay type of existence. It’s been fine. It’s been fair. It’s been decent. The mediocrity will lull you into a false sense of happiness and fulfillment. Insurance, 401K’s, weekends off, running water, and paid holidays are not much salve for a restless mind. I began to view them as cages. The worst of cages at that. Cages where you view the bars as privileges. It goes without saying that the items purchased with this middle class wealth only padded the cages and added decaying luxuries.

The most strenuous part of my desire to change my day to day life was deciding what the motherfuck to do. I don’t like very much and I have little to no passion. The question of how I’d spend my life if given any option in the whole wide world has always been a depressing one. I’m lazy, no motivations, no desires. Fame or fortune is of little interest. Working with my hands to create is laughable. I can’t make a straight line with a ruler, pencil and a fist full of Adderall. The laziness is my problem. Always has been. The devil on my shoulder has little interest in fucking the cute girl while in a monogamous relationship or stealing toilet paper from the office bathroom. No, my devil wants me to sit down. Sit the fuck down! Do nothing. I hate him. Unfortunately, the angel is too busy sleeping or jerking off to the cute girl to give me any help. Overall, I need new conscience representatives. I’ve put out an add in the Greensheet, wish me luck. It’s real difficult to talk yourself into making a change when the light your soul is reaching for is a half burnt out twinkle light leftover from a childhood Christmas. At times, the change seemed to be more bleak than my current situation. Total darkness. If all I’m gonna do is sit around, get fat and cynical than I should just stay put. What’s the old saying? Better to dance with the devil you know or some shit like that.

A pattern started to emerge, a flow of similar sentiments kept reaching me. I ignored them at first. People say dumb shit all the time. Filler for lack of imagination. I never viewed myself as a writer in any way shape or form. But that’s what people kept saying. “Be a writer. Are you a writer? You should write. You make me laugh. I check your Facebook page everyday to see what your crazy ass came up with. Seriously, write.” Since this was never my life goal,- What’s a life goal?-I didn’t know how to respond nor what to do. It felt amazing, making people laugh, helping them to go to places their minds won’t normally go, and maybe getting them to think about things in a nonconformist way. I’m no writer! No training. I don’t even have a a god damn G.E.D. I let these thoughts be the consensus. After all, a Facebook post is not a novel. What was I going to do? Write a book of Facebook posts? Fuck you. Thanks for the kind words but I’m a moron and you don’t know shit about shit. A funny thing happens when positive words get thrown at you. Over time you begin to believe them. Right or wrong, you believe them. I’ll write.

What I’ll write about is anyone’s guess. I have no plan.  I don’t plan any writing. Don’t know how. Maybe short stories, maybe romance novels for a new generation complete with details of modern lovemaking like Plan B and difficulty in achieving erections in the throws of porn addiction. I don’t know. What I do know is making people smile makes me happy. You could replace the word smile with squirm and I’d feel the same. I’ll mix the two and have success yet I’ll surely fail as well. I’m good with that. At least i tried.  I do not claim expertise or superiority. Quite the opposite actually, I claim an empty tank, and maybe my emptiness in ways of writing or literature in general will serve me.

The excitement of a new chapter has been delightful. The writing is only a small part of what I care to accomplish. Cris and I have plans to do comedic videos (sex tapes), a couple web pages (critical reviews of sex tapes) and any other type of creations we can come up with. Cris has been designing her clay creatures and I’m really excited for what she’s going to be able to do. We plan on learning to be more self sustaining by learning to can, grow food and butcher. So much life and so little time!

I shared this with all of you for two reasons. One- like it or not, y’all have helped form this plan, and for that I thank you from the bottom of my heart. Two- accountability, by laying out my plans I think it will add incentive to achieve at least a fraction of them. I’ll ask more from you down the road in regards to sharing our bologna or visiting our websites. I won’t spam to death and I’ll always appreciate any feedback. I’ll return the favor in any way I can. Wish me luck.