I'm Gonna Fuck Your Shit Up, East Coast

There erupts a strange nostalgia in me when winter arrives at my parents' house. And then my mind wanders. And then my fingers dance. And then suddenly there's a profound love somewhere in the depths of me. It's not a love that you write home about, as it's not about anyone, but there's such a sensation of appreciation for the little nuances of the even tinier things. Cold weather here makes me think of colder weather elsewhere (oh, I'll always remember how my nose stung so wonderfully when I visited Chicago in late November).

And then, when I bundle up, I recall when I first wanted everything. I was 16. There came a knocking sound of jazz and a clammering for women that all seemed like a crowded ballroom. So many pretty dresses, so many wrinkled suits. I became a bastard that year, I assume. But, now, as in every winter hint, my head begins to match the conversation and I want the dive bars in Europe, the welcome home magic of the South and the renegade and seductive pull of New York City. In fact, I've always wanted that city by its lovely throat (especially when I became a bastard screwball romantic prizefighter). It only worsened years ago when I was collecting love letters from a girl at NYU. But, now, after great talk of seeing a skyline that I have only known in fiction and dreams, I want to spend my money on going the right amount of east. I want to finally read the poetry I started writing as a teenager (at least for just a week). And I find myself wanting to fondle the Atlantic. I want to press up against its beaches like the backseat of a car when with a girl you can't get out of your head or your hands.

I want the Eastern Seaboard running through my fingers like a lover's hair when you can't figure out if they're sleeping next to you in bed or you're dreaming oud loud while sweating out the drums of your heart in a frantic storm of laughter that is a very honest first impression (figuring out the only math that you ever want to know).

Look, I just want you to know that I'm reckless and I'm coming for you, East Coast.

Pure Water! Holy Fuck!

There’s a water dispenser in my new job’s break room. They have red plastic cups for everyone to use, which automatically puts me in the mode to drink beer or some mixed liquor (after, of course, I diligently examine my beverage, making sure there aren’t any cigarette butts in there).

Anyway, when the water dispenses, it gleams, “Pure Water!” as if this is first miracle of this century.

And, for a slight, short, fleeting moment…I was totally giddy.

“What the fuck? Pure water…? Well, what the fuck have I been drinking all these years? This is awesome! Jake Kilroy's a chump no more,” I thought initially.

Of course, it actually means, “This water is pure and safe and clean and good to drink.”

But, for that one quick instance, I thought it was like a drug sell, something like, “This is pure cocaine, bro!” Or maybe like an extreme soft drink, something like, “This is pure adrenaline, bro!” Or even like that one scene in Better Off Dead when the best friend picks up all the snow and says, “This is 100% pure snow! Do you have any idea what the street value is of this mountain?”

Seriously though, for a second, it was like, “This is pure water, motherfucker! PURE. FUCKING. WATER. Don't you get it? This is fucking huge. This is expensive shit, dude. Don’t be a fuckin’ idiot. Drink this water! Why? Because this shit is pure. Have you ever even had pure water? You’re face is going to explode from grinning so hard, you dumbfuck lucky dick! Wooooooooooooooooooooo!”

It was pretty exciting.

My day was kind of boring after that.

Hey, I Have A Job Again, Why Not?

I have a job again. And, this time, I have an adult car. Ths time, I have adult shoes. This time, I have adult patience. This time, I have adult money.

And that's most important.

But I still live with my parents.

So bring on the prostitutes!

Sorry.

I mean "spending spree."

Bring on the spending spree.

Fortune Cookie In Finances: A Quick Tale

About an hour ago, I was having a meeting with my father. I asked him to sit down and discuss finances with me, as I can hardly remember a time that I was closer to broke.

As I was explaining to him how helpless I feel and how doomed I may be, finally coming clean about how dire my situation is, I was gathering the three stacks of envelopes I had organized in a futile attempt to take control over my life once again.

I showed him the two letters from Farmer's letting me know that I missed my last car insurance payment.

I showed him the two letters from Aetna that said I hadn't been paying my health insurance provider.

I showed him the two letters from EDD that said I would not be receiving unemployment benefits.

Then, from one of the envelopes, fell a slip of paper from a fortune cookie. It read, "You have a reputation for being straightforward and honest."

And, if I remember correctly, the paper was from a meal when the other person I was with asked what my fortune was and I replied, "Don't bother. It isn't true."

Well, today, I suppose, was a good reminder that I can be wrong.

Twentysomething Something

Well, that was quite a night.

Nothing like falling asleep in jeans to remind you of your age, I suppose.

Woo!

Secret Girlfriend

I'm very confused yet very turned on by Comedy Central's new show Secret Girlfriend. They seem to think that guys will watch anything with tits and ass...and lingerie...and bikinis...and underwear...and sexy lines...and sexy moves.

It's like they they think we're stupid.

Well, that does it. After 5 or 6 more episodes, I'm proably going to seriously reconsider watching this obnoxious and mildly filthy program.

?

I have returned home from Big Sur with no travel plans in the future. I'm broke, worried, inspired, (temporarily) sick, and very interested in love letters.

This is a weird place, at the very end of a long journey and at the very beginning of a new one. Goodbye/hello, strange patterns.

Big Sur

Well, I'm leaving again today. I just can't stay put. Instead, I'm gonna wreck himself at Big Sur this weekend like Jack Duluoz.