Ain’t it fun #writing101, Day 1

“If it don’t hurt now then just wait, just wait a while. You’re not big fish in the pond no more, you are what they’re feeding on. So what are you gonna do when the world don’t orbit around you. Ain’t it fun, living in the real world? Ain’t it good, being all alone? … Don’t go crying to your momma, cause you’re on your own in the real world.“ Paramore

People always say that it gets better with time. Well those people – the mass loads of bullshit slingers that create the space for clichés and euphemisms – they’re wrong: like the Earth is flat wrong.

It doesn’t get easier because every day I wake up and my brother is still dead and we still don’t talk about it. Or how my too-old parents are raising my 16y.o. nephew because his mother was killed by her drugged-up boyfriend in front of him at 2-3 years old, and his father died in 2012 on his way to the bathroom. And his stepmom—the only mother he’s known in his life—is now pregnant by some 20 year old loser thug wannabe.

When that’s your reality ain’t shit easy.

And not surprisingly there’s no motivation to be found in a world where everyone is looking for the newest, biggest, greatest thing; so your need to dwell on a topic that happened two years and 6months ago is taboo. Frankly dear, it’s time to move on.

Move on to what?

I wasn’t living the dream before he died and I sure as hell ain’t floating on a rainbow now.

And this whole idea of how it’s great to be an adult?

Fuck that.

All I do hourly is give away my intellectual property for a paycheck that Uncle Sam slices in to shreds where the scraps are used to pay bills for shit I rationalize that I need in order to survive/get chose/fill the gaping hole inside of myself with something other than food. And the more I live this life, the more I hate every bit of myself.

Because contrary to my current situation, I had dreams that far exceeded my present station. I wanted to travel, and live out of hotels, fuck random men, and drink endless amounts of wine all the while earning my living through some danger filled adventurous occupation.

Instead I sit in a cube farm 9-12 hours a day, wander lusting after shit I can’t afford, pinning amazing projects on virtual boards for whenever I find the time to be spontaneous and “productive”.

And then while I vortex in to this adverse dimension of myself I imagine coming home to flowers and neck kisses and surprise treats from Trader Joes, like that strawberry licorice that makes you want to rub your body on things in delight—purr meow purr.

I just want a little more jolly in this ranch corral life. I mean can’t even make friends who like—want to hangout on the weekend, who don’t mind movie marathons and who don’t expect me to supply all of the necessary provisions. It’s all “do for me” “buy for me” “take from me”. And it’s tiring.

Life is tiring. And it’s hard. And I see why so many people want to stay in bed all day with the curtains drawn, popping anti-depression meds that typically make you suicidal. Because no one prepared you for this shit storm. And no one wants to hear you complain.


Always chasing rainbows

“I’m always chasing rainbows, Watching clouds drifting by, My schemes are just like all my dreams, Ending in the sky. Some fellows look and find the sunshine; I always look and find the rain. Some fellows make a winning sometime, I never even make a gain, believe me, I’m always chasing rainbows, I’m watching for a little bluebird in vain.” Judy Garland

I keep thinking that one day it will all make sense. There has to be an equation, right? Some divine code, decipherable through the gathering of life experiences. One day I’ll be able to add up all the numbers, multiple all the sunrises, subtract all the sorrows, divide by all the joys and come up with either a positive or negative number. A blimp on graph. A baseline that makes complete sense.

No. I’m still at 0. Is that even a number? It’s more an inert integer where no matter how you manipulate it, the value remains untouched.

I wanna touch zero. I wanna add days to it, to prolong it’s life. I wanna rip it up into shreds and stomp all over the confetti of zeros at my feet. I wanna shove all the zeros down my throat until I choke on numerical madness and then feed the regurgitated remains to the pigeons. I wanna spread around zeros like an infectious disease until the epidemic puts people into a panic, demanding billions of dollars to develop a cure. The antivirus for keno-zero-phobia stocked on every pharmacy shelf.

I wanna hate zero. Blame the causality for every horrible, despicable, heart wrenching thing that ever happened on its inability to mean anything. I’d like to cast zero back into its dark abyss. Etch words on the box I opened warning others to beware of the curse that comes from playing with zero.

Oh what I’d give to be wrapped in the arms of 1. Cocooned in the embrace of 2. Play hide and go seek, laughter echoing through the trees, with 3. Swim laps in a pool of 4s. Skate down the street as rays of sun bounce off 5. But I can’t.

I can’t seem to escape zero. No matter where I bunker down, I look over and there zero is looking at me. Shadowing my footsteps, splashing in puddles, as we walk through the rain.

You start to wonder if zero is following you. Or are you chasing zero?


“Dark the oceans, dark the sky, Hush the whales and the ocean tide, Tell the salt marsh and beat on your drum, Gone their master, gone their son, Dark to light and light to dark, Three black carriages, three white carts, What brings us together is what pulls us apart, Gone our brother, gone our heart.”

There’s a gray dress that hangs in my closet. Not hidden. Not lost. No it just hangs there in plain sight, reminding me, haunting me. And there it remains. Watching me. Untouchable yet present.

It’s not an ugly gray dress. It’s more nondescript than anything. The kind of gray you forget exists until you see smog polluting the air. Or rain clouds before the threat of a thunderstorm. The type of gray you could pass by a thousand times without notice. It’s only saving grace, a black button adorning the neck: uniting the collar and providing appeal.

I’ve worn the dress twice. All the same, I’ll never wear it again. Even more, I won’t throw it away.

You see, I buried my brother in that dress. “Buried” is the wrong word for the mockery of a funeral that was held for the parting of a beloved. “Buried” implies that my brothers body rests somewhere in hallowed ground, where you can visit to mourn and reminisce.

I guess I should say I wore the dress the last time I saw my brother. “Saw” also seems off in this context. It would make one think that the seeing was mutual; as if there was a capacity to be seen as well as to see.

A more apt way to describe this last porting would be to say the final memory of my brother’s lifeless body was in this dress. A gray dress with a black cardigan on one of Arizona’s hottest days.

I dressed as if I needed to make an impression on such a somber occasion. I dressed with the hope that death didn’t warrant such drab attire.

I remember falling, wailing— a pool of gray abyss. A chill transmitted from trying to warm a corpse. A piece of myself dying along with the death I felt in my brother.

You always think you have more time. Ultimately when everything is taken away, you’re left with an unwearable gray dress.

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