fuck with us. wilkes-barre we are doing it! only twelve spots to go.

177 out of 189 (and an honorable mention to allentown at 157.)
to my burlington friends, your shit is weak.

same goes for lancaster. i know you got that huge mall and a cool downtown, but you also have the amish mafia.

wilkes-barre.

you build fences around the projects, while getting drunk and shooting dope on week nights.

there are no jobs, unless you want to huff natural gas, and poison the water supply.

the exterior of the beehive has been taken out by bears, and your people have been killed by hornets.

bring the violence in 2014.

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.

91513

You don’t want to go to work at your part-time job.

You want to lie on the couch all day covered in blankets, watching mind numbing daytime game shows, and popping k-pins in the fetal position hoping a giant boot crashes through the ceiling flattening your body.

Hoping it twists, grinding your bones into the broken couch parts, for good measure.

Skin and bodily fluids oozing under rubber.

Five minutes pass.

And nothing happens.

You decide against taking a shower and brushing your teeth.

You decide that smelling like shit and having bad breath will help you avoid social interactions.

You decide that having social interactions when you smell like shit and have bad breath proves to strangers that you have no inner-drive or initiative to do anything important ever.

It’s important for other’s to understand this because it feels good to be honest.

You want to be alone, but you don’t want to be by yourself.

You want to be able to do something amazing, but “something” and “amazing” are such broad, general terms that are too complicated for you to understand.

So you put your blue polo shirt on with the company logo on the sleeve, and arrive at work ten minutes late instead.

Upon your arrival, you become a different person who is constantly smiling, laughing, and taking an interest in other people’s lives by asking questions about their jobs, sons, daughters, grandkids, pets, sports teams, vacations, and church functions while slicing ham, cheese, and/or salami.

Just another version of yourself to hate.

They talk and talk and talk and complain and complain and complain as you nod your head.

Always ending the conversation with, “Have a great night!”

Not really giving a shit.

More concerned with the tools you have at your disposal to kill yourself (slicers, ovens, knives, deep fryer, saran wrap + a full bowl of potato salad.)

Only to shut the lights off to go home and do it all over again tomorrow.

The daily $8.05 grind.

Teaching you to talk to yourself, because on your shift you receive no new messages.

She told you to wait because she needs time to think.

And the books you took out and studied to interpret those words have left you with a bad feeling that can be compared to a stomach ache that expands to encompass an entire body.

So you’ve started destroying yourself, instead of being patient because you are a fucking idiot proving everyone who has called you smart and talented wrong on a minute to minute basis.

Which is making you forget about how fucked your life really is until tomorrow.

Then you watch a documentary on people living in the sewers of Bogota, Columbia and realize the whiny pussy you actually are.

And how little you actually matter.

Always second guessing the words coming out of your mouth in comparison to the emotions you’re feeling.

 

 

 

Near But Not Enough By Benjamin James Spurlock (MV Swydersky Remix)

 

 

Outside the rain came down.

A wall of endless white noise.

Footsteps on the sidewalk.

Hurry.

Anywhere dry.

In one room a woman screams.

Louder.

And louder.

“Excuse me… Sir. Do you have any Tylenol? My head hurts.”

Outside, a joyless dance speeds past; cars maneuvering around one another, desperate to get home. 

Observing from the fifth floor:

Screams, questions, and fluorescent lights accented by the darkness of night.

 Inside the flurry, a tireless tapping.

A lone elderly woman stands with her back to the wall, glassy eyes absent of life. Not staring at anything.

Almost all the old folk have been put back into their rooms.

Almost.

Repeat.

Screams.

Louder.

And LOUDER.

Transforming into a gurgle.

“Excuse me… Sir. Do you have any Tylenol? My head hurts.”

No one will come to her aid.

The nurses, inhuman, more concerned with the remaining time on their shifts and lukewarm cups of coffee in styrofoam.

 

Me.

In the dining room.

Mop head moving back and forth.

Back and forth.

Thinking about a dead MP3 player, and the walk home.

 

A slight pause.

 

The lone elderly woman with glassy eyes absent of life notices him.
 

Me. 

“Excuse me… Sir. Do you have any Tylenol? My head hurts.”

She no longer has her back to the wall.

“No, you have to ask an LNA.”

Dead MP3 player.

“I asked somebody. But, I’m not sure where they went.”

“I’m sure they’ll be back soon.”

The walk home.

 

My answer doesn’t register.  She looks confused. Off.

A chair. She needs a chair. 

Slowly, very slowly her limbs drag forward, muscles straining with every effort. Hands shaking grasp the chair’s arms. Finally, her weight finds relief.

I stand still, watching.

Observing.

             Forgetting the most important details instantly.

“Have you seen my daughter? She was supposed to visit me today.”

“No. I’m sorry.”

But not really.

            

…

“I’m not sure where I am.”

Either am I.

…

“I’m sorry. I can’t help you. I have to go clean another floor,” but she doesn’t hear me.

 Her head turns away back towards the wall, eyes relax. 

Lost.

Alone.

She rubs her shaking hands against her temples in little circular motions and mutters, “My head hurts.”

Slowly i push my cart past the sparse rooms and the nurses’ station. I walk toward the elevator doors, and the lone elderly woman with glassy eyes absent of life lets out another scream. I make a left at the elevators, and down the adjacent hallway. Looking out the fifth floor’s windows at the sidewalk below, I feel a slight pressure inside the frontal lobe, which turns into a sharp, sullen pain. I turn around and walk back to the nurses’ station.

 

“Hey, my head hurts. I was wondering if anyone has some Tylenol? Feels like I’m in the process of getting a headache.”

 

One of the nurses, a forty year old soccer mom, starts digging through her black leather purse and pulls out a small sandwich baggie filled with round orange/brown pills.

“Sorry hun, I don’t got any Tylenol. But here’s some ibuprofen. Hope it helps.”

“Thanks.”

 

The shitty thing is, it didn’t.