collections 5:14 (in memory of my father)

The date is August 31st, 1999. I had just started eighth grade- and best of all, I got into the advanced math class. So when I returned to my home that afternoon, I waited for my dad to call so I can tell him about all the good news. Earlier that week, he left for Iran to see his family... to help them get into America, because Iran was no place to raise a family. He was a small, girthy Persian man- but he was good at what he did. He designed and engineered most of the roads in Aurora, Illinois... even though he came to this country with barley knowledge to speak English. He raised a family... marrying a woman who already had one son and then having two more. He found happiness in rural Illinois... we all did. Until August 31st, 1999... when I waited up until eleven for him to call. Only he didn't... his brother did. Although I didn't hear the conversation, because my mother took the phone out the back door with her that night, I knew what was going on... I could feel it with my sinking heart. As she stepped in through the back door and tears were filling her eyes, I knew... Amir Reza Riahi had died. They wouldn't send his body back to this country. Nor would they perform an autopsy... The truth is, he didn't have any real physical ailments. He was as healthy as a short, pudgy Persian man could be. But he died... and for years, I've been asking why. I ended up concluding that he was poisoned by nationalistic family, who saw how he was trying to free his family from the shackles of Iran. He wanted to give them freedom. It remind me of a lesson he taught me as a young boy, when I had to write an essay on freedom in middle school. I said I didn't want to do it and that freedom meant nothing to me, but I was a dumb kid. He grabbed me by the wrist that day and pulled me outside, locking me out of the house... for maybe half an hour. It felt like an eternity though. I sat there and cried... until he opened the door up again, and suddenly I understood what it meant to be free. The same way he let me in again was how he tried to help his family into this country, only to be betrayed and murdered for it. So when he died that night on August 31st, 1999 upholding his beliefs... I cried all night long. I dreamed that night of him, peering at me in his flannel shirt and carpenter jeans with his thick, window-esque glasses peering at me as clouds passed behind him. And then the next day, I forgot it ever happened. I had amnesia... but it wasn't long before I was reminded of the truth and had to deal with it. And so I cried, for months. A lot of things helped me out of it... my brothers especially, but before then... I picked which moments I wouldn't cry. Like at the memorial in Oswego, Illinois... I chose not to cry that day, even though my family was crying around me. I wanted to be strong for them. Later on, one evening, my brothers sat around the patio and reminisced about our favorite moments with dad. Like when you got home from work and you sat on his lap as he reclined in front of the TV... how his four o' clock shadow felt, because my four o' clock shadow feels the same now. Or how he smelled, because I smell the same now too. Or how he pretended he wasn't a smoker, even though he left ample evidence... I wish I could be as ashamed of my habit. Most of all, we remembered the best times we shared together. And then, as things began to get worse, I started to grow up and live in his example. He inspired me to be great... that anyone can be what they want to be when they believe and that I have a hell of a example to live up to. So I began writing, so that I may touch other lives the way he affected mine. Tonight, I dreamed that my father sent me into the world, as though he finally saw the man that I've grown up to be. I've been waiting for so many years, Dad.

I love you, Dad. And I'll never forget the sacrifices you made for me, or those that I'll make in order to make you proud.

In loving memory of Amir Reza Riahi.

collections 5:13

steel wool on skin is like lipstick on your collar, stingingmy skin like my left hand mosquito bites covered in menthol- the same sweet chill that coats my lungs. cough once for uncomfortability and twice for cancer, but never split your lips in front of me or i might be forced to split it for you. burgendy slipping down your lips and over your chin, and if you had a beard, you'd have a face clot for all the soaking you'd be doing. but that's a story for boys with pajama pants that depict tasteless cartoons- not the political shit in twentieth century newspapers, and because it's political it's inevitably shit on its own. i'm a bigot against boys in sleep trousers and will make an effort to put them to sleep for good, if they don't so do it on their own by succumbing to their pathetic wants and needs- open another window because it's about to get cold in hell. so suffocate like the rest of us and call me a hypocrite for forcing my ideas upon you for forcing your winter upon my flesh, flesh that's left prickled by needle like blades scissoring their way into my disaster. girls are nicer times anyway and i'll help you clearcoat your lime green nailpolish that reminds me of emeralds and reminds you of kermit or cartoons or obsenities. girls don't shout about pride because they no better and have smarter souls, ones that know which battles to take and which weapons to bring to a fight. you got the guns, i've got the sword on the shelf with a chipped bed that has ruined too many afternoons by cutting ties that will inevitably slip into the abyss of my forgotten past. thank god for forgiveness or i wouldn't get along with anyone- ill intentions too often get the best of us and mine are the rainy season- ill nino, with the emphasis on the ill because the nino isn't important enough to be translated.

fiction's my stronger suit.
是你讓我沒有了遺憾

collections 5:12

It's not too often that I throw up twelve year old scotch, but last night was one of those nights. As I got up this morning, there were many questions I had... Since I hadn't eaten yesterday, what exactly did I throw up in the small wastebasket next to my bed? Why wasn't my phone working? How did my mp3 player run out of battery? Why was there half a cigarette in my pocket? Either way, I'm hung over. I haven't been so incapable of handling my liquor in a long time and I'm using this opportunity to sober up. Especially since my phone is completely useless at the moment and frankly, that just makes me feel unsafe. There's no reason it shouldn't work and I heard my alarm whisper to me at 10:30 this morning, as it does every morning. So I can't really imagine why it's not working. Either way, it's making this dehydration drive headache so much worse. There isn't a whole hell of a lot you can do in society anymore without a goddamn phone. So I'm going to borrow someone else's phone to see if the sim card is the problem or the phone itself. When one is solved, the other shall soon be fixed. I'd rather not go out of my way to buy a phone off ebay or some other shit, but as I said- You can't necessarily live without one. Everything else is slowly coming together- even the memories. The second major issue is the severe lack of food in my apartment. Right now, the only thing to my name is onion soup and it's not as though I don't have any money, but I'm going to be hard pressed to find the strength to make it to the grocery store today. When you peer at all the evidence, it seems like giving up liquor is the right choice, right? Well... everything in moderation. Note to self: Take it the fuck easier. I better deal with some of this right now.

collections 5:11

The following is a stream of consciousness copied from a conversation via AOLIM (this conversation was not with the real Danny Elfman, but rather an associate who chose to remain anonymous):

Leet like Vulgar: You know who's cooler than shit?
Leet like Vulgar: John Woo.
dannyelfman: i don't know who that is. but i'm wiki-ing him now.
Leet like Vulgar: He's an action film director. Even though he didn't direct martial arts, martial arts films as we know them today have been highly influenced by him along with every action film on the market.
dannyelfman: awesome.
Leet like Vulgar: Yeah, anytime you see a guy take a gun in each hand in a movie and click shots in different directions as his arms arch in the directions of other enemies, John Woo's work was taken into consideration.
Leet like Vulgar: And everytime you see someone do a summorsault or a cartwheel to dodge bullets, John Woo was taken into consideration.
dannyelfman: i'll remember that.
Leet like Vulgar: Yeah, he took normal gun fights and made them beautiful in the same way that Akira Kurosawa invented the stand offs you see in old western films.
dannyelfman: ahh. sweet.
Leet like Vulgar: As far as my opinion goes, everything well done in American films was originally well done in Asian film first.
Leet like Vulgar: Even computer animation is intuitively judged against Japanese animation.
Leet like Vulgar: Even the awkward silences in modern indie film can be traced back to Asian roots and the miscommunication issues that stem from those cultures and were found in their films during the nineties. Up unil about ten years ago, no one in American films had awkward silences... they were just moving with the social flow that Americans wanted to see at the point.
Leet like Vulgar: Don't even get me started on fashion and the Asian influences there. Pfft.
dannyelfman: haha. i won't.
Leet like Vulgar: I guess I'm an advocate for what deviants in Eastern culture make, but I think I need to consider what inspired those men to deviate from their culture to begin with. It was the west, you know? It was the provactive conflicts created by writers like Tennessee Williams or even the subculture of war or criminality inclusive in American media.
dannyelfman: mhmm.
Leet like Vulgar: We're probaby the only country in the world where war is a subculture and not entirely deviant or a culture on its own altogether.
dannyelfman: yeah, probably. ugh.
Leet like Vulgar: I can't bitch about it. War is part of human nature... I just find the subculture of men ranging from ten to fourty who prefer to immerse themselves in the fiction of Tom Clancey or in a Call of Duty video game, even though they'll never have to use a gun their entire lives. It's pathetic, really... but something that must be taken into account for the sheer numbers who advocate that lifestyle.
dannyelfman: okay.
Leet like Vulgar: Even worse, deep down, I might just be one of those people... a kid who keeps a sword in his room never to use it. I own a tool for killing, but I'll never be put in any situation where I'm forced to use it. I believe that was one of my influences on joining the military, not because I desire to kill but because the in our country, there're so few means to being a hero as defined in literature. I guess I should be thankful that my education takes priority.
dannyelfman: yeah. definitely.
Leet like Vulgar: Although for the most part, I'm a peaceful, detatched boy with delusions of grandeur that overencompass the small conflicts that exist in every day life, I'm a boy who's lived in various conflicts for years... conflicts with myself, with my peers, with the government and the world around me and so forth. I can't deny that there's a part of me that embraces that conflict which is what promotes me to write in the first place, but I do regret that all that conflict with my just ideals will only wind up being the fictitious motivations of some character who can only mirror me. By living through Vincent or Tsubasa or anyone, I'm only just staving off my desires to find my own action-packed life, not that my real life isn't conflictual enough... I just have no causes to fight for outside of what my characters embody.
Leet like Vulgar: I think the worst part in American society is that all causes can be broken down into two categories. The causes which you take up arms for, as though within the military, and you fight for someone else's beliefs even though they aren't your own, or the causes where there really is a serious issue but the only means of fighting those causes is by throwing money at some organization who wants to complain until something is done about it.
dannyelfman: yeah, really.
Leet like Vulgar: I don't want to spend money that I don't have to save abused animals though. I'd rather pick up a sword and deal with it face to face, peering into the darkness of my own soul in order to find the strength to stand against that which surrounds me... fighting pain with pain, to propagate some absent embodiment of vigalente justice.
Leet like Vulgar: Vigalante*
dannyelfman: vigilante.
Leet like Vulgar: Thanks.
dannyelfman: haha.

collections 5:10

When I was younger, around the age of sixteen or seventeen, I had discovered the most beautiful song that I had ever heard in my life- even to this day. I found it in my days spent dancing around mp3 rotation websites, downloading new music, and getting a better understanding for that pallet which I was diversifying. This song, however, was a beautifully orchestrated piece with vocals that sent chills throughout my entire being. At the time of downloading, I wasn't familiar with the artist nor was I familiar with the language the song was even in. I concluded that it might be Ryuichi Sakamoto and let that be that, essentially forgetting all the leg-work that I would normally take on a piece that I found so beloved (which, to this day, I no longer set by idley.) In any case, I'd sent it to my best friend at the time- a girl named Michele Wong, who in later years, I would lose touch with only to regain in my second year of college. Between those two points, the computer that contained the song had been a victim of foolishness as a girl who had been at a party I held spilled Bacardi Zombie all over the the machine, making it unusuable. The song was lost to me at that moment and my only hope for every finding it again was that Michele Wong might still hold it in her possession. As the year passed and Michele got in touch with me over a different occassion, I asked her, "Do you remember... that song?" Without even going into specific detail, she knew what song I spoke of- however, she too had changed computers in the years between our speaking. The song, as I knew it, was lost. I've spent the last two years searching for it, assuming that Ryuichi Sakamoto might be the right path. Truth be told, the song fits his style, but thus far, I've had negative results in finding the piece. I feel as though I've listened to everything he's ever produced, but peering at his catalogue, you'll see that he's been quite an active composer throughout the course of his career and it would take hours of leg-work, even to an extent of financially investing in the majority of his albums which aren't available for online download, to actually get a conclusive hold on the song for which I'd heard in those days past. The song, reminiscent of his most popular hit, Forbidden Colours, might've had the term "color," in it... The fifth color, or something of that nature- the unfortunate part is that I can't even find the title. The major difference between the two songs is the tempo, the one I'm searching for having a faster one with an electronica style beat done in high, chime-like tones. The vocals are female, unlike the male vocals of David Sylvian in Forbidden Colours and in a language I'm unfamiliar with- or at least was at the time. Perhaps it's Japanese and only now would I be able to recognize it, but unfortunately, Ryuichi Sakamoto's vocallists tend to break all language barriers and be of many different origins. I think about this song, which I've deemed the most beautiful song ever, and I wonder if there'll ever be any way of recovering it... maybe breaking open my old laptop and seeing if that harddrive is recoverable, or actually spending the money to try and purchase his catalogue of albums. Until then, I'll continue searching for the song as I had- because even though it's been years since I've last heard it, it still whispers to me through the annals of my past.

Just give me something to listen to and I'll be inspired for another lifetime.

collections 5:9

Before I was thirteen, I wrote. I don't remember much of it... looking back, I think it was just some pokemon fanfiction and some eroticism, but nothing I would consider digging out of the grave of old computers. Upon the great tragedy which will be mentioned later in the month that I experienced no later than four months after becoming a teenager, I became a blank slate. A slate that could've been defined by drugs, abuse, and various other things that kids my age were "doing." Instead, that blank slate, in the short few months after the tragedy, were rewritten by popular media. Not just any popular media- Final Fantasy VII was what pulled me out of the dirt. Laugh away, a video game becoming a bible of ideals for a thirteen year old boy? Come now. I guess video games have influenced a lot of people though. There're kids who've stated Doom as their reasoning for shooting up their high school or Guitar Hero as the beginning of their music career. I don't know about all that, but the story of a man who, shrouded in apathy, would break from his predetermined role as a retired military personel to discover a new appreciation for life in the friends surrounding him, each with their own story. Like the bartender who watched her family die, the terrorist who just wanted his daughter to see flowers, the corporate executive who couldn't stand by and let his pockets fill as the world crumbled, the astronaut who sought greater discoveries, the teenage girl trying to bring honor to her family, the monster who sought forgiveness for being unable to protect his love, the lonely warrior who only had his aged grandfather to depend on, and the flower girl who would sacrifice everything to bring light to the darkness of the world. As disaster struck these people, they did not sit around and get high or drunk or look for an easy lay while watching the world end... they took what little they had and they fought, rewriting history and bringing truth to a humanity that was moderately satisfied at the destruction of their world for a little electricity. Although not all of them succeeded in what they attempted, they gave it their best so that they could hopefully retire to their menial jobs and watch the world grow again. I imagined that they would've written books on their adventures, telling stories of journeying to the center of the earth to defeat a fallen angel with an oedipus complex. As it turns out... They didn't. Later in my life, the stories would continue... and yeah, some would continue work while others would take in orphans, tap fossil fuels, create organizations to reconstruct the world, and so on for the sake of continuing to better the broken people who they had once saved. I wanted to be these people, and although you may not necessarily understand this reference or a previous references, I wanted a buster sword to peer at for inspiration. So what you're asking yourself now is, "I get it. Behnam's rolemodel is a video game. So what?" I don't really know... there's no way to know who I would've been had it not been for that video game. I'm not saying I don't drink or fuck or imbibe in drugs on occassion, I do... but I could never make a life out of those things. In fact, not a day goes by that I don't fantasize about acts of heroism- these fantasies, although not real or liable to ever happen, have slowly come into fruition in the stories I write and the tales I tell. I don't know that I was who I am before I was thirteen... I think I had the immorality of a selfish youth in those days, in fact. But I know that at any given moment, I would abandon every social lubricant for the sake of inspiring youth who were once in my position. I don't want to live out the lives of those characters, but rather inspire in my own way.

I may just be in the clouds, but even if I can't be a hero I'll sure as hell try to make one.

collections 5:8

A shower, a cigarette, and a cup of coffee... is there any better way to die tonight? War exists around me, rampant like the drugs and debauchery that pass through my home on a daily basis. I can't go a day without wishing I had shades on my window to block out the arrogant sun, whose rays burn though my room to stain the dark circles beneath my eyes two shades brighter than two in the afternoon. So after spending a day looking for something to cry about, waiting for something to break my heart, and listening to the wind for something... else... I slipped into the bathroom and let the warm water cascade over me like a leaking submarine foundering into the Indian Ocean. It smooths out the rough edges of my hands, like those dotted with bites and splinters placed on too many hearts and too many heads. As I step out, breathing out steam I breathe in smoke through tip of a cigarette, letting it coat my lungs like my problems with a tar of nerve easing nicotine as I sip my coffee and feel my kidneys tighten like my lips at its bitterness. These are evenings spent in solace, my escapism to slip through the oppression of individuality that seems to birth from the disatisfaction of their own natures. Am I the last person who believes that people should live and let live? If that were true, I wouldn't imagine picking up a gun on the day when I would be forced to fight for my beliefs. I guess I just think that the only thing worth fighting for has to be really meaningful, something so meaningful that you'd die for it. Like life itself. I'm not much of a humanitarian, but I guess I believe everyone should have a right to live. In the world, genocide goes on regularly and yet, the American media averts its eyes to some stupid musician or actor, because they're so much prettier than the blood that spills in homes and on streets of lands that were once no different from our own. The American Empire has become a society of consumerism and even here, there're inner city refugees trying to push their way out of the slums that they were born into, albeit with a gun pressed to their cerebelum and the hammer drawn back. So who can blame kids for picking up guns, especially when they've become so available for any person, young or old, boy or girl, straight or gay... to pick one and up and aim into a crowd, not because they hate anyone... but because they can no longer live with the apathy of the populace. When you remember that this world is just a series of individuals with their own goals and agendas, you have to to wonder where you or I fit into this scenario. Will you stand back and let the quiet consume the masses while enjoying your showers, your coffees, and your cigarettes? Will you speak up when someone is finally in need, designating your time for their benefit? Or will you be the one who picks up the gun when no one will be there for you.

I need a cigarette just thinking about it.

collections 5:7

Let this be your run of the mill blog post. This day begins past midnight, as do most of my eventful evenings, where I went to a party- let's paint the scene for you, an abandoned hotel with stolen electricity running through the first floor, one bathroom within the whole complex that actually worked and every wall adorned with graffiti by various tag artists. The party was outside, where you could see the multiple doors and entrances to this decrepit building, three stories and stairs along the outside to allow everyone to get into the rooms. Those stairs weren't safe anymore, most of which covered in chunks off the crumbling building and covered up with heavy, wooden boards that might've once been doors or walls, but each covered in graffiti artwork. The crowd didn't much appreciate the art- it was a group of sex-smitten youth, too many to number have receded into the space to get wasted and meet someone to fuck. And there I was, smoking someone else's cigarette and drinking someone else's drink while I waited for something interesting to happen. At any party, I'm liable to meet eyes with girls or boys but I'm not the kind of guy who's going to run out of his way to confront them, because I'm too often the strong silent type who sits in his corner with his cigarette and his judgements. After watching my associates make some work of their own and we finished the alcohol that we snuck in ourselves, we disappeared into the night to my home.

Conflict waited for us. Our two roommates had taken arms against one of other, quarentining off their own seperate spaces, but not just space in itself... the space of sound, the space of scent, the space of living. The roommate upstairs was caught between romancing his "beloved" and dealing with her drug induced inability to stand upon her feet while the roommate below wept for his own flesh on flesh interaction and a whisper of success on the horizon. The two, with nothing to soothe their nerves, took into a yelling match and drew lines in the sand on this night as the fourth roommate and myself returned. We only made it back in time for the fall out and as one of our friends slipped into the bathroom to expel the contents of his stomach, they disappeared into their own place. The fourth roommate, Ryan, and his romantic companion joined me on the couch as our sickened friend left, taking to the night time streets in the hopes of finding a place to sleep tonight- a place we couldn't offer for the flames that crept from the bottoms of doorways. The three of us left watched a film, "SE7EN" about a murderer with a theme of killing sinners, whom he judges. It was quite a psychological thriller, but not relevant enough into the story. As I left into my own room, Ryan began to question his own validity in his life- as an artist, as a bread-winner, and as a friend. There was pain in his voice as he spoke about the faith that his companions had in him and his lover tried her very best to soothe him.

Here's the killer in all of this- all this time, I've been considering myself the tortured one within these walls. I was the one with the brutal past, layered in the death and defeat, and yet I'm the one who sits up as I can feel the last tinges of alcohol filter into my liver, writing my heart out and doing the only thing I've ever wanted to do. Four strangers moved into this home and four people, with four different worlds and backgrounds... drugs, love, and death- we can't relate on a basic mortal level, none of us trying to care for eachother without being forced to acknowledge their own pain. So why am I free of that? Is it the writing? Why am I the one who tries to sew the wounds that teach of these men cut into eachother.

On my left hand, before midnight, I found eight mosquito bites. All of them located on one hand, in various places at side opposite my palm where my nuckles rest. I assume it was the only placed exposed as the sun rose over the morning and I covered my face in the sheets... my other arm buried beneath the pillows as one held firm to the blankets. The mosquitos had a smorgesborg of this one hand, tearing into it like it was the blood bank they always dreamed of. Or maybe it was just one gluttonous mosquito who couldn't be satisfied.

When I wake up tomorrow, either the wounds will be mended or they won't. Sleep will cure their pain and the bug bites bulging from my skin, or it won't. The lines drawn will be swept into the dirt and forgotten, or they won't. At this moment, I don't so much care. There're more important things to worry about than these inconsequential issues...

The world would be a lot nicer if the tempo was just a little slower.

collections 5:6

Too many distractions. In fact, if it's not one, there's another. They seem to pile up, kind of like the way buildings do. Each distraction is another layer and another layer and another layer. There're your entertainment distractions- Television, video games, etc. Completely and utterly useless. Some distractions might serve a purpose, but these generally don't. Next on the list of distractions are social obligations: hanging out with friends and so forth. Not necessarily terrible, because we all need friends, but still an obstacle to productivity. That's right, it's a productivity blog tonight. Probably worse than the entertainment distractions are the financial obligation distractions. Nothing seems to rub me the wrong way more than rent, phone bills, electric bills, gas bills, and the price of food. These things, while always staying at the back of your mind, are like a weight... the worst part is, they become the most heavy of distractions when work is involved. As far as my opinion goes, work outside of your career-oriented desires is the worst distraction of all. It leaves you limp and soulless, unable to work on the things that actually matter to you. After being canned from my last job, I gave up working and decided to take on living under a bank's watch- loans, as it were, seemed like the best way to handle both my studies and my avenue of writing, which as of late... I've been somewhat ignoring.

Why have I been ignoring writing? This brings me to the worst distraction of all: Love. When I'm in love and comfortable, I never get a goddamn thing done... because I feel like I don't need to. Like I can settle happily in whatever it is that I'm doing and not worry about my plan or ideals. Not nearly as bad as being in love though, is that sense of loneliness that overcomes us when we're not with someone. You distract yourself with entertainment in order to keep your mind off that pain, but I think it's about time that I confront it and use it to my benefit. Afterall, as a writer, I'm supposed to feed on suffering... aren't I? Or at least I'm supposed to use it to empower my writing.

I won't say I've gotten no writing done recently. Over the summer, I've gotten a large portion of the second part of my book complete along with a couple articles for a paper that I've been drafted to work on. I've written tidbits here and there and I've been blogging (some what) regularly. There's no doubt in my mind that I'm working towards my goal, but I need to face the facts: My distractions are keeping me from making as much progress as I need to. I'm shackled down by some of them, incapable of removing a number of what I mentioned, but that doesn't necessarily mean I can't escape. I just need to get into the right mindset... financially speaking, if I remind myself that upon failing to be successful in my trade, I'll have unbelievable debt on my shoulders and to work a terrible job that'll eat my soul, it reminds me to keep working. Romantically speaking, if I don't achieve my goals, I'll never be able to give a girl whom I'm infatuated with what she deserves... and so I can't help but feel terrible for the women who I was with, and how I never could bring them the happiness that I wanted to. Entertainment is fun, but the only time it's ever useful is when new material is introduced- and at the moment, no new material presenting itself, I'm incapable of inspiration and furthermore, less and less amused as I go on.

My distractions all play a role in what I need to do and who I need to become, and until I can bring my dreams to fruition, my distractions will just be that... distractions. They won't be the life or hopes that I envision and therefore, they'll just be obstacles. However, in some scenarios, distractions benefit others. Like my associate, Martin, who spends his money and his time as though he has an infinite supply of both and yet, it's pushed him to work harder and make greater advancement in his career. I can't say the same for myself because frankly, there aren't many people out there looking for a writer to their book. Not for me, anyway. Although a contract like that would be extraordinary, it's not likely that what falls into his lap will appear in mine. And so while the distractions advance the nature of some individuals, it only burdens me... but it's about time that I shrug off those burdens and get to work. I'm tired of living with air conditioning, going out with my friends only when a bar or restaurant or concert is not involved, and playing the same old video games over and over until I've mastered them for no purpose but to say that I have. It's about time that I do something- that I drive for something, headfirst until there's nothing left of me but the smile of a boy that says, "I fucking gave it my all."

Let the fat cats enjoy their success... because tomorrow, it'll be mine.

collections 5:5

Change is the harbinger of maturity. There are those of us who cry for it, those who refuse it, and those who inevitably live in it always. Let's just say, throughout my day I run into some occurance of every one of these characters. Hell, you might say I live with every one of'em. However, my friends typically fall into two of those three categories... those who want change or those who live with it. Very rarely do my friends fight change, but I wouldn't be lying if I said my best friend was that way. In fact, I think that's what makes us best friends- because he's a constant reminder of my past, of who I was, and what influenced me up to this point. But I wouldn't necessarily say that it's good, and every opportunity I can, I attempt to bring him into the fold of chaos that I live in. Every friend that I've grown close to since then is, typically chaos, aside from those who want it and can't grasp it that I take under my wing to teach how to live. So would I say that my life is so action packed that I have that option? I've taken a few opinions and people either think I live a life of excitement or I desire it too much. This criticism stems from my changing fashion styles, beliefs, and other trends. I would say that these changes in me are brought on by changes in my environment and not vice versa. In truth, for years I fought change because of my inability to grasp anything stable and steer myself from anxiety and depression that I seemed to drown in on a regular basis. I only realized that by giving into chaos and leaving order behind would be able to cope with reality, the depression, and the anxiety. So, in those years of my youth, I abandoned most friendships and went with the flow of life, ignoring college for several years as I found myself in the middle of nowhere. That was when I really needed chaos, because in Varna, Illinois, there is no excitement... order is king and that king was in no way quieting the antagonistic whispers of my heart as I tried to cut a path into my future. In those times, I grew to accept order and found myself in college, where chaos would consume me again... as though balancing between the two was the only way to live appropriately in one. Since then, I would say I've been a combination of lawful and frenzied, spurred on by the excitement around me and my desires to succeed. Or maybe, because of my consistent change, I'm unwilling to change back to order again. Inevitably we all live in a combination of the two as opposed to selecting one perspective and adamanting our lives to it. Sendimentation is only proportionate to mindedness, either open or narrow and where on the balance one lies. The two extremes do nothing to insure that we'll live a life free of chaos or order, but at the very least give us a clear perspective of where we'd like to be during the uncoming moments following the present instance. The walls which we scale are those of our own devices and whether we're scaling mounts to find a home in the steep cliffs or scaling into valleys to find what hasn't yet been discovered in the cavernous depths, we're always climbing and in motion, unable to freeze for when we do, our disasterous thoughts come on to the point of questioning whether or not life is worth living. Many people get stuck part way through, unable to latch onto anything but the rope from which they're hanging. They fall into disaster, both of their own devices and those existing around them in their adled directions. Me? I guess I'm just riding this train wherever the rails take me... and should this train collapse beneath me, before I reach my stop, then so be it... I'll either compensate for the lack of propulsion or I won't.

Should that train stop before I reach home, at least I'll have my wings to fly me to sanctuary.

collections 5:4

I've been waiting for one thing all summer: A game, Final Fantasy Dissidia. Truth be told, I've got a very strong background in video gaming. I've owned just about one of every generation of console system, starting with the NES and advancing through Sega Genesis, Playstation, Nintendo 64, Gamecube, Dreamcast, Xbox, Playstation 2, Xbox 360, Wii, and Playstation 3. They didn't all belong to me, but I've lived in households containing everyone of those for an extended period of time. I've even travelled through a lot of handheld systems: Game boy, Gameboy pocket, Gameboy color, Gameboy advance, Playstation Portable. If you can tell by the way every line ends, I'm a playstation kind of kid now. If you really want my thoughts, Sony just makes better products... I've had a pair of Sony earbuds that've lasted me since high school and a Sony Erickson phone too. If I was out to buy a TV or a stereo, I'd no doubt settle on a Sony model. Anyway, the game I've been waiting for is a psp exclusive: a compilation of previous Final Fantasy games rolled into one epic adventure. I think Final Fantasy is mostly responsible for why I've since departed from video games though. There was a time in my life when shooters, adventures, actions, racers, fighters, etc. were all part of my video gaming repetior. With the advent of pokemon and my introduction to Dungeons and Dragons, it was inevitable that I'd fall into roleplaying games as a writer. Ever since, I've declined on the majority of video games apart from roleplaying ones. Sure, every once in a while, I'll pick up a game or two that looks too appealing to resist, but for the most part, I'm an RPG only kind of guy- and not even all RPGs. I've essentially limited myself to Final Fantasy and that alone. Sure, I've got a dozen RPGs around that I haven't yet mastered or beaten, but they're not FF. They're not bad, but they just don't engage me like a good Square-Enix game. So my decline in video games as become one of obsession for another. So, once a year, when Square-Enix drops a Final Fantasy game, I'll buy it. And that'll be my game of the year. 1997: Final Fantasy VII, 1998: Ehrgeiz, 1999: Final Fantasy VIII, 2000: Final Fantasy IX, 2001: Final Fantasy X, Kingdom Hearts, Final Fantasy X-2, Kingdom Hearts: Chain of Memories, Final Fantasy VII: Dirge of Cerberus, Kingdom Hearts II, Final Fantasy XII, Final Fantasy VII: Crisis Core and so on. It's humiliating to think that anything can even compare to the standard I've set- so unfortunately, I'm not much of a gamer anyore. Casual at best, although at least one or two weeks of the year tend to be my imprisonment to one of those specific titles. Whichever comes out. I would say that this is a healthy video gaming lifestyle, and although I'll indulge from time to time in an Elder Scrolls game or Rockband or whatever nonsense hits the market, I'm only ever obsessed with one title. Because of Final Fantasy though, my writing has evolved. In fact, it's partially what got me into writing. Sure... I was writing Pokemon fanfics back when I was 12 or whatever, but it was the narrow, focussed story and character evolution of Final Fantasy which made me start defining characters myself. Before I knew it, characters I wrote started taking a Tetsuya Nomura-esque appearance and settings that I wrote never felt quite so right without a Nobuo Uematsu song in the background. It's part of my style- even the fashion is something that I try to exhibit in real life, whenever I'm feeling fashionable anyway. In the next two years however, we'll be seeing Square Enix drop a number of titles... Final Fantasy Dissidia, Kingdom Hearts: Birth By Sleep, Final Fantasy XIII, Final Fantasy XIII: Versus, and so on. So I'll no doubt succumb to the pleasures moderately often assuming I can afford to. Will this help me evolve as a writer? Perhaps. It's true that most settings in my mind are inspired by the three dimensional settings of these games and I have no doubt that they will influence me in some way or another. Afterall, no series can make me cry at an ending like Final Fantasy.

I need something better to do with my time.

collections 5:3

So I originally wanted to start a blog apart from a website- something where I could get sumptuous hits and make a fat load of dough. As it turns out, that is not a financially plausible plan. Especially not for a blog. I don't have that many fans... hell, I don't even have that many friends on facebook or myspace. The majority are just acquantances who begrudgingly read some things I write if they're short enough- like a status update or a bulletin, and very few take the time to comment on it. Which is all fine and dandy, seeing as how I'm not doing this shit for attention or so boys and girls will flock to me lovingly and shower me with praise. Fuck praise. I'm in this because it's the only thing I want to do- I have ideals, I have messages, I have things to say... Just like everyone else. But for me, this is about all I know how to do, assuming I even know how to do it. Let's just say I'm learning. Writers are just train wrecks waiting to happen, cars crashing with broken airbags, and disaster lying impatiently around the corner. So maybe I'm just doing this for my sanity. Either way, writing everyday keeps the ghosts away. I've been working on a book... criticism has been harsh and plentiful, because apparently fiction means that everything has to be accurate to a fucking t. Pish posh. My book is a historical piece with modern elements, just because that's what I wanted it to be. It tells the story of a boy who questions his country and the role he was raised into. Sounds good? Yeah, well... If that catches you, maybe you'll want to get through the 250 pages I've written and the three hundred to come. That's right, it'll be longer than fuck, but I think it's got a chance to do well... a small niche who will make me a cult classic, or some other shit. Anyone can get into the writing business by making a piece of pulp bullshit that'll no doubt keep some housewife on the edge of her seat while she pretends she's the heroine or the damsel in distress- Yeah, well... that ain't my style. In fact, most writers don't have much of a style beyond that as far as my opinion goes. I'm here to shake shit up and I'm going to show up all the doubters and obstacles that've stood in my path. Hell, they're the reason I'm even going through with this shit. So where was I? Right, the financial failure that is blogging. This is a method of getting some words on the page to keep me afloat- therapy? Sure. I don't write much about anything... I'm not one of those bloggers who recalls the events of the day or anything like that. Well, not anymore. I was in high school... there's a livejournal that's a testament to all that. livejournal.com/neosephiroth You might need an invite to read some entries, but don't count on it. I haven't signed on that shit in years and only hit it up for a few memories which I still refuse to let go of. Even before then, I was doing it. ujournal.com/neosphiroth. I've probably got more blogs floating around the internet than I know what to do with. Shit on Facebook, Myspace, Gaia, Xanga, whatever blogging site you've never heard of before. I'm alright with that... One day, I'll go out of my way and compile it, and make a book about all that. It'll be the evolution of a writer, the perspective of some kid who went from being a timid introvert to this... whatever the hell this actually is. I'm sure I'll have a better idea in five or six years. So that's not to say I hate blogs or blogging but I sure as hell don't like it. "Dear journal, I had a crumby day. I feel better getting that out there." Fuck all that. And fuck all those, "Dear friends who read my journal. Do you remember earlier today when we went to see that shitty band? Yeah, that was so great!" Yeah, pish posh. This is just an exercise and maybe, just maybe, if something worth recording happens, I'll record it. Or I'll throw in a short story that I felt like writing for fun, like my last entry where I imagined getting fucked up by a bullet. Come to think of it, that could use some more editing. I'll probably keep you updated when I edit a piece like that. Otherwise, this whole thing will be a waste of your time... maybe. Maybe it'll bring you to some new conclusions or some deviant philosophical perspectives, but don't hold your breath.

This is my story, for chrissakes. I'll write it however I feel like it.

story start: ballads for bullets

I guess all the shit started when I was walking home after grocery shopping that night, when I was at the corner of Jefferson and Sixteenth. Now you might think, "But Jefferson and Sixteenth don't intersect." Well, they do... it's one of those things that you wouldn't know unless you've been around some of the seedier parts of town. It's one of those places where I had to travel in order to get home everyday. The corner is pretty wide open, but there isn't a lot as far as apartments or anything for another block. In fact it's pretty dead during all hours of the day, but it looks innocent enough usually. Well, usually.
At the corner, there was a bum sitting in a rags, leaning against a derelict building. He was a black guy with a mangie looking beard, wearing a pair of worn, dirt covered chinos and a brown hoodie that couldn't even mask the filth around his back and shoulders anymore. As I passed him, I heard him stand up, followed by a click.
"What the fuck do you got?" he asked, as I slowly turned around to see the barrel of a colt revolver pointing at me from his hip. It was wrapped in both of his chapped, trembling hands and I could see his eyes in the glow of the streetlights. They were cracked and red, like he was just getting off a binge. I said nothing, but stood there holding the groceries.
"Nigga, drop yo' fuckin' bags," he said, nodding up at me. So I did. That's when I got stupid. I ran at him and judging from the spooked look in his eyes, I could tell he didn't appreciate my cooperation. With a loud boom, I could see smoke trail from the muzzle of the gun as my left side folded like a broken pillar. I nearly fell but managed to keep stride, before I grabbed the gun in his hand and wrestled with it before he had time to pull the hammer back again. This guy was spun as fuck, which gave him a little more strength than his emaciated body normally would've had, but it wasn't enough to stop me from moving the hand he carried the gun with. As I pulled it up to our face level, he found his strength again and hit me in the mouth with the barrel of the weapon. That only infuriated me and I used my free hand to jab him in the throat, thrusting the second knuckles on my index and middle finger. It hurt me a little, but the precise jab made him lose stability over the weapon. He still had a hand on it, but now I had both of my hands planted on the piece as I pointed the end to his temple, and using my index finger I pulled back the hammer. With a kick to his knee he was losing the strength to keep fighting me and my adrenaline was rushing like a broken fire hydrant. I couldn't feel the tears welling up in my eyes or the hastening of my breath- I could only feel my fingers pressing his finger down, on the trigger. With another boom, he fell down on his side and speckles of his brain dotted my face with red.
Quickly, I pulled the gun from his hand and kicked his limp body onto its stomach. I fished the wallet from the back of his jeans and dropped both of them in one of my bags, with my tomatos and lettuce. Quickly I fled, as I could feel the intense pain from my side. It felt wet as hell, so I put all my bags in my right hand and felt within my black hoodie, dragging my fingers along my gray shirt that portrayed some festival for a school event that I never actually attended. My shirt was soaked and I could feel it sticking to my skin, which was too tender to touch. Pulling my hand up, I was horrified at the sight of my own blood, but kept trudging on as salty tears dripped down my cheeks and lips. I kept looking behind me, afraid that I might be trailing blood, but it was soaking into my clothes well enough. I still kept looking back though, fearful that someone would follow my trail to the two blocks back to my apartment.
I wiped my bloodied fingers on my right shoulder and reached through the gate, unlocking it as I lifted the bag burdened right hand to twist the door knob. I swung it open quickly and it hit the gate with a loud clang, like I'd do so often on nights that I stumbled home drunk. I heard some chitter chatter to my right and saw a hispanic woman talking to a young white man. I smiled, and hoped they couldn't see the speckles of blood on my face or the growing red stain on my shirt in the shadow of my unlit front steps. They just smiled back and I quickly pushed open my front door, stepping in and falling to the floor.
"Help!" I cried out to my roommates, as I placed both my hands on the hard, black painted wood beneath me to try and push myself up.
"Ben?"It was Martin- he was an art curator who lived above me, in my four floor apartment. We met in college and rented out this two floor studio together, although others moved in soon after.
"I need help!" I cried again. He stumbled down the steps of the fourth floor and then down the steps of our central floor to the door. I couldn't see him peering at me, but I could feel him helping me to my feet. He locked the door behind us and helped me up the steps.
As we got to the top of the stairs, to the central floor of our studio, he said, "What the fuck happened?" Ryan, another one of my roommates stumbled down the stairs after him in only his underwear, and peering at Martin I saw that he was still wearing his white skinny jeans and a pink dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up.
"I got fucking shot." Martin helped me to the couch and I layed down on my right side, ontop of a white comforter. It was my white comforter, given to me by a girl I used to roll around with who thought I needed lighter blankets in the summer heat. She was probably right, but unfortunately, this blanket wasn't going to last though the night.
"Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit," Ryan kept murmering over and over. He was probably high on amphetamines or something, which wasn't abnormal since he was this reknowned artist who frequently imbibed. He stood there, gawking at me as I forced myself onto my ass, sitting up so I could slowly draw off my hoodie. It was soaked in blood and hit the hard wood floor with a plop. Grasping the bottom of my shirt, I slowly drew it up. As it peeled off my skin, I was filled with more pain than I had ever felt before that knocked the fucking breath out of me. I couldn't lift it off though, because my left arm was growing limp.
"Get me a fucking knife, Martin! Ryan, go get your vodka from upstairs!" I was yelling at my roommates for no reason at all, but I assumed they understood my plight.
"Is everything alright?" It was Ryan's girlfriend from upstairs. I couldn't remember her name then and I can't remember it now.
"Baby, bring down the vodka and a knife off Martin's desk!" Ryan yelled up to her. Martin and Ryan were hovering around me, unsure of what to do.
"We need to go to the hospital," Martin said to me and I peered up at him, as I could feel a trail of blood trickle from the side of my lip, with an angry grimace.
"I'm not going fucking anywhere. I just killed a guy, okay? Do me a favor and put a pan on the stove," I spit out, some blood as I spoke. It wasn't coming up from any vital organs, but from the split lip I had when I was hit in the mouth. The salty, coppery taste began to fill my mouth and I thought I might throw up.
"You did what?" Martin asked.
"Just go!" I screamed this time, and he quickly turned to the kitchen down the hall. I heard him lighting the stove and setting a pan on it, but I peered up at the stairs where Ryan's girlfriend was coming down. She was in her underwear and she looked at me like she saw a horror scene, carrying a jug of cheap vodka and a pocket knife.
"What happened?" she said, and Ryan grasped the knife from her and handed it to me. I pulled it open, peering at the serrated and straight edge along it that was accented by a metallic red handle and abrasive grip. I brought the knife to my neck and slid the blade beneath my collar, cutting down the middle of the shirt while trying to be very careful to keep the blunt edge to my skin.
"He got shot," Ryan said to her as he took the bottle of vodka from her. Although I knew she was Ryan's girl and I wasn't particularly into her, the sight of her in her underwear really took my mind off the pain as I reached the bottom of the shirt, pulling it open and sliding it the damp shirt off my shoulders. I threw the destroyed garment to the ground and pulled the bottle of vodka from Ryan. I tried twisting open the cap, but it was too tight and I was two weak.
"Here, let me," he said, opening the bottle and handing it to me. I lifted it to my lips and took a couple of shots, hoping it might numb the pain. It didn't. It just made me want to throw up more, but held it down.
"Listen... I need you to wash my wound with this. You have to do it," I said now at a normal tone. His girlfriend hurried to the bathroom and he stepped around the couch as I began to lay backwards.
"Wait. You know your back is bleeding too, right?" At first I didn't understand what he meant but I yielded anyway. It became clear though, that the bullet which had entered me at the side of my front had exited out the side of my back. I peered down and my jeans were dark red and I began undoing my belt buckles, kicking them off and thanking God I didn't wear my skinny jeans that day. My white and blue boxers were now flat red, along with a good portion of the comforter I was sitting on. Ryan's girl ran up with some towels and handed it to him as he pulled the stopper out of the top of the bottle, pouring vodka onto the towel and then some more onto my back. He began wiping it along my skin. The pain that came from it was sensationally staggering. If I was just tearing up before, I was definitely crying now and whining with every wipe over the exit wound. His girlfriend took over and held the towel against my wound as Ryan came to my front and began working to clean that up.
Martin soon joined me with two cigarettes in his mouth, both of them lit. He pulled one out and I nodded as he set it on my bloody bottom lip. The nicotine made things a little better, but I could barely breathe enough to take in a good drag. He then asked, "What now?"
"Bring that pan over," I said, and he returned to the kitchen as Ryan finished cleaning up the wound right under my ribs. He held the towel against me and even though there was pressure on the wound, I knew I was still bleeding. I'd be dead in a few minutes if I didn't do something.
It wasn't long before Martin had brought the pan over. It was one of those small pots for boiling water or making canned soup. Nothing special, but it was exactly what I needed.
"Take the towel off my back," I said and Ryan's girlfriend did. I could feel blood begin to drip out of it again and I said, "Martin. I need you to push that pan as hard against the wound as possible."
"What?" he said, and I knew he was only asking because he was afraid of my well-being, not because he didn't understand. However I wasn't in any position to be polite.
"Just fucking do it!" I yelled, and he came behind me, taking the towel Ryan's girl held and using it to clutch the pan tightly. I peered into Ryan's eyes as I could feel the hot pan push against my wound... and for a moment, I considered what pain he or his girlfriend or Martin might feel watching me die for no reason. But then all at once, I could feel my skin dry and blister as the hot piece of cast iron was pushed into my flesh. I screamed louder than I had ever before and wanted to beg him to stop, but I knew he had to hold it for at least a couple of seconds. However, it felt like he was holding it forever. After what felt like ten minutes, which probably was less than thirty seconds, Martin pulled the pan off me and I don't even want to begin to imagine what he saw. I just layed back and Ryan followed me, making sure to hold my wound tight.
"I'm going to need you to heat that up again... and do it to my front," I said, almost wishing there was another option. Martin hurried off again as I felt like fainting. I couldn't though, because I felt like I was the only one who knew what needed to be done. The cigarette was stuck to the drying blood of my lip and was nearly gone, although I felt like I hadn't even taken more than a puff of it. I pried it off and chucked it to the other side of the room and Ryan's girlfriend quickly hurried to grab the bloodied filter that was left and dropped it into the ash tray on the table across from the couch. I began to notice music playing faintly on Martin's stereo upstairs. It was a nice little rock diddy, from some obscure indie band that played with a fast tempo and light vocals. I loved it.
Martin soon returned again with the same pan, heated up again, and this time Ryan and Martin knew what they were doing. Ryan lifted the towel off my front and Martin pressed the corner of the pot below my ribs. The pain was seering and I couldn't even look. I just grabbed a lighter off the ottoman and stuck it between my teeth, biting down at it sharply between my molars so I wouldn't risk biting off my tongue as tears dripped down the sides of my face. Ryan's girlfriend disappeared up the stairs and I stared at her ass for what felt like forever, waiting for Martin to pull the pan from my wound. As he did, Ryan dropped the towel ontop of it before I could see it. It was just fine... I didn't want to see my skin bubbled up and the blackened blood clotting the hole going through me. I just spit out the lighter and let myself breathe again, as hard it was. I grabbed the other towel that Ryan's girlfriend had used on my back, and although it was doused, I looked for a white corner to wipe my face off with. It was still dotted in blood that had mixed in with the tears and cigarette ash.
She soon returned with a spindle of bandage and I sat up again, as she began wrapping me. Martin left for his floor again and came back down quickly with a bottle of aspirin. They were beginning to predict my thoughts and I couldn't be happier. She tucked the tip of the bandage into the elastic strap of my boxers and began unwinding it, before wrapping up my lower torso and sealing my wounds. Martin hurried to the kitchen and came back with a bottle of water while still holding the aspirin. Ryan, who was sitting next to me, put an arm around my shoulder. I just noticed that now he too was covered in blood. She had the wrap around me and then proceeeded to rip off one end, before tying the two ends together to hold my guts in. Martin, having already opened the aspirin, handed me a couple pills and I tucked them in my mouth as I untwisted the cap on the bottle of water. I doubt I could've opened the aspirin at that moment, fucking child proof bottles. I peered at the ground where the lighter had fallen out of my mouth. It had deep teeth marks in it and I was glad like hell that I didn't bite through it and get a mouth full of lighter fluid. As I empted most of the water bottle into my mouth, some of it having dribbled down my chin, Martin headed down to the door and grabbed my bags.
"If you could... if... put my vegetables in the fridge," I murmered, but I was slipping out. He hurried to the kitchen, but within a moment returned with a much emptier bag. He set it in front of me and disappeared to the kitchen again. Reaching into the plastic sack, I found a gun and a wallet. I set them on the ottoman beside me and began explaining to Ryan, "I'm going to need someone to watch me through the night. I'll be fighting..." I stopped, to catch my breath. "I'll be fighting infection and I'll need to keep hydrated. Just... y'know," I said, before losing the ability to speak entirely as I layed back onto the blood soaked comforter. Ryan got off the edge of the couch and sat down on the ottoman, peering at me as his girlfriend slid open the closet. I guess she pulled out a blanket or two and draped it over me, before tucking a pillow beneath my head. I could only sleep on my right side, so I turned to the inside of the couch. My body was still wracked with pain, but I managed to dose off anyway.

I dreamed of my father, who had passed away ten years ago. He was standing in a field surrounded by butterflies and I ran to him. I was dressed in a v-neck shirt and my tight jeans- my usual uniform, and my hair was long and black and trailing over my face. I tried running to him, but the butterflies kept crowding my vision. I tried to reach him, but it felt like the butterflies landing on my shoulders and arms were pulling me back. And then he disappeared from sight completely and all I could feel was the burning below my rib cage. I peered down and there was a butterfly shaped red stain. Turning around again, I was in darkness and there was the man who I killed. We were at the corner of Jefferson and Sixteenth again and he held a gun to my face, but he held it by the barrel. I reached up and touched the handle of it... and it fired. And he fell on his side again on a pillow of blood.

When I woke up, I was soaked in sweat. It was already dusk of the next day, but I was alive. I pushed myself off the couch, but I felt sick as shit.
"Hey, you've been sleeping awhile," Martin said, and I quickly turned around to see him in a suit and sunglasses, peering at me while he smoked a cigarette and drank from a bottle of water. He flipped open his pack and bared the contents to me, a few remaining marlboro mediums. I grabbed one and brought it to my swollen lower lip. He lit it for me and I managed to croak out, "Water."
Ryan stepped out of the kitchen with a couple bottles and set them beside me. He was wearing tight, black jeans and a white t-shirt. They really had watched me through the night, and I could tell by the black circles around his eyes. I twisted open the cap quickly and swallowed down as much as I could. The pain was almost unbearable, but it didn't hurt as much as it had, since I actually made it through the evening.
"You okay, man?" he said cheerfully and it brought a smile to my lips as I wiped the water from my mouth and put the cigarette to my lips again.
"Yeah, I'm alive," I stuttered out. He grabbed the blanket and folded it up. It had caught a lot of the blood from the comforter, but it was a red and blue blanket anyway and still salvagable. The comforter beneath me wasn't. I edged myself to the end of the couch and he pulled up the comforter and crumbled it up, carrying it to the kitchen. The was a pink stain on the cushions beneath me. They could be flipped over though.
"So who did you kill last night?" Martin asked. I forgot I told him actually and almost stumbled over my words as I tried to explain myself.
"This guy... he tried mugging me at gun point. And he shot me, but then I shot him with his gun in the head," I finally ended up saying. He reached beneath his ass and pulled up a news paper. It was folded and the police blurbs were the only thing I could see. Some of them were circled, but there was one that I was certain was mine. It said, "Unidentified black male was found dead at the corner of Jefferson st. and 16th st. Discovered at 7:00 am by nearby hispanic woman walking dog. Pending further investigation."
"Great, I made the paper," I said, tossing it onto a chair next to the couch. I peered down to see that my bandages had also pinked a little, but it wasn't nearly as bad as my red shorts. I pushed myself off the couch and walked to my room as my roommates watched me dissappear down the hall. I stripped off my underwear and tossed them into the trash, before slipping into a pair of board shorts as I smoked my cigarette. I grabbed my white, leather coat and drew it around my shoulders as I snubbed the cigarette into the ashtray on my desk. As I left my room, I turned into the bathroom and began washing my hands. There were no towels in the bathroom anymore so I just shook them off, wiping them along my face and making sure to remove anymore traces of blood from my bare skin. This was followed by a brief attempt at pissing, but not much came out and what did was brownish in tint from dehydration.
As I returned, Ryan had retreated upstairs but Martin still sat there. I saw the gun and wallet on the table. I first picked up the wallet and flipped it open- it was ratty and old, and there was only about seventeen dollars in it. I pulled the money out and slipped it into my velcro pocket, before combing through the rest of the things it held. There was half a dominicks card, a sub shop punch ticket, a coupon for some energy drink, and an ID.
"Marco Falini," I said aloud, thinking that he didn't look very Italian to me. He was 44 years old and from Indiana. I dropped the wallet in the trash, all but his state ID which I put in my pocket with his cash. Then I picked up the gun. I flipped open the barrel... there were still four bullets remaining. Martin pulled off his sunglasses and peered at me with dark bags beneath his eyes as I turned to my room. After setting the gun in my dresser, I picked up my lighter off my desk and went out my back door and down my porch. I lived in the city so I didn't have much of a back yard, but I had enough of one. I found some lighter fluid next to a grill that my downstairs neighbor used a little bit during the summer and threw the ID to the ground, before sprinkling it with the lighter fluid. Then picking it up again, I lit my lighter to it and dropped it into the dirt as I watched the plastic catch flame. It smelled terrible and seemed to bend and wrinkle as it burned, so as the fire died I stepped on it, crumbling it into a million little pieces. I kicked some dirt ontop of it and headed back upstairs again, trudging slowly for the pain that still shook my body as night fell on the city.

I thought then that this might be the worst thing I've ever been forced to survive, but really... it was just the beginning. As I stared at the city skyline, I cried until the sun dissappeared on the horizon.

collections 5:2

I've spent the majority of the day smoking butts from ashtrays and watching bootleg films. Is this the story of a loser? Not quite. I'm working on a book actually- a novel, which has consumed my fantasies for the last year and some change. The story of a boy, not so different from myself, raised to host some ideologies that he doesn't necessarly believe. He was born in a different time, but the modern elements of this day and age have seeped into the fiction and so, his interpretation of his own society is an amalgamation of what he was raised into believing and what we believe today. Now I'm not saying this is award winning material, but I kind of love it. I love it so much that I would push all my resources into working on this piece of fiction as opposed to buying a pack of cigarettes or a few DVDs. This mentallity that my art will concieve my future is what people have defined today as being a modern "hipster." A lot of stereotypes go with this title and I'm not going to lie- I live out a few. I live in a community of artists deep seeded in a consistently evolving metroplis most well-known as Chicago. It goes by other names, but I don't care for them because they sound crumby- "the windy city." The implications that its windy on a regular basis is an understatement. If you live here, you know the weather sucks. I don't buy into that tourist pish posh. "The Second City," I hate even more, because it implies that we're like New York's little brother. I'll tell you what though- you take any New Yorker and plant him at the lake front, he'll more than willingly agree that our skyline beats his. The only interpretation I'm willing to stand by is "Chi-town" or "Chi-city." It's a very modern perspective in the way that we abbreviate everything as a trend for our current slang and that idea is most prevelent here in the city- something that you might only really understand if you followed the young adult scenes of Chicago. Now perhaps that's what makes me a "hipster," should you decide to define me that way. I'm sure the tattoos, piercings, skinny jeans, ridiculous hairstyles, pretentious tastes in film and music, and the cheesey hotel room furniture that I live on clarify that message as well- ether way, I don't buy into labels much. I don't feel anymore hip than anyone else, perhaps even less hip than most people for my strong views and negligence towards trends. In this day and age, everyone on a diet of coffee and cigarettes who goes to art school is supposed to fall under this title, but I'd rather just be a fucking hermit than succumb to a subculture that indiscriminately believes in only drugs and promiscuity. Not that I can't say I haven't indulged in either of those- I have. For chrissakes, I'm a 23 year old male living in the city. If I hadn't, I might just consider myself to be a little deviant. Not the atypical ideal of deviance, but the deviance of those guys who stalk girls online without ever sending them a message- the ones who play video games or watch foreign animations that give them the simulation of dating or falling in love, but don't. I'm a guy who lives and obsesses over nothing but my own work, who keeps a few friends close and a lot of acquantances close enough, and who buries his hours trying to build himself a means to the top so when that book finally does come around, I don't have to kill myself to publish it. As I write this, I wonder if this would make a decent about me on Myspace or Facebook or whatever the fuck kids are using these days. I rock both, which might further push me into the mentallity that I am "hip" although I highly doubt it, but for the longest time, my Myspace "about me" was this existentialist rant that I wrote before I even know what existentialism was. I thought about that the other day as I was watching some film starring some actor who's supposed to look a lot like me, and I concluded that perhaps I'm more intelligent than I ever thought I was. Don't get me wrong... I gutter myself on the regular about how intelligent I might or might not be. As far as my opinion goes, I'm a fucking foolish romantic who doesn't necessarily know what to believe in- who spends every waking out wondering whether a heart is something that pumps blood or inspires, although my opinion tends to be the former. I don't think I'll ever be some great philosopher or even a great writer, but it's nice to believe in myself for a change and have the evidence to show for it. I would call that "success" or maybe even "grandeur." Either way, I've got all these people believing in me anyway back home- home being multiple towns throughout Illinois. So that little boost of self-awareness makes me a little more inclined to not fail those kids who stuck up for me when the rest of the world said, "Why don't you find a practical major?" Listen, I'm not a practical guy. I'm a middle eastern American who, considering my experiences, has grown to identify with the Asian community and believes that our two communities, although slowly amalgamating, should be one. I'm a writer with no intention on studying to be an English major, simply because English isn't always the best way to define one's feelings and anyway, that major just gets me a job teaching English to punk kids who don't give a fuck like myself.

Maybe impracticality is what makes me so fucking hip.

collections 5:1

I've been doing this for years. Writing the same old tales in so many places that I can't even remember them anymore. Today's the day that I start fresh, looking at my past through the frosted window of memory... Scratching and pawing at the ice, until I can see a feint picture through the storm outside. There's no more an appropriate time for it... In less than a month, it'll have been ten years. Ten years since it began... the thought, the emotion, and the writing that would come from it. It's a little cliche to say that I have scars on my soul, so let's just say that I haven't let go of what I left behind. I can't help but look back and see a lifetime of experiences in one short decade. So much has happened since then and the world is not even close to what it had been then. Now everyone uses a cell phone, has an ipod, and can rewind or pause live television. Computers can communicate without wires and the country, although jaded by destruction, has moved on and elected the first black president. I've been in the front seat for a lot of the ride and much, enduring pain that I would've never seen on the horizon. But that's just how life is, every moment being a surprise that we could've never expected. Isn't that what makes life good? We've all got our specific comforts that we all depend on for emotion, but the surprises that've moved me the most are those that've burdened me with weight incomprehendable to take in all at once. No story I could tell could match the story of my own life, so I look forward to whatever the next ten years may have in store for me. Standing over a grave in a suit far too big for my narrow shoulders, the kiss of a girl in the front seat of my car before she slips into her home unnoticed, the echo of the night as I cried for something to numb my loneliness, the touch of a woman's hands on my chest for the first time as I offered my virginity, the brief romances in front of foreign films that evolved in a night and were quickly forgotten, the unwanted fingers stretching around my neck as I struggled to breath, the closed fist that connected with my jaw under pressure to empty my pockets, the car that spun out of control in the middle of the busy highway, every cigarette, every drink, every joint, every kiss, every touch, every cut, scrape, bruise, slur, love harmony death destruction terrorism americasuffocationbrothergirlfriendmolestationemohipstertearswhiskeypubertyomotherhuman
...Fathers.
So today we wait for tomorrow, instead of telling old stories and reliving the worst moments of our life and the best moments that we'll never have again. Today we will look ahead and embody the ambition left by all those who we left behind- that I left behind. We can peer back as they cheer on passionately or we can bring their dreams and my own to fruition. Once upon a time, I sat in a church with my family crying on all sides of me while bit my lip and held back my tears.
I'm won't hold back anything anymore.