Another Failure At Trying To Help Someone Out In Life.

I was smoking a cheap cigarette outside of work next to all the shopping carts, at nine o'clock.

The front end manager, Joyce, who has short, you know it's dyed brown hair, and is considered a bitch by all of the cashiers but likes me for some reason, walked outside, lit up a cheap cigarette, scanned the almost empty parking lot, then looked at me.

"Mv, is that my truck?"

There was a white, beat up, late 90's Ford pickup truck with a dented quarter panel in the corner of the parking lot next to the entrance with its lights on and engine running.

I knew she drove a pick up truck, but never paid attention to the color, make, or what it even looked like.

We have been working together now for two years.

I took a drag from my almost finished cig.

"Maybe, I mean it could be your pick up truck, but I'm not really sure."

Smoke coming out of my mouth along with the words.

She looked puzzled. Face scrunching up creating more wrinkles. Eyes confused. Upper body wrapped in a bright pink zip up hoodie with white flowers that a twelve year old would wear.

She hacked up a cough on her next exhale, and look at me again.

"When the hell did my truck get here?"

I snubbed out my cig. I didn't have an answer.

"I don't know. Really wasn't paying attention. It could have just pulled in. Or maybe it was here for like five-ten minutes, maybe longer. I don't know. I'm sorry."

I snubbed out my cig and started to walk back inside towards the deli, while she put her bright pink hood up, hands in pockets, with the her cig dangling out of the corner of her mouth as she made her way to the truck in question.

We didn't say good-bye. And I was back in the deli before either of us knew the answer.

I didn't see her for the rest of the night. Or the truck.

I never have any answers.

Holiday Shopping

Don't Create.

Just Buy.

Thank You Benjamin James Spurlock For Actually Giving Me Good Advice That I Think Is Going To Save My Life And Keep This Blog Going. Shout Outs Also to Jay, Eli, Elizabeth, Shannon, My Mom, My Aunt, And Lone Coug (All of You Are The Only True Friends Left In My Life.)

"Some people are just fucking crazy. I know you're going to say so are you and so is everyone, but I mean, some people are actually really fucking crazy, and pretend like they have their shit together because they think they are content or normal now because of the prescribed drugs their on or because they have made a change in their life or have never done anything wrong. That's bullshit, because no one has their shit together, and from what I can tell they are just as fucked up, if not more fucked up than you, because at least you acknowledge your issues and take responsibility, instead of blaming everyone else, or just being that narcissistic by believing that they have no problems or that the fucked up shit they do isn't a problem at all. I know your empathetic but sometimes people are just actually FUCKED UP."

"Fuck'em."

"Fuck'em."

"Fuck'em."

"Fuck'em."

"Fuck'em."

The hardest part is seeing/listening/experiencing the positive qualities of these people. And even through all this shit, I still enjoy their company and miss not being able to talk with them. Because deep down I'm scared to lose anymore friends. Deep Down, I'm scared to be alone.

The First Positive Step Towards Improving My Life

I pierce my tongue with a red hot nail, install a rusty padlock through the hole, then swallow the key; it's weight will prevent any true thoughts, and misinterpreted words from escaping, and imprison all of my secrets.

The lack of movement leads to bedsores and paralysis.

The lack of cleanliness leads to infection.

The infection leads to death.

Rigamortis.

Muscles spasms held in check under that heavy metal weight: my last words won't make any sense.

My words never made any sense.

In high school, my fingertips started to form little mouths that have grown throughout the years, and became fully functional. which meant they are the next to go.

They don't deserve the luxury of a sharp kitchen knife, a meat slicer, saw, or even an ax.

I don't deserve that luxury; I deserve pain because it has been proven that I am a terrible person.

Which is why I'm walking out to my $700 Oldesmobile, opening the front door, placing one hand in the door jam and the other, cocked, on the outside of the door.

Slam! Slam! Slam!

Then walk around the car and repeat the same process in the passenger side door with the opposite hands.

Slam! Slam! Slam!

"FUCK!!!" is the only thought I have until I look down at the mutilated digits that are cracked and splintered (bones sticking out of lacerations in the skin, pointing in all different directions, smashed fingernails, snapped joints, blown out knuckles, blood, tiny missing teeth scattered across the driveway, and  miniature broken jaws.)

Never able to speak again.

Never able to text, email, blog, or instant message.

Never able to unintentionally ruined someone's night again.

Never able to insult anyone without even realizing it.

Never able to be kind and empathetic towards anyone ever again.

Never able to wear an engagement ring or friendship bracelet.

From now on, all I can do is listen, and give yes or no answers with a nod or a shake of the head.

From now on, everyone who come into contact with me has the opportunity to be happy.

It's all for the best.

Positive Thinking 2013

Not A Good Person.

I have the ability to make someone upset when I say, "have a good day," and mean it.

Convienent

At work, the razorblades are across from the pens, paper, spiral notebooks, and art supplies in aisle 12.

A Piece of Literature About Love

Someone told me, "Yo, Mv. We gettin' you some pussy tonight. There's these hot bitches comin' ova tonight to da crib. We hookin you up. WE GETTIN' YOU LAID! WE GETTIN' YOU SOME HOT ASS PUSSY! Y'all need it bro. You pick the bitch tonight. We'll make it happen. We got your back bro. We tight nigga."

Then came in and gave me a handshake, which turned into a hug, (but that someone would like me to clarify that it was "no homo, just a sign of respect.")

I wanted to say, "Thank you for the offer. I really appreciate you trying to get me some pussy, but I'm not really looking for that right now...no homo."

But instead nodded my head and said, "Yeah, totally. It's all about the pussy." then came in gave that someone a handshake and a hug (no homo.)

I stayed at da crib for another twenty minutes before I made up an excuse about my aunt needing help at the house with the laundry and dishes because she broke her foot the other week.

"Yeah man, shit sucks. Sorry maybe another night."

Someone says, "I feel you bro. HaHA, just means more PUSSY FO' US. AND HENNY! HAHA!" and smiled.

"You enjoy that. Peace dude"

"Later bro. I'll hit you up tomorrow."

We came in and gave each other a handshake, which turned into a shoulder bump, and then a hug, (for the last time, no homo.)    

Then I got into my car, drove home, and spent the night in my bedroom at my aunt's house alone, but not alone because I spent the rest of the night talking to someone else on the phone about all my failed sexual encounters, which was every sexual encounter. .