Part two: Writing.

Well, since the last one was so well-received …

Master wordsmith, here.

(I gave those bitches a list. Bitches love lists.) I decided to make another, for my other job. These are some things I’ve heard the moment someone found out I moonlight as a writer when I’m not teching out. I’m not some fancy published author, of course, but I’m gaining articles under my belt and have many, many unfinished stories, which I guess is enough for people to think I’m somehow good at it.

1. While I don’t mind proofreading someone’s long as fuck thesis on the anatomy of the testicles (that’s what a thesis is, right?) if the same person keeps asking me to check over their work fifty times without a thank you, I’ll be editing in so many “dicks” and “balls” your professor will assume you need to see him after class for special extra credit.

2. I won’t write something for you to take the credit. If I somehow get paid for this, cool. But since I’m trying to build a portfolio, letting someone else ride my words for their benefit blows. And not a nice, happy blow. A nasty, toothless one.

3. No, I don’t write poetry. I have nothing against it, but I don’t write it. If I did, you can’t read it. That shit’s embarrassing.

4. You should write a book!” … Really? I should?! Well why the hell didn’t I think of that? I appreciate that someone would want to read 453 pages of my rambling about inserting balls into a college paper, but I think it’s obvious that a writer ought to write a book.

5.  You’re such a grammar Nazi.” Ok. I take responsibility for this. If I correct something, it’s out of habit. I scrutinize my words so harshly that it just happens. If so, I apologize. But using that term means what, exactly? Does that make the person I corrected an “illiterate Jew” …? Just call me pedantic and save yourself the return nickname.

6. Which author should I read for inspiration?” How the hell should I know? I’m not you, and what inspires me may not work in your head. Also, aspiring to be exactly like an established author is a poor choice. You’re here to make your own mark, not pee in the exact same spot in a genre someone else claimed years ago.

7. If my headphones are on, I look like I need to shit (in other words, very intense) and I’m alone in a corner, I probably need to be left that way. I’m either watching some horrific pornography or writing. Probably the first one, but whatever. You don’t want to see that, do you?

8. I probably have no idea what you’re talking about when you start listing off your favorite obscure or classic writers. I love to read and have too many books, but I’m not a literature enthusiast by any means. I know the theories behind Ayn Rand, but I never read her. I never got into Twain. Sorry.

9. This one is really important, and I cannot stress this enough: I really love Scrabble. It’s like an obsession. I’ve been accused of cheating for some of the words I use, but I assure you, I never have.

10. Lastly… please. PLEASE. Please. I don’t know anyone that can get you published. If I did, I’d try and do the same for myself. I don’t know anyone that can help either of us. I am useless! IGNORE ME!

Still not getting this right, am I?


Something a little different.

This is actually a re-tweaking I felt like doing today on an old short story I wrote. It is based off a dream I had where I was a young man in the 60s (my dream brain is strange) and it ends here just as it ended in the dream, down to the last thought. I just always felt it was interestingly linear and made a lot of sense for a dream. It was like a movie, perfectly smooth and realistic.


Today was fuckin’ hot. Not the usual hot, no. This was sweat in my eyes, shirt plastered to my chest, ass burning hot. I hated days like this, especially since I had so many damn deliveries every Friday, as always. So, here I go, heaving boxes up and down, up and down. Hand ’em over to the new kid in the storage area, over and over. I keep telling myself I’ll stop working here, but who am I fooling? Sure as hell not me.

So I hop on the loading dock and light one up. It’s supposed to be my lunch, but we never really get those here. Not like you can go far, and the bossman hates it if you buy his own products to eat. So we just smoke a lot, shoot the shit and go back to it in fifteen. Today was pretty cool, though. Something new happened– someone new. Now, I’ve had my share of girls before, don’t get me wrong. But this one… oof.

She came waltzing past us like she fuckin’ owned the place. She had that crazy hair those girls have, and her pants were so tight I thought they were skin. Her eyes said do me just so, and her walk said even more. I had to give a yell at this one, because you do NOT see a girl like that come by every day.

“Hey! Hey, you! Where ya goin’?” I put on my best grin, wiped the dirt off my hands with my rag, and waved my hand like a mongoloid kid.

“I’m goin’ down the block. There’s a band playin’. You probably don’t know ’em.”

Alright. Cool. She’s one of those arty chicks. Guy like me can’t hang, eh?

“How about after ten? Whatcha doing then?”

“Dunno. Got something in mind?”

Ok. Ok. I can win this. What do girls like her do? Music? Get high? I don’t even know.

“I’m gonna go down to the park and watch the fireflies.” Shit. Shit. Shit. Great. Now I’m a damn six year old.

She just stood there, eyeing me. I felt like I was suddenly on display, some kind of new product to be sampled. Was she cool with what she saw?

“Sure. Meet me back here at ten, kay?”

Oh. God. Damn. “Y-.. yeah! Back at ten. Hey, what’s your name, huh? Mine’s Gabe.”

She gave me the most soul-pounding look I’ve ever seen from a girl, those brown eyes tearing into me like I was nothing.

“Laurie. See ya.”

My eyes widened as I jumped up to wave her on. “Bye! Laurie! See you!”

All the guys had seen this. Every single one of ’em. I was stunned… so were they. Me, the jackass loading the boxes, I got her attention. Me! Who the hell am I, anyway? What do I even try with a girl like that? Who knows. I had a shift to finish, and quick. Laurie was gonna come back and make my night.

So here I am, heading home in my old beater. I’m elated. Ecstatic. All the other good words meanin’ I’m fucking happy as shit. This is it, I’m thinking. I can change things now. I can get a great girl like her, find a better job, move out of the crappy place I have now… I can do something special. Shit’s gonna be good. It’s gonna change. Gotta get home quick and change. It’s–

Dirt flying– the road’s behi– something hit– rolling, the car is roll… what have I done? Honking, metal, this is all crazy. I don’t…

I can still see her face. I can’t see much else, but I can see her face. She’s gonna be waiting for me. I can’t let her down, now. I have such big plans, huge plans. Those eyes, just so… god, no. It’ll be perfect…