River runs wild and I do not fear
Afraid of nothing as the wind it tears
Casting shadows on the days of old
A winter dream, caught in the cold

Spraying angels in the burly snow
My mind lays with you as the months they flow
another season spins, the leaves return
waiting for the summer sun, to feel the burn

But your not here, no your far away
Edges of my sweater, crack and fray
from the miles of dreams Ive been walking through
The winding road that never leads to you

I've dusted bibles and twisted prayers
Thought of fate and your wind-blown hair
The drink and smoke only clog my mind
Makes me fall deeper and far behind

I write letters on postcards form foreign seas
Tell my mother, I'm making a man of me
But I'm just a boy lost and torn
My heart battered, dark and worn

My facade strapped tight and my nails filed
Parted hair with a crooked smile
They all pat my back and say job well done
Nobody knows my battles never won

The Expected Stuggles of a Married Man - Part 1

Upon recently moving offices I have become privy to elicit exposure to the lives and personal intricacies of my colleagues. Te close quarters allow monitor browsing, food sniffing, fart avoidance, excessive use of obnoxiously loud Dr. Dre Beats earn phones, and of course the listening in on  personal conversations allowing me to tactfully pontificate upon what I have just heard with friends who are not in the office.

The most recent spark of interested came from N--- who was speaking with his wife on the phone. On the whole, it was incredibly uneventful and I can only assume he was talking about picking up his kids, or rather having to be picked up since the family owns one car and his wife is in possession of it. What I clung onto like a gator navigating a swamp and finding his pray hiding behind a darkened tree branch was this:

Life as a married man starts off completely fulfilling. You feel wholesome, you feel new, you are embarking on a journey. Its sort of like a trip to Florida for the weekend. You are on the plane after work, drinking whiskey, contemplating new relationships with strangers from 800 miles away. Not sure what you are going to do but you know you will drink, it will be fun, maybe weird like a finger in the ass or a chick wearing vampire teeth while your fuck. Then you do go, it is fun, your ass hurts, and your brain is numb, but its over. You have to get back on the plane an return home to your mildly monotonous job with a mediocre salary (after spending roughly 43% of your monthly income). You had the journey, now you realize you are back to reality. The journey just fucking blows, and you never have time just turn the music on, with your headphones on full blast because its rude when you are on a lifelong trip with someone else. You can no longer be selfish or even really drink. 

You are now on a journey of judgement. You cant shit where you eat or eat while you shit. You cant pick up a Chad Kultgen novel and say "this is intriguing literature" without being called a masogynistic asshole. You cant call up your buds on "movie night" for a change of pace, because its insensitive. Your journey is now not really a journey at all, its a sentence. This sentence is made up of 15 life long consecutive sentences. You're prison fucked. 

So as I talked to my friend about this concept of marriage we quickly fell into a bit of satirical banter. The focal point was Fantasy Football. Fantasy is something I enjoy now, and I really get into it. But Fantasy Football for the married man is like Poker Night, it is like water, or oxygen, it is needed not for enjoyment, but for survival. It acts simply as an escape from the reality path he is forced to meander down, only to find the road does not diverge. It simply curves and winds to its inevitable beginning, leaving him only to be able to say "this is my nightmare," for it is truly mine.

I told my friend that on the same night that I invite him to a poker night at my house, he should immediately delete my number and write down on a sticky note the date. This date represents the day we stop becoming friends and concurrently my social life has been taken out to the small, flower infested backyard (which I was forced to plant on a Saturday) and shoot it right in the fucking face.

After poker night organizations are established in order to keep one ounce of dignity stored for the lack thereof a social life, you fire up a riskier move - Fantasy Football. Wives must hate Fantasy Football. FF take up an incredible amount of time in a males life; drafting, setting weekly rosters, pending trades, lost waivers, injured players, sports news reading in the morning, more trades, FUCKING GAME DAY. They HATE FF with a fire-like passion. Allowing FF to enter their husbands lives is like women being gifted with a 50 Shades of Gray TV show that is on 4 days a week. They become second best and everything they do is simply a backfill priority, receiving all the unwanted traffic, or shitty time that sneaks through.

In order to get FF off the ground, the coniving, yet loving husband must send out invites for a draft. Now that he is balls deep into this "partnership," they share everything. Things that he thought was his own, including his testicles, are not. His college email that he somehow uses still as a mode of conversation - not his. His cell phone is now simply a quicker avenue for her to get in touch when he is picking up the jumbo sized tampons. His pants, he didn't pick out, so therefore not his. He literally has no known possessions, besides his hotmail email account, which is usually not good for anything other than SPAM rape, and porn registrations. He sets up a time and date for the secret FF draft, thinking that if he could at least get the league started without his wife knowing she will not ruin him and make him drop out, therefore removing his balls and shipping them to Lithuania. Package addressed to: Chantel with a note saying "these will not be needed anymore."

He sends out the email that has all the info and he states clearly "Gentlemen, please DO NOT, under any circumstances, make the mistake of RSVPing to my Gmail account, my wife knows the password and she will bring this idea down like Haiti's political structure."
- Of course one asshole friends sends him an email to his Gmail thinking that he was kidding about his request.

Two weeks later, after the beginning of the 2012 FF season, disqualifying the group form involvement, he sends a follow up email. This time it is sent from Constant Contact, a service that requires you to pay a monthly fee at a high rate in order to send private emails and manage them from a third party location:

Dear Friends and Fucking asshole suckface, slut-bitch, titty slapping JAKE,

Due to a lack of ability to follow instructions there will be no Fantasy Football this season. My wife logged into my gmail two weeks ago claiming that she needed to print off our airline tickets to West Virginia, where her third cousin is getting married....next July. She was fortunate to stumble upon Jake, who thinks his humor is as funny as his community college degree's, email, and threw a temper tantrum that rivals Rainman when he is not allowed to count the things he wants. Needless to say I am currently sleeping on the futon I rolled into the unfinished basement. Yes, the futon from college. On top of that she has hidden all of my phone chargers so I was only able to fire up this iPod touch that the 8 year old neighbor left here last week while mowing the lawn - can't believe I had to pay the shitstick 10 bucks for that. However looking back it is a 10 dollar iPod that I can slowly access internet on. Sorry for any typos, I am using an online fucking email program on a first generation Ipod touch with a scratched screen. Fuck you Jake, sorry guys.

Me

Fast forward one year.

Hey Guys,

This is a mass message. I know this is a dating site and you think this is one of those gay dudes popping off a queer message to see your dick and send it to his aunt, but its me. I'm pretty fucking jealous you guys are all on here, chicks are smoking hot. I am also sarcastically glad we have to communicate this way. Things have really taken a turn to the dark side at home and I simply cannot move forward amicably. I have upgraded since the last time we talked (11 months and 2 weeks ago) to and iPad. I bought if off the same squirly bitch neighbor who noq extorts me by charging 15 bucks to mow my 10x15 sq foot lawn. I snapped the floor boards in the deck and hid this bad boy in a plastic zip lock bag so i can use it to message you guys. This is an invite to the Fantasy Football 2013 draft (location sent later). I hope you all can make it, I chose not to add Jake on here who I hope dies of herpes to the brain. If you guys need to reach me I whipped out a Cricket mobile account with prepaid minutes. I have 37 minutes which I estimate will be the exact amount needed to field all your RSVP's and questions. George - dont get long winded and talk about how much money you made fishing last year. After the RSVPs are confirmed I plan on burning this phone and dropping it in the Long Island sound so my wifey wont ostracize me from all my friends for another full calendar year. 

(The guy with no balls)

Happy wife, happy life. NO. Happy wife, dead husband. 

How would you do it?

It is a bit peculiar that I had this thought earlier this morning, only hours away from boarding a plane to a tropical city to fuck my liver over for two days and stare at girls in bikinis that are 2-3 sizes too small. But - as I was walking off the T, and throughout my 7 minute walk to the office, I was people-watching. People-watching is fun, but can also be dark. Today, I was looking around trying to make an inference.

I was staring subtly at each person that  I passed by and those as far as my less than adequate contacts would allow, trying to guess a percentage. I was wondering what percentage, and who precisely, legitimately thought about killing themselves before. If my cerebral cortex decided that person had in fact, thought intently about ending their existence, I stared through them a bit to guess how they would have done it.

Let's escape the fact that anyone reading thinks I'm a complete sociopath with a psychopathic drip. You also might assume that I was shallow in my analysis and that I just assumed that the homeless, morbidly obese, mother carrying 4 children with no father in sight, the guy with warts on his neck, the insanely skinny girl probably suffering from a mildly to moderate eating disorder (another assumption) would be the choices. Give me a little more credit. My 7 minutes of skimming went a bit beyond the surface, and i truly thought about each one. There are plenty of well dressed people, carrying Louis Vuitton bags, rocking a pair of Ferragamo's or Guisseppe's, who drive home in their Porsce Panamara and enter their 3000 sq ft. luxury apt suite that want to take 45 Xanax, fire up a noose in their living room or overzealous balcony and let the world kiss their ass goodbye.

I feel all of us are on the cusp of losing it sometimes and we say it quietly, resting on the back of our breath, "fuck this, I want to die." What pushes us over the edge? When is it too much? Why do some people have a stronger threshold for rummaging through the trash that populates our life and brings us down? Why can one woman who has lost her husband in war, has kid battling Leukemia, and is unemployed on her last food stamp check, wake up make a cup a coffee and carry forward amicably? Meanwhile the broker who is about to lose his job because a slip in the market resulting in his trips to Smith and Wollensky's to be cut to 3 times a week instead of five, is waking up praying for a razor blaze sharp enough to cut through his heart.

I picked 11 people that I thought had wanted to kill themselves. Admittedly I could only choose methods for 4 people, it takes a long time to assess the inner working of a persons mind from far away and decide which path they would take to leave the world behind, exiting triumphantly, passionately and alone. Now, I am not a suicide expert, I don't think, but I know how I would do it. I will save that for another post. I basically made my assumptions on how they would do it on the following factors:

1. How artistic they appear - Creativity level
2. How angry or strangely happy their faces are: A very angry face may go violently or at least make a show of it, a super happy person might make even more of a show if it.
3. Their height - Taller people are more likely to worry about setback with hanging.
4. Sex - Makes a difference, just does.
5. Possible religion - In times of death i think people stay true to what their god, or lack thereof would think. They are looking for some sort of acceptance.
5. And which direction they were heading on the street - One way was a good part of town the other a bad one.

I am not really sure where I am going with this post, but it was just something I was thinking about this morning. On a morning when I was happy, work was good, Florida was in the near future, sex life was spontaneous and affluent, this is when I had the darkest of thoughts. Kind of makes me think that I could be wrong in my assumptions with people this morning. The person I thought least likely to end it all already set up a Dexter like lab at their apt, ready to put themselves in a noose, slit their wrist with a butter knife repeatedly, while pulling a string attached to a door that compresses a trigger of a .44 cal to blow their brains all the way to Vietnam.

Who knows.

Train Sounds

Our divine individuality, innate inequality and overall originality stems from freedom and our ability to act, do, play, dance, fuck, cry, write, sing, for the most part, as we please. We all march differently and to a different beat. While we may not be able to create counterfeit funds, spent them on cheap Polynesian hookers, and go on at looting spree while using the lords name in vain, we do have an overwhelmingly sophisticated freedom - a far cry from the characters of Orwells world.

A humorous thing happened on the train, entertaining yet acquainting. While riding on the notoriously slow, and inevitably problem stricken green line, its fate occurred. Due to the fact the green line runs above and below ground and is the older of the lines in the great city of Boston, it stopped. Even more impressive, it not only stopped but seemingly shut down. Initially I had gone through my 30 second Courtney Love panic attack wishing for a Xanax, checking my armpits for sweat, frantically locating the nearest exit only to find that it is blocked by what is likely to be 30 feet of man manipulated concrete. My overzealous mind tricked me into believing that this fucking horribly constructed, only mildly ventilated hot box of transportation may be stuck in this state for hours. Unfortunately this did not happen. The only reason why I saw unfortunately is that after I could calm the sweats, encourage myself that I do not need drugs for everything and opened a book, I found a very attractive young female. I think given another hour or two in the moving pile of emotion I could have convinced her to cut her losses, grab a coffee with Frangelica, skip work to head back to my place and see how the Tempurpedic holds up. 

Good lord, you win some, lose some. 

While the train was essentially shut down; standing still, lights dimmed, engine ceasing to run, and all was silent, something more transparent occured. 1. Jay-Z and Foster the People do not sync up well at all. 2. 87% plus or minus 2% were listening to headphones. Of that 85-89%, 0% had high enough quality headphones to keep the sound contained to their ear cavities, letting their musical choices soar out into the open train for all to hear. Had my headphones not just suffered a severe fatality while running this morning, I would be among the majority, but luckily I was not. I was fortunate enough to tune into the melodic jumble of over 25 different masterpieces coming from my colleagues on the train of "go fuck myself." 

They say that the one good thing about music is that you feel no pain, unless of course it is every genre mixed together and its about as painful as cuddling with a sick cat. Once I was able to move forward amicably from the horrendous blend of notes, I started to isolate the sounds and finally meet my fellow riders. The Asian man, roughly 26 years of age, with a nice watch was listening to  Luther Vandrose, "Dance with my Father." One could infer he just lost someone close to him, which may or may not explain his saddened, yet hardened facial expressions. The very professionally dressed young women nearest to my right was listening to Juicy, by Notorious BIG. I could tell her inner self wanted to just use the isle as her own personal dance floor and shout out racial slurs, not to be racist, just because she wanted to sing the song in its entirety. Let it ride sister, I wont judge you. 

As I moved down the line I found the songs to be more and more interesting, and of course I did not recognize some of them. One person was listening to a song I had just recently heard, and it was rather obscure, so I was excited. Once i heard duo play a couple weeks back I listened to the entire album and found that the artist were in LA, struggling to make their way (ignore rhyme) and each song was about a memory. I then inferred that she is new to the city, possibly starting a new job in Cambridge and can relate to these young storytellers. The artist was Kenneth Pattingale and Joey Ryan aka the Milk Carton Kids, if anyone cares.  

As I continued to listen during the short 12 minute stop I convinced myself that I knew a little more about the people around me, and the beat they march to. I started thinking more about what I listen to, when I listen to it, and why. I also found myself confused. Why do I go to bed and sleep to Alexisonfire, then get pumped up to run to gaslight anthem? The answer is that we are all constructed differently, our legs move appropriately to the way a dissonant sounds hits our ears, and it is completely inconsistent the next person. We all have a playlist, what is on yours? I think I'd like to listen to it, I may like to meet you. 

We are all Storytellers

Human beings have always told their histories and truths through parable and fable. We are inveterate storytellers.” (Beeban Kidron)

There are few things I get depressed over, other than the loss of a close acquaintance or the bottom of a scotch bottle. Whenever I spend too much time away from the keyboard or putting the pen to the sepia tone pad my ex girlfriend gave me back in high school, I am saddened. Whether we are truthful or prevaricated we tell a story, and it is important to someone, if not then to ourselves, to write.

Through every piece of fiction we find factions of truth - A character that shares mass similarities with a childhood friend, a struggle that parallels a the authors family member, a reality in the story that was a lifelong dream. I tend to read fiction because it is in the falsities that I find the true inner being of the writer. I see their desires between the black print and folded back pages. I highlight points where their true self is most transparent.

For lack of a better term, I hope that I am an open book. I find with literature, and the stories that I most relate to, are written by authors who are the most vulnerable. They are willing to bleed a bit on the pages and not worry about the cuts and bruises being exposed to sunlight. This doesn't mean the artist has to get all Edgar Allen in order for me to to have some sort of semblance of respect for them. The Picture of Dorian Gray is not beautiful because it is gloomy, but rather it is nebulous and invokes thought stemming from a character who is doomed from the life he chose to lead and his Faustian bargain. Oscar Wilde, a man who rose into societal acceptance debuting as an actor only to be exiled leading to his imminent death, wrote with passion and unprecedented prose.

So as I stroll through life pontificating with strangers, friends, family and foes, I write. I tell the stories that are true to me, or at least part of my subconscious. Our history is told through parable and fable, without storytellers, the world rotates on its axis and the days are numbered, but everything is left in the dust. Now some may argue that is it best to let the past die, and only to carry forward the favorable parts. This form of thought/story natural selection seems the furthest thing from natural. We should remember the growth of the trees and the wildfires that brought them down. Whats the point of knowing your best sexual encounter without remembering the erectile dysfunction scenario? Maybe some want to push that shit away and move forward amicably but not I. Any writer who ignores the facts, positive or negative, is doing the reader and themselves a disservice, present and more importantly, future.

Live, write, die, and do it again.

The Rapid Decline of "The Relationship"

It is less the anatomy of the relationship that I want to focus on, but rather the morphology. Morphology, a term that relates to the structure of organisms, does not have to be so strict. It does not only pertain to the inner workings of the human body but to all things that change, all things that are subject to a paradoxical shift. I write this as an introduction and will bring in a co-author for this post to vent on an inherent downside, at least biographically speaking, from this vicissitude.

One can see from just reading an excerpt for Fitzgeralds This Side of Paradise, that there has been a massive metamorphosis in the roles, attitudes, and dispositions of the sexes. What used to be orthodox is far from it today. In Fitzgerald's mostly autobiographical tale of young Amory Blaine, the main protagonist meets and inspiring women named Rosalind. Depicted as a strong-natured women, infatuated with worth, vanity, and having others discover its preponderance. Quoted, her philosophy is "carpe diem for herself and laisssez faire for others.  He instantly falls in love with her, in not much of a different way than men fall in love today, by kissing her.

This tale, taking place in 1920, unfolds much differently than things tend to today. The young egotist falls hopelessly, and in an all encompassing way, in love with Rosalind. She was only 19 years of age, dependent on a rich father, but much more mature than the 23 year old Blaine. From the moment they met over her elegantly fashioned armoire, he was ruled by her hand. She could play with him as if he was a a 2 foot tall marionette. A women of Rosalinds stature needed to date a man well beyond her years, as many times women of her age did, then.

Today, while we do see people marrying older, or younger, it often doesn't occur. Two people feel obligated to oblige by societal norms rather than conforming to contemporary thought. They often date at the same age, where maturities do not match. The societal paradigm shift can be blamed for this and the inevitable downfall of many relationships.

Additionally, the role of the woman is has obviously changed, and it take no morphology investigator to point this out - far from a social archealogical finding. It does change the relationship. As the women becomes more secure in herself, as she should be due to having more of a role in the family than childbearing and upbringing, things change. Not that the wealth and success of a man in not an asset, but it simply is no longer a sole concern. As we reach back to the Rosalind/Blaine example, occupation, or inherited wealth was on of the first things analyzed on a decision matrix to wed. One simple thing this does in young relationships is make the man less secure. The dinner that he buys is accepted and appreciate, but it wasnt needed....and perhaps she could have bought a nicer one.

Lastly, is the amount of people we meet. 5 degrees of separation has always existed, but now, with social media, online dating, and extended families it is more like 2 degrees of separation. By googling anyone, you are sure to find a connection. In the "old days," a cliche term I could not help but indulge, you only met so many people. The thought of settling, though you would never call it that, was not a bad idea. Today, we are obsessed with the "next best thing," and the fear that this is not our fated path.

With all that being said, and in attempts not to be too long winded. I'll hand over the conversation to a DC colleague of mine. My apologies for any slight vulgarity. #sorrybutnotsorry

_________________________________________________________________________________

Let me begin with a revelation I had on the bus the other night.  It’s no secret that while in a relationship with a girl, managing her and your friends is similar to a ballroom dance between psychologists. In the name of complete transparency, a ballroom dance in which I’ve always stepped on a couple toes and ended up dropping the girl on her ass during the dip because I’m a little drunk.

Anyway, here’s how I see things shaping up- five distinct stages of what happens on Saturday night.

·         You go out with your friends, I'll go out with my girls, and we'll meet up later! :)

·         You go out with your friends, I'll go out with my girls but text you most of the time, and we'll meet up later!

·         You go out with your friends, I guess, and I think I'm just going to hang out at home tonight. Maybe you can come by at like 11:30ish?

·         We can go out for dinner with our friends.

·         We have no friends.

This makes me hate dating women. No matter how much vetting out you do beforehand in that datey, honeymooney phase, things will always shape up this way.

Every single time. As soon as I drop the hammer and crush this girls’ dreams of matrimony and parenthood- the very instant that their parents go from enamored to disgusted by the mentioning of my name- the girls immediately revert to step one. She begins the cycle all over with some new unsuspecting guy that’s just trying to soak his meat stick in her baby hotel.

This isn’t just a hair-brained theory from a guy cracked out on Redbull vodkas, HGH, and Got 2 Be Glued. This is real shit people. I’m a mother fucking young professional who, by and large, is a productive member of society.

The proof’s in Zuck’s pudding: exactly two weeks after a girl becomes single, my aforementioned cycle begins. You see it. Old friends who she hasn’t talked to since the early days of your relationship start coming out of the woodwork with extensive wall-to-walls. I see posts and think, honestly- Where the fuck was this girl when we dated? This seems like the absolute coolest girl ever. Oh wait, shit. THAT IS THE SAME GIRL THAT I MET A YEAR AGO, PRE-TRANSFORMATION. Super fun, sarcastic, going out and getting drunk all the time, really close to her friends.

Then as soon as we start dating the friends get more and more distant. The nights out begin to become rarer and rarer. Oftentimes without you realizing it or wanting it, this girl is subtlety making herself more available for you. And if you’re not around, she’s making herself more available to craft text messages that rival War and Peace in length and putting calls into AT&T customer service to try and get the 7 page SMS limit increased.

The distance of friends increases. The level of fun gets lower and lower. Until finally the girl just evolves into a sour bitch with me as basically her only friend.

I don’t fucking understand how having a boyfriend does this to girls. Girls that, when you meet them, are so fucking mysterious, in-control, and confident that your dick twitches thinking about them in a meeting at work in full length pencil skirt.

It’s really about having a girl that you want around. And in the beginning, this façade of a woman is fucking cool! You love to have her around. Hey, meet my friends! Let’s get wasted! Then as things devolve… you fucking hate having her around. Texts from her are like little 160 characters-or-less punches to the thick root in between your legs.

In the beginning, you go out together, have your groups of friends meet up, etc. It’s fucking awesome! It’s fun. You’re enjoying their company and getting laid more than you ever will in your goddamn life (pure frequency here). I would date that.

But then, as the relationship moves forward, the friends get pushed away. I do not fucking understand it. And I am honestly not sour on any of my past relationships- honestly- best of luck in your new LDR with the guy in the national guard you went to highschool with.

The worst thing about this? IT’S GOING TO HAPPEN AGAIN! This cycle is going to play out a few more times in my life, despite my best attempts at mitigating it. I can’t stop it! It’s like I’ve seen the fucking movie in the Ring and now I’m just waiting for my 7 days to pass with my dick in my hand.

What’s the solution? Can the cycle be broken? Some guys say you can give a slight push- start going out with only your friends until she follows suit. That MAY help briefly- I tried this tactic and it led to her old best friend being looped back into her social calendar for once-a-month after work margaritas. And while she was there, the more of that sweet sweet sour mix and Jose entered her bloodstream, the faster those bony, malnourished fingers were flying on her iPhone keyboard. And to my dismay, she didn’t have the balls to just find another guy to satiate her hunger for communiqué (I would have welcomed her cheating at this point just to have a reliever in my goddamn bullpen).

This is going to sound horrible and it’s going to hit your palette like misogyny that’s been fermented in ball sweat to increase its potency.  But there’s an honest, horrible truth about all of this, boys and girls. Women are weak. They’re fucking weak! They’re weak and dependent on men- for everything. Not dependent like, I need his money to pay my bills; dependent like, I need the approval and attention of a man in order to be fulfilled in life. Women have transgressed from 1919 and are in a much better position to be omnipotent and rule a relationship. I’d welcome that- they simply choose not to. They still become submissive and revert back to the days of their great grandmother Muriel.

How did this creature even make it this far in the human race? I’m telling you, if they were stripped of the baby machine they’d die out in a generation. When the going gets tough and shit happens- disease, natural disasters, international conflict, the men would step the fuck up and handle that shit, granted with a little gritting of the teeth and testicles slightly retracted towards the tummy, but they’d fucking get it done. Afterwards, he might go take a breather, have a drink, go out and do a weird drug he hasn’t seen since college.  But it’s over. Where would the women be? In the fucking broom closet with a box of tissues, trying like the goddamn dickens to clean up the mascara that’s dripping down their face, turning them into a really sad excuse for a Cirque du Soleil character.  AND DIALING THEIR FUCKING MOTHER.

Honestly, this weakness pisses me the fuck off. I would think at this point that men would just be able to lay eggs and fuck a Fleshlight every night. That’s a fucking world I want to live in.

You may say- well, bro, what about the billions of people who are happily married on earth? Honestly, I’d challenge you to really take a hard look at how many happy marriages there are. I’d say the number is pretty fucking low. THINK about the men you know that are in successful relationships. They are basically willing to have a girl have them by the balls. They are willing to slow way down with their guy friends and eventually stop hanging out with them. They are willing to accept that any social interaction they have will be couples-only.  They are willing to “hang in” on a Friday night because “they really need to relax” whereas their true instinct is to go out and try to touch girls inappropriately without being arrested again.

NOW think of the guys that have trouble with relationships, like yours truly- they simply aren’t willing to stop going out. They aren’t willing to accept a cooking class as “their Saturday evening.” They aren’t willing to give up their friends- the people who were there for, in many cases, DECADES before this pussy on a stick, and will absolutely be there after her bulimic ass turns herself inside out post-meal for the final time.

WHY do girls need to put up this bullshit façade, while they are single, of power, sex, mystery, and the possibility of anal later. When they ALL deteriorate into the same fucking thing- withering messes of estrogen and katy perry songs, with an internal self-worth as high as the girl who was held hostage for 17 years by her father in Germany or wherever.

This weakness permeates other stages of the relationship too- such as the pre-relationship. Which party is the one who presses for the next step? Which party is the one who wants to put the foot on the gas, make things official, meet the parents, go on vacation, get married? Why do girls need this in order to be happy? How come every guy you know that is casually dating a girl says “yeah man, it’ll never be anything…” then 3 months later you see selfies on Twitter in the bathroom of a Howard Johnson’s that he sprung for to celebrate the 87 day anniversary of their first hand holding. Because they get pressured into things they aren’t comfortable doing. And they get comfortable with that person and just end up saying, well, fuck it, she’s good enough for now. Then the “she’s good enough for now” ends up becoming two years, the last 8 months of which you completely hate each other, until finally you get the balls to cut it off or cheat on her blatantly enough that she stops  talking to you? WEAKNESS. Girls are too weak to have a guy who is a friend who they go out with and have fun occasionally- exclusive or not- but not be a BF? What’s the big fucking deal ladies? Really?

I’ll end this with a solemn note. Women of the world: I’m coming for you. I’m going to sneak into your life with the charm of Neil Patrick Harris and the wit of George Clooney. I’ll woo you with the same fucking unfunny jokes and made up stories as I did the girl last time. I’ll hold the door for you and not try to fuck you the first night, which apparently nowadays means I’m a goddamn gentleman. Then, when you least expect it, I’ll be gone. Hopefully hurting you enough to make you grow a fucking pair of balls next time. Because that’s what we’re all looking for. A bitch with a big, bulbous set of hairy balls.

Destination v. Destiny

"Look Daniel, Destiny is usually just around the corner. Like a thief, a hooker, or a lottery vendor; its three most common personifications. But what destiny does not to is home visits. You have to go for it." - Carlos Ruiz Zafon

I often fear that I will get so close to my destined path, and just be inches from tasting its fruits, only to have missed the opportunity, hidden beyond the corner of the next .1 mile block. Life is about grabbing the bull by the horns, drinking the half full glass, calling the winning numbers. It is about perseverance.

Giles Duley, a photographer for fashion, glamor and the music industry for 10 years, always thought he had reached what he was destined to do. He believe he truly had it figured out, that he had accomplished his fated task, and had fulfilled his inner peace. He was rudely mistaken, tragically but definitively. While stationed in Bahrain, he stepped on an IED (improvised explosive device) while routinely monitoring the surround grounds. His arm had to be removed, a valuable asset to a photographer. Months earlier his mind was jarred by a young boy who he had befriended in Russia. He intended to return later that year with a camera, for the boy had taken an interest in the art, and had never seen the beauty of life captured between well adjusted pixels. His country had been ripped apart my authoritarian rule and indoctrinated poverty. He was stricken with loss, but given beauty, in a place where it was only smothered or dreamed of.

As Duley lied in bed with, his arm amputated, conjuring up thoughts of death, and how his life is to change, if he chose to continue it, he received worse news. The young Russian boy was found dead; he had overdosed on pain medication and vodka, at the age of 14. Rather than lie around and feel sorry for himself, while the rest of his body awaited eagerly to the travel with godlike speed through the rest of his life, Giles Duley had a revelation. Reporting the news, and capturing its surroundings would no longer suffice. It was the story of the people, that he would take into custody and propagate. Through him, these stories of the less fortunate, the brilliant, the abused, and the victorious would reign.

So quick are we to move away from our goals, and often because we feel we are on the wrong path. If you truly do believe that, then perhaps you should try another route. How simple it would be to defeat the words of Robert Frost and at the divergence of two roads, travel both. You can always take both roads, the common path and the one less traveled, but isn't it always the latter that proves more compelling, more truthful, more serendipitous, and with more foreordination?

I am not sure if there are any Latin connections between the terms destiny and destination. But if there are, I offer this. As we grow more reliant on GPS devices, electronic maps, and Siri to guide us to our destinations, we miss the detours. We miss the failed attempts that lead to eminent findings and illustrious sites. We miss the mistakes that teach us life lessons, earths fables, and stranger tales. We should let go our of metaphorical GPS devices, carrying us directly where we think we ought to go, and simply enjoy the ride. When I reach my destiny, I can only hope it's a rewarding destination, but one I will not seek with normal travel.