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Dear Catastrophe

I wrote this short story long ago. Re-edited it since the other short story isn’t done yet. I may cut this blog down to a M-W-F schedule. 5 times a week is kinda draining.

Dear Catstrophe

It was a typical day at the club. The cigarette smoke rose high and anticipation rose even higher. Everyone hurried and got their drinks and headed towards the front. They didn’t want to miss a single second of the show. They all knew what was coming and by the perverse grins gracing their faces, they knew it was going to be good. Friends and old chums guzzle down their beers and clink the bottles together as a salute to the spectacle they are about to witness. The lights of the dingy hovel dim. Cheers from the masses, encouragement from the darkness echo throughout the walls of their hallowed grounds. That was all she needed, that and the right choice of music. The bass started to rumble. It was pumping into the ears of the attentive drunkards. It energized them. It turned their cheers into howls of adoration. She takes her first step onto the stage. She looks at her crowd, her fans, her audience.

As she steps up the stairs to the stage, her knees knock together in fear. She looks out and can hear the chatter of everyone. Each word holds heavy on her body like sand bags on her shoulders. But nonetheless, she takes step after step and leaves the trail of clacks as her high heels distinguish the stage. Her smile is deceiving in too many ways but her eyes, now that is her weakness. Inside, you can see the loss of childhood innocence. The type of innocence that is easy to fake but impossible to gain once lost. She struts her stuff on stage but she looks out to find a bit of humanity among her to no avail. She, at this moment, feels alone in the universe. While she’s keeping her audience preoccupied with the provocative position she has placed herself in while all she can think about is how she’s going to drink herself into a stupor when she gets back home.

A man throws a dollar coin at her. She graciously smiles while behind that smile of hers, she is imagining gouging his eye out with the damned thing. She’s not happy but you wouldn’t see it with the way she swings around that pole like a child on a playground. She does a final lap around the stage enticing the incompetents to drain their last bit of money into her pocket. With no success, she picks up her garb strewn on the stage. She bends down to pick up a brassiere covered in rhinestones and glitter and as soon as it touches her hand she feels a pinch. Embarrassed and insulted by the grab, she hurries into the back room. She cries her eyes out. She does it so much that it’s become routine for her. None of the other girls give it a second look. With mascara running down her face she gets dressed in her clothes and slings on her long black coat. She doesn’t want anyone to see anymore than she has to showoff.

The owner of the club sees her leaving and yells across the club, “Good job tonight!” She cringes on the inside but like before, puts on a happy face. She leaves through the back door so that she doesn’t have to face any of her “audience” again. She steps out into the alleyway. She unzips her purse and opens it. Her hand fumbles inside trying to find the pack of cigarettes that remained unopened for far too long. The pack finds her hand and she shreds the wrapping off. The paper slides in between her fingers and places it in her mouth. The filter puts the familiar taste in her mouth. The taste makes her want to vomit but it doesn’t matter, to her it is the sweetest thing she has had in long while. The lighter reaches the tip and it lights up like a child’s face on Christmas. She takes a drag and that is exactly what it does. It drags on and on. Sucking it deeper. She feels her lungs fill with the cancerous venom. Her mouth opens slowly to let the smoke out. She blows it out in one cathartic moment. She glances behind her to see a man with a cigarette looking directly at her.
“I saw you in the club.” The man said as he took a short puff.

“Oh…um…thanks.” She said shyly.

“It wasn’t a compliment.” He dropped his half finished cigarette and walked away. The woman swallowed the lump in her throat. She dropped the smoldering butt into a nearby puddle, only leaving the reminiscent lipstick mark on the filter.

A sign from across the street shone brightly. It was the sign of the local neighborhood liquor vendor. To her, that sign shone the brightest than any other sigh along the street. It was like a beacon to her. It called like the Siren’s Song. She trudged her way across the street and put her hand on the door to the vendor. A slight push and the door opened. The clerk that she had recognized from the night before and the night before that came to the front from the back room. He smiles as a formality. She smiles back as not to seem rude, as she does on the stage. She takes the same path as she always does and makes her way to her desired poison. She sighs and thinks, “Some things will never change.” A bottle of Absolut Vodka touches her hand. It feels cold as she brings it to the till.
“Hi. That all for ya?” the clerk said cheerily.

“Yes. That should be it.” She said as trying not to make eye contact. The bottle passes by the scanner and releases a little beep.

“So…um…I see you in here a lot and was wondering,” she thought to herself, ‘Here is comes.’ “Would you like to go to coffee or something…I dunno…sometime?”

That wasn’t what she was expecting. She looks up at him and their eyes meet. A tiny smile graces her face.

“I’m flattered but these aren’t good time for me, right now.” Her voice was quiet.

“Oh. Okay. Well, I hope things go better for you. If you change your mind I’m always here.”

“Thank you. I appreciate it a lot—“ She took a quick glance at his name tag. “—Wesley.

“Not a problem. I do what I can.” Wesley smiled his familiar warm smile, bagged the cold bottle, took her money and said his goodbyes.

She left the store and proceeded down the street to her apartment building. She approached the lifeless building with certain dismay as she searched for her keys and unlocked the front door. The old door creaked letting a squeal echo throughout the hallway as if it was an alarm to tell everyone that she was there. Quietly, the door creaked back into place once again. A man came out from his apartment and gave a look towards her and shook his head.
“My son, he say he see you at club again.”
“Yes. I was there, Mr. Popowicz.”
“Why you no find good job? Your mother, she must be disappoint.”
“You know that my mother is dead. I tell you that every time we have this discussion.”
“Your mother, she watch from above.”
“Somehow, I doubt it.”
“She there. Trust me. If you at that club again, my son, he tell me.”
“He shouldn’t be there anyways. It’s not a place for gentlemen.”
Mr. Popowicz waved his hand to tell her to go on down the hallways as he stepped back from the dirty hallways and into his apartment.
She reached her apartment door with the familiar ‘7A’ hung by small nails. Her hand guided the door open slowly. The light from the hallways filtered into her private living area. She closed the door behind her and then proceeded to lock the handle, then the padlock, and finally, the chain. She walked over to the couch and sat down and put the bottle on the coffee table. She curled up into a fetal position on the couch. Tears slowly formed in her eyes and she pressed her face into a throw pillow and screamed until all the air in her lungs was spent. She sat up with streams of tears along her face. Her shaky hand reached out for the bottle but she resisted. Suddenly, the alarm on her watch went off to tell her it was time to take her medication. She wiped the tears away and trekked to the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. With trembling hands, she opened the cabinet and popped the lid to the pill bottle. She tapped out tow pills into her hand and slammed them back. One quick gulp later and they were gone but her feelings still lingered. More tears were forming. She could see the tears growing in her own eyes within the mirror. Faster and faster they were forming. Like rivers from her eyes, the flow, unstoppable. Anger soon overcame her and with a quick right jab she broke the mirror. Blood was pouring from her knuckles. She then noticed the pill bottle she had placed on the counter. Her hand was weak but still clutched it with an intense ferocity. She thought to herself how it didn’t matter anymore. With that last thought, she guzzled down the whole bottle of anti-depressants. Her walk was staggered as she made her way back to the couch. She viciously grabs the bottle from the coffee table and downs more that half of it. She then sat there waiting to die.

She thought of her life. Of happiness. Of desperation. She thought of everyone she has ever loved and even of the ones she said she did but truly did not. She thought of the man in the alley. Of Mr. Popowicz. And even Wesley. With disgust, she even remembered the darkness that she performed for, for much too long. She thought back to her childhood. How happy she was. Again, she thought of Wesley and how things could have been different if they had met differently. Finally, the darkness had caught up to her and with consciousness faded, she was gone.

The next day at the club, the stage seemed cold. Of all the time she spent on stage, it seemed now, that she was only a ghost before. They were witness to the murder upon that stage. A murder that took years of degradation to achieve. But the show must go on, and different woman stepped up on stage and any remorse that they have felt, lost in that instance. They cheered. Showtime.
At the liquor store, a man tried to buy the last bottle of Absolut Vodka. Wesley took it and said that he couldn’t sell it. After a few harsh words, the man left empty handed. As the night went on, Wesley got worried. There was no sign of her. It was dark out and closing time was nigh. He went to the door and looked out side in hopes that she’d be coming. He looked down the street. Then looked the other way. Not a soul to be seen. Never had the street looked so cold to him. Wesley sighed and closed the door. His hand motioned the lock closed. He reached up and pulled the rope. The bright ‘Open’ sign turned off. Wesley took the last bottle and kept it under the counter in the dark where no one could see it. He let out a sigh.
“Maybe she’ll be in tomorrow.”

Pirates do it with Grog.

Internet piracy is a subject I feel very passionate about because I’m in it.  I’ve been pirating music and movies for as long as I’ve had the internet (which was from a very young age).  I download music mainly because I love it.  I want to learn everything it has to offer without having to choke down the dick that corporations tell us is “cool” and “hip”.  I can remember the first song I ever pirated.  It was a catchy number that my brother and I saw on “Pop-Up Video” when we were younger.  It was none other than “You Can Call Me Al” by Paul Simon. This song set me on my path that eventually led me to where I am today.  I have no regrets on the path that I’ve travelled.  What I’m doing is turning the record industry on it’s ear and forcing them to listen to what we, the pirates, the fans, the music lovers, have to say.

The idea I have behind downloading music is making recording artists and their labels responsible for the product they produce.  I want everyone to pirate everything they can.  Burn it.  Share it.  Have fucking listening parties with it.  But the main thing you must do for this plan to work:  Buy the music you like.  Buy it all.  Help the artists survive and show support by buying it.  This way, the label has to be forced to drop its shit acts because they won’t sell (and that’s all they care about really).  While purchasing the good artists, this may get them to be noticed by a bigger label and picked up.  That means more touring, more albums, more of what you like.

Now, let’s talk about quality of music.  There is a local band called Stereos.  They are god awful and I want everyone who reads this to go and listen to their catalogue (if you can make it through) and try to find one good gem in there.  It’s a sea of shit and these assholes are making sure it stays that way.  Where’s the originality?  Where’s the talent?  Where’s the creativity?  NOT FUCKING AROUND WITH STEREOS THAT’S FOR SURE.  These pieces of shit are no talent hacks that couldn’t produce a meaningful song with all the Auto-tune in the world.  Now, Ben Gibbard and his crew took their stand at the 51st Grammy’s wearing blue ribbons in protest the use of Auto-tune in the music industry.  Fuck yes.  Artists standing up for artists.  Recognizing the hard work these players take when making their music.  Auto-tune is killing the music industry and it’s artists one perfect pitched song at a time.  It’s imperfections that make these songs stand out.  Listening to vinyl and hearing all those pops and hisses still gives me shivers down my spine.

Another band that shouldn’t be allowed near anything to do with music:  Brokencyde.  I’m not sure if you’ve heard of them but their big single “Freaxxx” (NOT SAFE FOR ANYONE) is the most awful thing to be produced.   A bunch of fucking kids who don’t know their dicks from their asses when writing a song.  “Let’s get fucking freaky now”?  That’s your big lyric?  A song about freaky sex and getting “crunk” when you look like you’re not old enough to even shave?  Here’s some advice brokencyde, break up the band, I’m sure no one would care anyways, and take up something more worthwhile than you screamo-crunkcore music.  Like crocheting.

That’s the idea guys.  Avoid the shit and support the awesome.  With that, you and I can save the world of music.  One download at a time.

-j.

There is a Light.

A poem written for someone pretty darn special.

The smell of salty sea air attacks my nose.  I feel the burn.
The boat rocks and sways with the ocean.

I am alone on this vessel with my burden to bear.
A fog rolls over and I think of nothing.

I light the lamp as to see.
Nothing there but I need to see.

See the nothing.

Between the wafts of fog I see another light.
It  comes closer.  Closer still.

The boat passes by slowly.  I see you there.
Another on a journey that they are alone.

Do I ask you to join me?  No.
This is meant to be a journey of loneliness.

You pass by.  The smell of the salty sea air.
You’re gone now.  But I still see your light

There is a light.
And it never goes out.

Burn Your House Down; Live Free

My name is Jason XXXXXXXXXXXX.  I’m 22 years old at the moment and I just recently lost my job.  I was born in Brampton, Ontario but I’ve lived in Edmonton, Alberta for the majority of my life.  I’ve never been a ladies man or a manly man.  I’ve merely existed.  Existing is the easy part.  You get a job and go to that job.  You receive money in exchange for your (ever precious) time.  You use that money to but things that fill in the holes that have accrued along the path of your life.  The things you buy never fit right.  It’s like fitting a square peg into a round hole.  You’ll never be complete and when you surround yourself by a mass of useless shit it makes it painfully prevalent.

“But I have that wicked Best of Beatles Box Set from Amazon for only $220.49 (CDN).  Music is my life!”

Fuck you.  Music is not your life.  You know what life is?  Living is life.  Being free is life.

Let’s do an exercise in consumerism, shall we?  Well, you bought your box set.  Great.  Let’s see… You need a CD player to play them.  Then speakers if you want to listen to them.  Might as well get a receiver to do the equalization because you “need to hear these in their entirety!”  There you have it.  Consumerism™ has won again.  Consumerism™ just fingerfucked you in the ass and rubbed it under your nose and you didn’t even blink an eye.  Your eyes tear up from the shit smell and the tears run down, hitting the mustache that Consumerism™ so lovingly gave you.  Making it run down to the corners of your mouth.  Consumerism™ then puts it’s pants on starts walking away and tells you “Don’t call me, I’ll call you, Stink Lips.”

That is the true nature of Consumerism™ and let me tell you, he loves you all.

-j.™

The Sky’s the Limit.

There is a common phenomenon that is connected to the newer generations (Generation X, Generation Y, the iGeneration, and Generation A) called Option O.D.  Which simply means over dosing on the options laid before us.  We get bombarded with choices, opportunity, and motivational posters telling us to “shoot for the moon because even if you miss, you land among the stars!”

Bullshit.

If you follow your dreams (as most people tend to do now) you don’t end up among the stars.  You end up poor and in debt and the only way you can get money to survive is sucking dick behind the 7-11 for less than the ACTUAL 7-11 worker makes because that job is “below you”.  Working a decent days work is below you?  Whatever you say, spunkmouth.

The oppourtunity that any middle class person has is insurmountable.  There are always options to get to where you want to be.  May it be working until you can afford it, re-educating yourself to get a better career, or even just fucking stealing it.  These are all choices that a normal person can do.  Some better than others mind you but the principle is still there.

The huge amount of choices is daunting to anyone.  If you’re in your 20’s or just graduated high school I want you to think what your choices are career-wise.  The choices are pretty much infinite.  With infinite choice comes Choice Paralysis.  Choice Paralysis is defined as a situation where one is presented with infinite choice and thusly gets afraid of making the wrong choice that no choice is made and the person stays in the starting position refusing to advance.  I’ve been guilty of it.  We all have.

Kids of this generation are spoiled as fuck.  But so was I.  I had the internet and that is what I can assume ruined me and this generation.  An abundance of information at our fingertips creates a need for instant gratification.  A good example:  I can download an album from a band in less than 5 minutes (depending on seeders) and I still want it faster.  I watch that download bar and it goes as slow as old people fuck when I want it go as fast as this guy (NOT SAFE FOR WORK).

These are my views on choice paralysis and now I have one more choice to make.  Do I hit the publish button to let you know what I think?

You already know what I chose.  Now, what will you choose?

-j.

Sex is a Drug.

Sexuality is everything now-a-days.  We think about it when we wake up with morning wood.  We think about it in the shower.  We think about it to help us not think about work.  We think about it when our wives won’t give it to us.  I got on this topic because I was at home thinking about sex and the repercussions of constant sexual stimuli.  The more I thought about it, the more I came to the conclusion that sex is a drug.  Follow me on this;

Sex makes you feel good.  Fuck, it makes you feel fantastic.  Makes your problems go away for that short high you get.  It releases chemicals into your brain to make you feel good.  It inhibits logic and makes you say some really stupid things in the heat of the moment like referring to your current copulation partner as a “piece of Tokyo ghetto pussy”.  I don’t even know what that means but I will say it if you play with my dick like it was a controller to an old Atari 2600.

Think about this.  I don’t want you to read this and say “He’s talking about sex.  Heh.”  I want you to THINK.  What makes sex similar to a drug?

The release of chemicals in your brain from sex.  When I’m fucking, I don’t bother thinking about the outside world.  All I can think about is putting my Ogopogo in someone’s Loch Ness.  I become a junkie.  A shut-in.  Staying indoors in a dark room sweating it out while I get my fix.  Once I get my fix and she leaves, on one hand, I feel empty inside but on the other, I feel like a champ.  Laying there in a spot that was made from yours and hers sweat, having the smell rise and it hits you and reminds you of the high you had just moments ago.  Makes you feel like a fucking champ.

Is it illegal to buy drugs?  Yes.  Is it illegal to buy sex?  Yes.  Some people need their hits though.  They need it so bad that they’ll pay for it.  They quiver and look around to see if they’re spotted by the 5-0.  Make a shady deal in some back alley with a prostitute with only one leg and she’s too lazy to maintain that one leg so there’s hair growing everywhere and you think to yourself, “Fuck, it’s just one leg.  Is she really that lazy?”  They give her the money and she does what she does and then they walk away a bit happier than they were when they went into that alleyway that was lined with broken bottles and even more broken dreams.

The inability to think rationally is generally a male trait.  I’m gonna be the first to say it.  If a woman says I’m gonna get the chance to hit the hay with her, I’m powerless.  I will give you what ever you want.  You want the moon?  All right, let me pull that bitch down.  This?  Oh, this is a tractor beam I whipped up exclusively to pull down the moon and other moon sized objects.  Well, you said we were gonna fuck, right?  That is how a typical Saturday night is for me.  A lack of clear choice when in the presence of this “drug” can lead to many things.  STD’s.  Children.  Or in a worst case scenario; Marriage.

Do all these insights change anything for me?  No.  I like fucking.  If somehow down the road, the government finds a way to outlaw sex thus labeling as a drug, I’m still gonna do it.  Do you wanna know why?  Because I’m a junkie.

Just.  Like.  You.

-j.

In an absence of…

I’ve recently lost my job.  With that said, here I am.  Blogging.  The most useless activity you can do.  Yet I’m still going to do it.  Why, you ask?

Because I love you.  So God-Damned much.


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