Mating and Starving

Eating healthy is becoming overly unhealthy. Admittedly, I have fallen victim to this health food/weight neuroticism sweeping over the country to some extent. I may skip an extra slice of pizza or hold on another dash of salt. It has not stricken all of us, or even many of us judging by the 15 fat fucks i had to dip and dive around while getting off the train. It is however, entering the work force and our everyday lives with an alarming annoyance, like the perpetual sounds of birds mating in the early morning.

You have probably noticed this choice starvation taking place, perhaps you have even seen it start small and escalate. I am not talking about eating disorders, although this is certainly a start, and much much, more annoying. If a chick walks up to me and says she likes to launch her two bone fingers to the back of her throat to induce vomit, fine by me. If wrestler or swimmer male decides he is going to go "Ghandi" and fast for fucking eight weeks completely...excellent, rock out. This epidemic that I am talking about is the over-healthy, label reading, diet pressure pointers inhabiting menus, grocery stores and workplaces.

Each day another greasy haired pimple popper is firing up this fad. Going for a morning run, eating a moderate amount of calories, and sleeping right doesn't suffice. Those partaking in the cult feel the need to read every article they can google, judge the microprint on labels, and eat like a bird to get to the "proper" physical state. You must see it!?

It goes in stages. First, you begin researching, finding things you should avoid eating and make minor adjustments to wheat pasta or 2% milk. The articles start becoming bookmarks, and maybe you subscribe to a weight loss magazine and spend 20 bucks a weak on lean cuisines for lunches. The progression continues to support groups, others who have been on this hike a bit longer than you, the veteran bird food eaters as I like to call them. You get support from them which feels nice, but they also inform you that you are going about it all wrong; the lean cuisine is too high in sodium, silk milk (soy) is the only way to go, and cous-cous is the new pasta. You'r really on a roll now and bananas that may cause colon cancer if eaten at a certain frequency have been replaced by some guava fruit you can only buy at whole foods 3 months  year. Lunch is never purchased, but always brought since "you know how to do it best." The tupperware is filled with a fig, seven shreds of arugula, dried chicken breast (1/2 breast) and an orange peel. There is less flavor in that container than a 7-month old tea bag sitting on a Boston Commons park bench.

People are intrigued by your dish, which excites you - its now your time to shine...or recruit if you will. You talk about your weight loss, but even more, you talk about how you feel that much better than before. You're a new person, rejuvinated and alive. You're fucking starving. It isn't enough for you to just let people know how great you feel and project your insecurities onto others. You have to go further. You start to assess others meals with a scientific eye. You break down every calorie, carb, saturated fat and grain. By the end of your critique the person you have judged is left to feel they are about to bite into an aids patients fecal matter.Fun fucking lunch.

The months roll on, the pounds fall off like flaking skin from a Venezuelan sunburn. Unfortunately, the cult has taken over fully and you are now enjoying nutrients or lack thereof an eroded tree bark morsel and sand crystal water. Your skin is dry, your hair is greasy, your pits smell like Europe from the weak ass Tom's deoderant you are using and you are still fucking starving. Your food chart looks like an IV bag.

So for anyone who is "eating healthy" - take it easy. And, if you want to go fucking Rambo on a diet and turn into a fucking pilgrim, do it on your own time. Do no interrupt my meals, critique my coffee with half and half and real goddamn sugar. Just sit there with your sticks and grass, and vitamin cocktails and shut the fuck up. By the way, for anyone in my office on this food trip; i have been infusing the decaf Keurig cups with a shot of protein, salt, sugar, barley, wheat, heroin, butter, and bread dust. Fucking enjoy.

Ducks Go Marching

Running along the Charles River, originally named the Massachusettes River by Captain John Smith, history comes to mind. The Harvard Sails drift to the welcomed wind suppressing the damp humid New England summer air. Tourists and locals alike try their hand at canoeing and kayaking down the river, holding pace with the ducks that inhabit the body of water daily. It is almost as if we have taken a few steps back in technology and its refreshing to see.

Travel is not by hybrid cars and tesla mobiles. It is by boat, and although this travel may be for leisure over necessity, its still reminds us of a younger day. The ducks move in twos, fours and small schools. They turn their face down, and rump to the sky - diving for food and cleaning their beaks. Hundreds of years ago we would find Native Americans and English settlers bathing themselves alongside the winged land creatures. Have the the animals adapted over time, or do they carry about as they always have, withstanding the test of time and proving fit for Darwinism? Why have we changed so much to where the only time we grab a paddle and an oar is to grow our shoulder to fit better in a slim fit Brooks Brothers button down? Running shoes look like billboard advertisements and eyes flock to the woman who's bra barely covers her breasts augmented with silicon.

After the sun drops low and the moon replaces its glow, exercise will cease and alcohol sales will increase. Rather than calming down and preparing a family dinner, we drink alone. We part our lips to the bottle and the smoke to calm our overworked brains. We rent our overpriced apartments to impress our guests, rather than building shelter for our loved ones. More people live alone void of love and care, only to fight for the paycheck and buy another pearl. As I search through my iPhone for an app to order delivery food, I notice the ironic name "seamless" as I feel I have seamlessly lost touch of reality. Checking emails for late night tasks and notifications from various social media outlets and online dating, I fear social entropy taking over.

Shoes stack up like mounds of dirt, and designer denim garnishes the shelves as much as our daily appearance. We skip a meal to make sure Versace stops by for the weekend. We skip the second meal to make sure the 31 inch waist doesn't flirt with 32. Xanax hits the pallet where the multi-vitamin should have laid, and the eye cloth blocks out the colors of the night.

Still, the ducks swim, they clean, they share food together. They frolic naked next to the family they have loved and grown to know...well. Their feet flap happily and bare against the soft current of Boston's elegant waterway. Tomorrow brings no stress as long as the river runs wild, tomorrow is not a day to be feared, but a day to love.

Breath.

Dog In Heat

The air is hotter than most nights, cooler than some. There is that damp feeling in the air, one you feel you can wring out, twisting your fists like a portable dehumidifier. Covers are not necessary and the down comfortable lays beneath you like a mat covering the floor for drying paint. The expectedly stale room feels comfortable without a fan, paying homage to the infrequent but penetrable breeze creeping in through the window screen. The pillows are still cool enough without the touch of body heat, they're pleasing for the time being, but soon my scruffy 4 day shadow will change that.

I breath in, out, counting sheep and avoiding clock-watching. Its too late for novel reading and too early for email chatter. Technology fails to serve a purpose - a rarity in 2013. I could watch porn. 

Breathe slows down and the relaxing and freeing feeling extends from my hollow lungs and enters my bloodstream. Flipped on my stomach grasping onto the pillow formed in a vague shape of a female companion, I squeeze. Wave of breeze. The momentary relief halts as quickly as it entered but my paced breath keeps me calm like a panting dog in Augusts Arizona heat.

There is a gap between my body and the faux memory foam mattress, its been widening throughout my brief tenure here. Like an opposing gravitational force, the gap defies Newton and lifts me upward. The height is negligible to the naked eye, the strange passerby glancing in on my supposed slumber like Bill Nye. The presence of a third party lingers over your shoulder, but a lack of neurological synapses prevent me from verifying its existence and I move forward amicably. My time in consumed with inactivity and the focal point of relaxation.

There is a slight tingle in my toes that caused a ripple affect hitting a tidal friction spot at my waist and settling there. It lingers and feels funny, almost tickling me and I laugh.

STONED.

How would you reject "You"

When we submit an application, what do you think happens with it? Among the thousands that US Congressional office, insurance companies countrywide, and consulting firms worldwide see daily, what happens when they dance elegantly out of that card deck pile into someones hands?

A recent article on Gothamist got me thinking about this. For a period of time, Hunter S Thompson wrote rejection letters for Rolling Stone Magazine. Needless to say, he didn't beat around the bush and the only portion of purple prose included was written in a derogatory and insulting manner, in order to exasperate the point. I particularly like the way he ended the letter, giving young Michael some hope.  http://gothamist.com/2011/08/17/when_hunter_s_thompson_penned_rolli.php

A psychiatrist once told me that whenever anxiety creeps up on your like a rapist in the middle of a snowstorm just stop and say "what is the worst thing that can happen." If a rapist were to sneak up on you, the worst thing that could happen is that he rapes you and wears your skin around Little Rock, Arkansas for 3-4 months in her mothers basement. I do not really agree with the psych's analysis. When I told him that trains give me anxiety in the morning he asked me to think about the worst thing that could happen.

"The worst thing? I start sweating uncontrollably in front of the hottest woman in the world as she stares at me. Her jaw drops as if she just seen a moose fucking a Chihuahua, but doesn't ask me what's wrong. I start to panic, my breath gets short and noticeable warm pouring out of my mouth, but its stuck near me like I am in a tight bubble. Now even ugly people are staring at me as the raining sweat falls from my forehead to the train floor. My knees tremble, lighting gets darker and I pass out. My loafer loses its footing as it slips on the sweat puddle formed by my leaking pours. I fall down hitting my head on the adjacent handle rail. I hit hard enough to die, but I don't - death would be a welcomed result at this point. Soon I wake up and the hot woman, the Asian retard, an old man with perfume on, and a bum holding his dog on a rope lease as it licks my face are all standing around me for support."

I have attached an image of my resume, the actual resume I submit to new job offers. I think this will help out during this experiment. I am going to write as if some deranged, pompous asshole would write if he was forced to send me a rejection letter (worst thing that could happen). Keep in mind his flippant tone is due to the fact that A) he doesn't care B) he is forced to do this and C) this is rejection letter number 110 for the day.

Dear Mr. "Thanks for putting your middle name" -

While I wish only to quote the film Billy Madison and award you no points at all for your efforts, I am obliged to give you my full original attention. 

If the first sentence did not give it away, someone else already obtained employment here. Well, that's actually a lie, the position is still open but the take home here is the "right fit" is not you. It seems here that your career has been on a little magic carpet ride with a no stop ticket to "what the fuck do I want to do with my life?" You started off working for a woman running for Michele Bachmanns congressional district in Minnesota. While there was a slight moment of sympathy due to the fact that the only excitement you had while working in MN was stealing meth from a local and huffing it down in your motel room apartment. From there you campaigned for an illiterate Yuppy attempting to make his name known in the family by obtaining a powerful seat on political office. Judging by the dates listed to the right, he didn't win - there are two loses in a row for you Ryan. 

At this point you got the picture...You're not the next Ryan Gosling in Ides of March. It's time to stop and move forward amicably into making more than $2k/month and hitting on candidates daughters, or anyone willing to sleep with a poor fuck with pity employment. You work for commonsense media, which may be the worlds smallest political advertising firm. At no point do you talk about advertising in this section, kind of sounds like you were the owners bitch. There is a good chance that some of your daily tasks included but are not limited to picking up dog shit and delivering groceries. Glad you can use Salesforce - we have absolutely no use for that here, this actually lost you points...if we had a point system. 

Before hitting your last section of employment, which is probably fake, lets delve into your achievement and "publications." I put the publications in quotes which added an extra 12 seconds to this to emphasize the hilarity of the list. I hope your next advertising job can find a nice use for that psychological test your wrote and never administered. Maybe you can give it to the HR department and they can use it to write down phone numbers for WB mason on the back. Literally fucking ANYONE can write in Bostinno, you simply just sign up. Telling yourself you have a publication there is almost as laughable as calling yourself an author because you have a blogpspot! Take is easy the T.S Elliot. 

While my hand is cramping and the vodka is fuming off my breath as I stare at the rising stack of failures to my left, I feel compelled to finish. Tt looks like you're gearing up to stay in mobile advertising but  your track record proves otherwise. I would not doubt that in two years the top line of this resume will read "UPS delivery guy." The numbers look nice but remember 45% improvement on 0 ain't shit. You and your make believe company can honestly go fuck themselves. The fact that they created all these tasks for you to do makes me think they couldn't find one thing you were good at, so figured why not try this. I do wish you th

I was about to finish that last sentence but the bourbon/vodka mix and your lack of ability to prove your self worth on a piece of paper has forced me to vomit the contents of my luncheable. The luncheable was stolen out of the fridge, thus making it free as fuck. Better get better at stealing.  

Hiring Manager

Girl Scouts of America 

Hemingway's Truth

Hemingway tells us in "A Moveable Feast" that when we are stuck as authors, write something true. From a man who often wrote tales of fiction, this may hardly make sense. However, most works of fiction are true representations of the authors life, and repressed thoughts, concerns, inhibitions, and dreams. He says to not just write something true, but have it be the 'truest thing you can put down on paper' at that given time.

Often we, or rather I fear, letting the truth envelope to those around me. It is much simpler to put a series of words on paper, that most often will not see another set of eyes. This is what makes Hemingway's words of wisdom even more intense, ore maybe fantastic. His words were read by millions, and as he wrote about his trials and tribulations among Paris' writing elite, he knew he would be published, and his truths would become known, transparent, and alive.

As an author, storyteller, or fiction producer, how much are we willing to tell about ourselves? How aware are our readers and spectators to discover what is a piece of fiction, what is hyperbole, and what is stone-cold fucking truth? Can our readers tell when we are being vulgar to grab attention or will our tenacious writing and use of a foul tongue deem our writing "inaccrochable." Will it be considered 'writing that is like a painting that cannot be hung,' in the words of Gertrude Stein. Stein's writing always fascinated me because we saw so little of it. From someone who judges the likes of Hemingway, Ford Madox Ford, and Fitzgerald, she produced very little to be looked at by the public. Maybe she knew that her writing would not be placed on coffee tables and classroom bookshelves and that is why she wrote each and every day in a continuous, possibly sexually vulgar, fashion. I bet we could find some brilliant truths in the unpublished notebooks of Miss Stein.

There is a fine line to truth, how much to give, and when is appropriate. Fiction masks truth because for the most part, readers cannot decipher the complexity of the author enough to denote truth and falsities. I often tread carefully on the diction of truth, its delivery, and appropriate nature. When we do not tell the truth, whether it be a white lie or a full on fabrication, people get hurt...no? During the times that I have been the most truthful, I have seen the most pain. Of course there is the difference between immediate pain like a gunshot, versus the lasting cancerous pains. As I think this through in writing I present the following question for the reader"

Would you rather the truth that hurts you now as you live, or the lie you never knew until you were dead?

Just something to ponder....And to tie everything together, I believe Hemingway found in his simplistic writing style that truth was the only thing to lift you out of a rut. In times when we are truly confounded, averting to truth maybe our only solace. There is nothing complicated about truth when it only involves you - it is unchallenged. It is when others are involved that we find distress, uncertainty and fear - human nature, I truly believe, wishes it could refrain from harm to others at all times.

Then again "truth is beauty and beauty truth, that is all we know and all ye' need to know..."

Bon Voyage to Three Ill-fated Men

This is happening. While traveling the world has long been found on my list of governing values, I never knew when it was really going to take off. In attempts to not sound too pretentious - money certainly is a slight prerequisite for international travel and that is finally coming around. You could travel with your parents...However going on any trip with your family at the age of 21 or older is about as fun as creating an ice luge of Lexington Steel, a famous and well-endowed black porn stars dick, using just your teeth and letting a group of college kids pour urine down the frozen slide into your enamel scraped mouth. I say this with all due respect to my loving parents, who  have traveled to beautiful locations. I am sure the sites are great, the new friends are even better and the food is "on point." But - my governing values while on the trip are not exactly in line with my parents, and I really don't see us coming to a common ground on what we see as enjoyable activities. I can see the conversation now:

Mom: "_________ do you want to go see the shoreline of Santorini on  Greece on a ocean tour?"

Me: "It's the shore, I'm physically standing on it."

Mom: "But ships are amazing and you might meet some nice people."

Me: "There is a bar down on the pier, apparently there are young college girls who have trouble with basic arithmetic, Id rather try my chances at meeting those people. Chances they are a bit more encourageable."

Mom: "_______ - That is rather rude and uncalled for. I thought we would do something nice... together."

Me: "Trust me, there is nothing that I want to do that we could legally partake in together, not even in Greece."

In just three and a half weeks I will be flying from LGA in New York City to San Jose, Costa Rica. From there, myself and two categorically insane college friends will board a shuttle that will take us 1.5 hours down the road to hell. Hell = Jaco, pronounced "Yako" with a short "a." Jaco has been compared to its counterpart for Spring Break tirps (Tamarindo),  quite tastefully; "If you want to hook up with single Europeans go to Tamarindo, if you want a prostitute and a bag of cocaine, go to Jaco." Needless to say the decision was made with a very short decision matrix, aka a coin with flip with heads on both sides. Heads we go to Jaco - Jaco here we come.

Honestly? There was some decision making, and while the "paid for sex villains" and Columbian bam bam does make my dick twitch, it was not the deciding factor. Jaco is well known for those seeking adventure; ATV tours through the jungles filled with animals that I cannot name, zip lines, bungee jumping, and surfing. The suft is supposedly phenomenal - which unfortunately does not appeal to me. Seeing as I have never stepped a foot, or even laid my body on a board, "epic surf" is sincerely not needed. A fucking swimming pool with a long board moving side by side would easily do the trick and serve as a tangible lesson. Instead, I will pretend to paddle on the sandy shore of Jaco beach, imagining its anything like the high seas. Then I will head out 50 meters, attempt "catch" a wave, fail to stand up, slip and unstrap my harness. This will be concurrent with being pulled under by the mystical undertow only to watch my forehead line up through the transparent and flourescent water with a thick sharp piece of coral. Sounds fun. Looking forward to it. Punishment.

There will be a follow up post to this which will likely explain a series of indiscretions followed by an tutorial on my trip to the Mass General Free STD clinic. The conversation with the nurse is likely to go as follows:

Nurse: So, everything was fine three months ago. Why are you back?

Me: Just got back from Costa Rica.

Nurse: So what does that mean? What are we testing for?

Me: I dont want to waste your time, the labs time, or Mass tax payers money. Just give me four pink pills and we will call it a day.

Nurse: Well, I cannot legally do that.

Me: Okay - well then stick that cue tip in my dick hole and lets do this the quick and hard way.

This trip consists of 3 man-children riding aimlessly on vespas along Costa Rica's Pacific coast - clinging onto glimpses of our adolescence as they fly around the humid air getting stuck along the way. It is because of those glimpses of immaturity and hopeless struggles to maintain youth that we continue to live wild, free, and content. While the fucks we give about what people think of our vagrant actions soar into the sun dripped sky, we will smile, sip rum, and sing a favorite collegiate tune. The days will zoom by like a Mazda commercial and we will soon return back to the cold chilling reminder of reality that lies in the Northeastern part of the United States. That is why we will revel in every moment we have - drink an extra glass of rum, zip from the higher tree, fuck the model and the fat chick for the story, crack our heads on coral, and sing out of tune.

Without governing values, we lead a life of no guidance, no pursuance, and a pathless journey.

Here's to another adventure. To be continued...

Where have you gone.

Dear Man

I gave in to you. I lacked the things you needed the most. Your sweetness was wasted just to run and hide, seeking nothing but loneliness. Your heart filled up the milky way, but we were traveling in parallel universes. Never once did you look at me like you did at that far away distance. The tolerance you had for the bottle surpassed all that you had for my kindness. Did you ever wake up feeling like you needed somebody? Were you ever afraid?

I cling to songs that make me think of the nights where smoke drifted softly against my hair from your brilliant mouth. Does it feel better where you are? Do those people in your stories measure up to reality that you could not stand to be around?

Am I selfish to love a man who has not love to give but love to steal. Why, you devils Robin Hood – poaching the hearts of those rich in love, only to feed your poor soul. You are too far gone now. Your rusty beard indicates your nonchalant approach at maintaining awareness. Your sunken eyes are kept afloat by the bags that lay underneath them. They tear holes through passerby strangers as to get a better look at the emptiness that lays beyond the tightened skin that once supported a man worthy of knighthood.

With tainted love,

Girl