A Dark Delicious Revelation (A musing from the naked traffic cop who has since lost his fucking gourd)

A Dark Delicious Revelation (A musing from the naked traffic cop who has since lost his fucking gourd)

You. You are art.
Every line. Every shape. Every curve.
Brush strokes. Waves of acrylic. On canvasses.
Brushed lines of Graphite and Charcoal. On papyrus.
Soft. Full. Perspective.
Lush. Greens. Blues. Shades of Violet. In a darkened scope of color.
On a palette. Mixed. Concocted. Replenished.
Brought to life with drips of Cerulean Water.
The colors water would be if water was as it were in my wide lens.
You. You are all the shapes.
The hourglass. The pear. The rectangle. The apple.  The diamond.
Molded. To create you.

I wrote a poetry! (‘a’ poetry? …i’m keeping it) yay! I haven’t done that for, like, a long time. I actually discovered my (choiceless) creativity with poetry. Writing poems n shit. About women (mostly) and winter…and William Shakespeare (actually, yes, exactly those.

(when I write these things it usually take me a couple weeks to finish them…because I don’t force myself to finish it enough.) BUT ALL OF THIS WILL CHANGE

as I have just signed up for a FUCKEN POETRY MARATHON MUTHERFUCKER…seriously, I’m hard as fuh.
No, but seriously seriously, that’s a thing that is happening. 24 poems in 24 hours. I mean, one time I finished a drinking challenge of 78 drinks in 2 months…how hard could it be? It will definitely be the most interesting 24 hours, I think.

But ti’s (typo but I’m keeping it) exciting. Actually taking time off to create A SHIT TON of art. Every day I try to work on something, a painting, my underwhelming guitar skills, or ugh, my stories (the latter of the three, I will admit, I’ve been lacking in and I can hear my stories crying in the darkness) but this will be different, I have actually decided to devote time to creating instead of adding it to my daily habits of waking up too late and drinking too much coffee

SPEAKING OF DARKNESS, (segways are weird), Halloween season is right now, you’re in it, better get used to it because myself and my people, the other dark and delicious people are ecstatic because we get to be spooky, like, spookier than normal…(what even is spookier than normal…what even is NORMAL) but, like I said, speaking of darkness I have a thing to say on the subject, I haven’t had a lot to say lately, but witness me, if you will. I wrote this to myself sometime previously whence fully authenticating the reality of the darkness within me. It’s here, it’s mine. I’m better for it. Indulge me.

Dark v. Light

Without the dark there cannot be light.” (It is known Khaleesi)
Without the good there cannot be evil. (It is also known)

But, as I’ve discovered recently, the Shadow is not always evil. There are awful things (A LOT, actually) disguise themselves in the Light. I, myself, find comfort in the darkness (it might be my blue eyes but that’s irrelevant).

This is not to say that I revel in doing bad things to people; I don’t want to hurt people physically (most times), I don’t want to manipulate people, I don’t want to damage them emotionally. I choose not to bring about the destruction of one’s existence simply because I fuckin’ get off on it. I don’t. It’s not my style.
If a guy is chasing a girl down an alley whom he has just beaten, I’m going to lower my shoulder and take him to the ground, smack him around a bit, scream in his face and laugh maniacally (albeit mildly) as I wrap my hands around his throat (only so he’ll STop FUCKing SQUIRMing). Knowing that I have all the power and nearly every justified right to kill him.

And i truly believe that these thoughts (and actions, that actually happened) stem from a dark place. A dark place that I live, by myself, amongst the degenerates and the renegades (all my beautiful horror geeks and monsters. The freaks and creeps where, yes, depression is rampant, and it creeps in every so often, as the crushing sentiments of artistic self-doubt usually do [a necessary addition to life for the cultivation of art]), This same dark wood where fear clouds the darkened sky holds no sway over me. I live in this place but I do not live in fear and I do not find pleasure in hurting people or myself in any way, shape or form.
Every so often, a friend of mine or an acquaintance or someone whom I don’t even know will venture down, down…and down into the serene darkness where I live and keep my solitude. It will frighten them. I can see it, mostly in their eyes and feel it in their questions. I know this fear. I walk hand-in-hand with it.

This terrifies them because they don’t know where they are and they don’t know how to get out.

Death, Despair, and Terror, will rear their ugly, putrid heads and unhinge their snakelike jaws exposing angler teeth, squirming in the deepest part of the undiscovered abyss.

The things that live in the dark will close in to do them harm. But, if by chance, they see my blue light, it’s not bright, but in the dark it looks like an ocean of comfort. If they do, when they do…whether by chance, some premonition, some miracle, or their God and own Holy Spirit have seen fit to guide them to me.
I’ll be there.
I’m always there, in the dark, ready to do violence on the things that would cause the terrified harm (that last bit’s from a quote, I can’t take too much credit). My wolf teeth will be barred and the dark things shy away from me. Because they know I am worse than them. The dark wolfish thing outlined in intense blue is not to be trifled with.

I will be prepared to lead them out of the dark, or be with them in the darkness when it turns to blackness. Because darkness, I find, is good. Pitch blackness is not. That’s when people can’t see and start to panic. They don’t know which was is up when they lose their footing.

I wrote that a couple months ago, I think when I was coming to terms with my darkness. The year has in and of itself been something of a coming-of-age for this guy.

I mean, now I wear my kilt to work. I’m becoming who I’ve always been but have never had the wherewithal to discover.

I’m just like this now and I kinda fuckin’ dig it.

(As a side-note, the rest of the title is a reference to my solo piece that I performed recently at Midsummer Scream for a dark theater production called Urban Death. In this scene, before the lights fade in all the audience hears is traffic sounds (horns, cars driving by and the like, and my whistle. When the lights come up, they are presented with an extremely naked white dude where nothing but a yacht captain hat and a chrome whistle. I then proceed to dance and “direct traffic” as goofily as possible to raucous, uncomfortable laughter)

((pps. I loved every second of it))


Musings of a Psychedelic Inch-Worm Ch. 2 The Grid

Musings of a Psychedelic Inch-Worm Ch. 2 The Grid

Can you see it?” asked the Raven. “Can you see the grid, inch-worm?”
“I can!” replied the inch-worm, happily. “I can actually see it! I can see yours and I can see what it looks like to a person with my brain too!”

The Raven sighed as she looked up at the stars knowing that she finally had someone who saw what she saw. Someone she would have always.

Hello mah people! (a greeting I have adopted since accidentally mis-gendering a trans-boy [a girl transitioning to a boy] oops) It’s been a second, but I’ve been on a journey…or sorts. Well, like, actually maybe also literally too. Those drives man…palm springs is far…what a year, huh? Yo…it’s only May…

I find it positively laughable, albiet, unfortunate the amount of personalities that seem to connect for a fleeting of a second until one, the other, or both realize that it wants nothing to do AT ALL with the other. The rub, as it turns out, is being able to identify that this soul or that soul was brought into a life for a reason and should not be dwelt upon as one would fawn over a long-passed poor decision (a regret, to the layman). (On a parenthetically-theological note, I have trouble believing in a an all powerful entity, just as I’m struggling with my own concept of time and death and the meaning of it all. whotheactualfuck knows). The struggle with this belief does not negate the fact that I believe that things happen for a reason…and I have since discovered that reason…I’m fairly positive. (The Raven I speak of in the prologue has a much better grip on this side of reality than my abstract mind has patience for, for it was she that was first made aware of this concept).

The concept that I speak of is referred to as The Grid.

Cool thing is, this is an actual thing. It’s worth the research. I haven’t researched it entirely because, as it turns out,  it kinda has everything to do with the FUCKING ALGORITHM THAT HOLDS THE FABRIC OF THE UNIVERSE TOGETHER…numbers and shit. My Raven has discovered that she is exceptionally good with numbers. The science of things fascinates her. Which is fortunate because the art of things fascinates me. It’s not that one is more important or better than the other (there’s a children’s novel called The Phantom Tollbooth…read that shit) it’s that each of the two have to recognize that the universe is comprised of both and flourishes when both coexist.

I’ve tripped a couple times since the very first and each has been significant in its own rite. I’ve discovered that the two different psychedelics I’ve indulged in (‘fucked with’ as the kids might say) show me different parts of myself. Parts that I have come (and am still working with) to love. (Not really relevant to the point of the post, but stay with me)
The first time, (See Musings of a psychedelic inch-worm part one) my Raven experienced a different level of discovery than I did, and now, she sees it each time we trip. The most recent couple of times I’ve spent some time catching up but this last time, I actually SAW (like with my fuckin’ eyes) what it was that she was talking about the first time. A grid.

Like an actual, mathematical grid. Something the engineers would work with on paper. HOWEVER this grid (as far as I know) has two different forms. It is different to different mind-sets. IPSO FACTO (or whatthefuckever) there are two (2) kinds of people in the world (usually) NUMBERS people and WORDS people. This is not to say that there are only numbers and words in the world, the world (and the fuckin’ universe for that matter) is a myriad of beautiful things pieced together to create whatever this is that we’re living in. But what I’m saying is that there are people who have an affinity for creative part of life and people who have an affinity for the scientific part of life.

Traditionally (or as I’ve come to find [the fuck do I know])
Words = Emotional
Science = Logical

I’ve had a chance to think (as one is prone to do) and I’ve discovered that my above assertion is kinda actually true. Think about all the egotistical douchesnozzles that take offense to things a person says to them. I mean, you can’t really assault a person’s ego through quantum physics or even algebra for that matter (but you can give an English major an anxiety attack by telling him to pass a statistics test)
The point is, that yes, I feel the “WORDS” people have a tendency towards the emotional side and the “NUMBERS” people have a tendency towards the logical side. WHICH IS NOT TO SAY that either is confined to those ideals. My Raven is a numbers girl and she is one of the most empathetic people I know. Whereas, I have the ability to flip my empathy off (like a fuckin’ switch, it’s pretty nice, but also makes me feel like a crazy person sometimes.

The aftermath of the workings that my brain takes part in has led me to these revolutionary (embellished?) conclusions about myself and the world around me. Pretty awesome stuff. But, wait, what were we talking about? Oh, yeah, THE MUTHERFUCKIN ALGORITHM THAT HOLDS THE FABRIC OF THE UNIVERSE TOGETHER.
The Grid…as it were.
My Raven sees it. I see it. But only when my mind is amplified on psychedelics. My Raven actually has seen it after a trip (incredible if I do say) Her grid is perfect, perfect lines, up and down, left to right, proportionally immaculate, like something one could use to build shit.
My grid is, as recently discovered, like abstract brush strokes. Something like calligraphy, or if someone was painting the tranquil surface of the ocean.  As if one creator (Numbers) created something for the science people and another creator (or the same, who the fuck knows, but Words) created something for the artsy people. Both are needed. Both balance the fabric of the universe.
And both need to use their gifts to upload their discoveries, inventions, creations, theories ONTO the grid for others to tap into later. We need to. We don’t have a choice.

That’s what I got for you now,
Until the next time you fuckin’ Beautiful, Wild people


Pre-Pre Interlude-Interlude (I think it’s called an intermission)

Pre-Pre Interlude-Interlude (I think it’s called an intermission)

My beautiful fucking people. I’ve discovered something. Something that might change the muthafuckin’ ballgame. I’m going to launch a Patreon. Somewhere you can scope my stuff and somewhere I can get paid to keep making it. AND now somewhere I can send you my Art as a thank you for supporting my artistic endeavors.

If there is anything in this world I FUCKING hate…it’s money and asking people for it.
conversely (contrariwise)
If there is anything on this earth that I LOVE and will continue to LOVE and will keep loving until it kills me. It’s art. Muthafuckin’ art. Dancing, Music, Painting, Drawing, and Storytelling.

Which is why I am going to launch a Patreon. Combining the things I LOVE and HATE to create this weird balance of Light and Dark to support the only thing on this world I was put to do. Fuckin’ create shit. (There has been a disturbance in the force for some time now…a balance had been lost…and now was fuckin’ found…or whatthefuckever)

Creative people have been using this site for a few years now and have actually been able to support themselves through their art by doing so.

I’m planning for a slow start. BUT this will not deter me from putting my shit ON THE FUCKING GRID (that concept will be explored upon in the next post, btw, I just had to get this off my chest and make an announcement {Also also finishing a piece of writing [something I haven’t done for a minute] is very therapeutic, also within this exact realm…or whatever}
I think that’s it. This means I’ll be on Tweeter more (*some voice in the background* wait…wait, what? it’s it’s called tweet…tweet? Twitter? gawd that’s fuckin’ stupid) Twitter, excuse me, I’ll be tweeting on Twitter MEANING I’ll be using my twitter handle which is my stage/pen name…wait for it..
Killian C. Wolfe…how cool is that? I came up with it myself…mostly
Once I build my page thoroughly and completely, I will make anotheranother announcement. Put that muthahfuckin internet to work for me.

til then,
stay fuckin’ wild, beautiful people,

Somewhere in between (50 shades of SHUT THE FUCK UP)

Somewhere in between (50 shades of SHUT THE FUCK UP)

I like telling girls they’re pretty. I’m just that kinda asshole.
But just to be completely thorough…
I don’t tell pretty boys they’re pretty, well, cuz from one dude to another, it’s actually kind of an insult. Unless the dude is gay and reeaallyy trying to be pretty, or if he’s not gay and dressed in drag,  you know, still trying to be pretty, then…I dunno, I’d probably call him pretty (for the sake of making sure EVERYONE is included, cuz, you know, everyone needs to be recognized and given a trophy for their participation in humanity)

no…seriously…none of us asked for this. We should just take a second and recognize that.

PLUS I only insult people through dry, subliminal snarkery. Unless, of course, they deserve to be called an “incompetent fuck-stick” to their face. Then maybe I’ll make an exception.

But, yeah, no. I LOVE telling pretty girls they’re pretty. Randomly. Anywhere.

Now on to the even sexier stuff.
I think I’m about to blow your mind, hold on to your butts. (Or you know, maybe I’m not and it’s only my moderate narcissism coming out to play. Whatever, here it goes)

I’m an inclusive dater…
As opposed to an EXclusive dater.
With me so far?

Inclusive dating. Go ahead, roll your eyes, I’ll wait…
Now shut up and pay attention, cuz I’m the one with the microphone and you wiLL LISTEN TO EVERY DAMN WORD I HAVE TO SAY.

I feel like, on some level, I have to make up for all the douchebag dudes who don’t know how to treat women. So, naturally, I want to show as many women as I ‘vibe with’ (that’s what the kids are saying nowadays) that it’s ok to vibe with multiple people. As long as both parties are honest. It’s not ok to lead someone into thinking that you want to be more than friends or more than booty-buddies (the British say that, I think).

Some would call my dating lifestyle ‘polyamorous’ which is totally a thing, but I think that I tread somewhere juuuusssttt below that, only because I don’t call the girls I’m ‘dating’ (I also use that word loosely cuz it means different things to different people) my ‘girlfriend.’
Also multiple ‘girlfriends’ sounds like an exhausting predicament.
I’m dating. We’re dating. Everyone’s dating. (K maybe not everyone, but dating doesn’t sound like a word anymore).

I think calling someone a “girlfriend/boyfriend” traditionally implies exclusivity. You’re both ‘courting.’ A societal ritual that no one has participated in since 1949. It’s whatever, (my decade references are not to scale).
To the best of my knowledge, the way people ‘court’ each other, nowadays, goes something like this: they meet, they decide to spend more time with each other, they see if they have physical chemistry to match their established mental/emotional chemistry.

someone feels something stronger than the other but is too insecure or unsure about how the other person feels to ask or open any kind of honest, vulnerable, dialogue so they go day in and day out feeling these things and never finding the courage to express them, and now they’re having sex and sex is awesome, and fun sometimes… or maybe that’s the only sex they’re getting and they don’t want to go through another 6-month-long-sexless slump so they put up with the idle small talk that is generated through countless text messages and social media blathering just to be able to see the other naked, again.
So, either, you’ll both realize down the line (probably later rather than sooner) that you can’t stand the thought of each other or you’ll fall out of contact. Whether intentionally or not, sometimes it makes no difference.

ta da. courting.

I think EVERYONE should ‘date.’ Get out there, experience people. Know people intimately. It’s ok to do this. The whole preconceived notion of “sluttiness” is a farce and I hate it. Experience what you want to experience and anyone who wants to tell you how to live your life can fuck themselves in the face.

The idea that one person can (and should) only be with one person at any time sucks. So you’re supposed to, what, either get married, settle down or break up in a flurry of pesky emotions and energy leeching apathy (that doesn’t make sense, but it’s fuckin’ poetic, aight? [pronounced eye-t]).
I’ve come to terms with how I feel about serial monogamy, and I’m not sorry when I anounce that it’s just not for me, not at this stage in the ballgame, anyway. The girl who locks that portion of me down has to be my own embodiment of Aphrodite (if you don’t know who that is, read a book).
UNTIL THEN, I will date
What that means is I need to:
1) Be completely honest and forthcoming with every woman I get involved with by letting them know that if they wanna do this thing, they gotta share. Sharing is ok.
2) Not get jealous. Never been an issue. But if someone I’ve been out with is also going out with other people as I am or have the potential to be, that needs to be a thing that I’m ok with. It’s part of the deal.
3) Communicate effectively. Going back to number 1. No half truths or lies. I need to be able to open a dialogue about EVERYTHING regarding the terms of the dating endeavor.
4) [Think of more guidelines to make myself seem credible]

Unless I can totally just keep it simple. Which, I believe, in all cases, is the best policy. comma, comma, comma splice.

Here’s MY proposition. If you’ve read this far you can’t stop now. Ready? It’s easy…

Quit fuckin’ bitchin’

Sure, finding someone that fits all your precisely unobtainable, incomprehensibly high standards while also finding you, yourself (a person who should hold him or herself to an equally high standard) completely tolerable, is difficult. But guess what, statistically, there are at LEAST 3 billion other versions of the opposite sex floating around this world. That’s a lotta beans in a one bag (do people even fuckin say that?)
What I’m saying is don’t lose hope. You can’t. Actually. I can’t anyway, I’m currently operating on hope and a sickening amount of caffeine.

So do me a favor, quit whining. Suck it up. Learn how to be single. Love yourself. Enjoy spending time with yourself. Fuck, even enjoy having sex with yourself (Cuz if YOU don’t who ELSE is gonna…shit, and that’s just off the top of my head)

Shit, man, I can’t think of anything else and I’ve been working on this post for like, 3 mutherfuckin’ weeks.

I’ll have more to say on it, I’m sure. But until then,

Cheers, beautiful people,


Confessions (Untitled Blah vol. II)

I’ve come to a few realizations…I like to think we all do, but I dunno probably not cuz people get complacent and don’t wanna change a gawddamn thing about anything they’re doing.
but maybe, maybe some people do and they realize that that’s healthy. It’s healthy to grow and change because if you don’t then you’re just staying static and that’s bad.

Know what happens when water stays static? Fuckin’ mosquitoes. Don’t be a cesspool. Be open-fuckin’ minded about shit. Weird thing, maybe a bit uncharacteristic, but, uh, this is actually incredibly relevant to everything I’m about to come forward with and that was not originally my intention, but here it goes anyway.

So, I’m surrounded by millennials (my generation) they’re stupid and they suck…k that wasn’t it.

Here it actually is.  I’m an asshole. I’ve said this before, but yeah, I’m sayin’ it again, know why? Cuz I’m an asshole. And, like, I’m totally ok with that. Lemme tell you why, buckle down, shit’s about to get real.

So, I’m about 50 percent asshole, the other 50 percent is comprised of what makes me an awesome person (my karaoke voice, my shameless-yet-moderately-endearing-goofiness, my ability to make staring into space relatively attractive). Of course, the only proof I have that these attributes are acceptable in social situations is that no one has punched me in the face for no reason…yet.

I’ve shared this sentiment with a couple people whose opinions I value and the response is the same “Oh you’re not an asshole. You’re just–” Imma stop you there, yes, I am

The thing is, I’m not the asshole you don’t like…catch that? Meaning, I’m the quirky, goofy, mess of a human being that you enjoy having around because my inherent snarkiness makes you smile and you don’t know why. I’ve begun to know why, and I have my mother to thank for the example she set.

I’ve stopped caring what people think about me and I’ve just been me. What you see is what you get. It’s incredibly liberating and I wish I had the opportunities to express this more often, to, like, actual people, in, like actual, real-life. I could go on about my personal manifesto, but I would be getting too preachy. What I REALLY wanted to say and the reason for the title of this portion of my interwebbal (it’s a word now) amphigory (actual word, look it up, it’s one of my favorites and completely relevant)…

Is that, in the past, especially when I was growing up and learning how to conduct myself as a man, I’ve been a DICK. Which is not an asshole. I’ve been a stupid boy to the girls in my life, to the friends in my life, to the gays in my life. I’ve never been a bully. I despise bullies. But I haven’t been especially considerate of my actions in the past.

I’m sorry. An apology might not be warranted, but I’m sorry either way. If anyone I’ve wronged is out there and wants to talk with me about it, I currently find myself in a very humble and docile state and would make for fantastic conversation.

I will HENCEFORTH be an advocate against the shittiness of people being shitty to each other.
I’ve found that I LOVE calling people out for being shitty even if it’s not exactly in a way that they understand. If I know I can get away with it, I’m condescending as fuck, especially if I know someone can’t handle grating sarcasm. And I do this on purpose. That’s how you can tell I’m not having fun. This is why I’m an asshole. Best part about that?
I’m YOUR asshole.
Ya, not better. I’m working on it.
Only thing I want you to think about after I leave you here is all the “nice guys” there are out there, and think about how they act towards their people…hmm??
Don’t think too hard.
Imma do a little research, and next time we’ll talk about the mutherfucker who wrote the “How to approach a woman wearing headphones” article.
until then.

Cheers, beautiful people,





Just a mild case of Existential-Depressionism

Hey! I’m back, I know I know I know, you missed me…don’ lie…ya, it’s ok, I didn’t miss you either.
That’s a lie. Actually, no, it’s not a lie, it’s just not relevant, I don’t get any attention on here anyway, the words on this page are solely for your purpose. If no one ‘comments’ or ‘likes’ my words that’s ok, I’m sure some of you beautiful mutherfuckers are reading it anyway and aren’t telling me. CONVERSELY you’re telling everyone else….making me…

your dirty little secret. HA! you’re twisted.

I’m into it…weird.
But seriously, the truth is I was trying to do some complicated computer stuff using directions from the internet…cuz THAT whole situation isn’t BEGGING for something to go horribly wrong…long story short, I deleted some stuff and had to get a computer geek friend to help me. Executed a successful factory restart and here. we. are.

Back to square one. Fuck. My. Life.
eh…but I don’t wanna make it about me. Cuz there are a lot of people on this planet. Like. a LOT. and when I think about all my bullshit issues that I deal with, it’s like, I’m just a speck…a tiny little particle within a (probably) insignificant amount of time. and…it’s not that this thought depresses me. It’s just that, I start asking myself “What THEFUCK is the point?”
I know it’s not a new question, and maybe (probably) I think too much, but this is a thing that paralyzes me. It might be my twenty-something angst but I contemplate my purpose all. the fucking. time. Twenty-something angst is totally a thing, by the way. DON”T ROLL YOUR EYES AT ME. I’m Super Serious. or whatever.

Alright, I’m gonna keep the rest of this badmutherfucker short and sweet, because between the time I actually started writing it and, you know, like, now…I mean…now as in the exact moment when I’m typing these words on my little blue laptop…(thefuck is time anyway?)
I’m feel exponentially better. which is like…three “much(es)” to the layman. I’m feeling better and it might be the complete indulgement (not a word, is now, come at me) in my anxiety…such-that-to-the-point-where… (I’m aware that transition makes zero sense, stay with me, you’re doin’ great)

I guess what I’m trying to say, is that I’m trying my best not to let the things stress me out that I have no control over. Cuz that’s really what it’s all about, innit? just not letting things get to you too much.


elections, power, money, deforestation, illuminati, banks, the fact that we may or may not be utterly alone in the universe. Or the fact that humans are slowly killing the planet they live on because they, as a species, place value in the wrong shit. (I mean, if I were an alien race, I wouldn’t wanna hang out with us, pft, fuck that shit.)

All that shit (or the idea of it or whathefuckever)^^^ bums me out. But I’ve gotten to the point where I’m not gonna let the fact that it bums me out get me down. The fact that shit sucks is why we have music, and art, and stories, and alcohol, and fuckin’ pictures of you when you were thirteen and MORE pale that you are now. These are the things that make life tolerable. Ain’t about money. Nope.

Maybe I’ll never figure it out…oh well.

Upshot is, I just scored a gig  ghostwriting some erotica. The next post will be sexier. That’s a promise.
Till then,

Cheers, beautiful people,


friends don’t let friends miss leg day (an offshoot of the ‘c’mon, man’ sentiment)

Hey peeps! What’s a schedule amirite?

Alright, Imma be honest, (psh, like I’m not already…k, that’s a lie…mostly) but Imma be honest. I didn’t want to write this week…or last week. I didn’t. As I’m typing right now, I’m thinking “this is stupid” (yes, I know how to spell it, I choose not to on purpose…in case you were wondering) I’m thinking “there’s so much going on in the world, that just another dude, bitchin’ about absolutely nothing isn’t REALLY gonna change it. In fact, it might just piss some people off, and, like, not in the good way.”

All of that, I’m thinking all of that. BUT HERE THE. FUCK. I AM. Fuck it, I’ve got nothing else to do…that’s not true, I’ve got tons to do, I just don’t find the time to do them…no…it’s not that I don’t find the time. I don’t MAKE the time…(this will have a point once I figure it out, stick with me.)…ok…ok ok ok

I gotta be honest again, I totally had this whole thing written about how I feel about guns and gun laws. Upon realizing that I have nothing good to say about it, I’m relinquishing the argument to others who care more. I’ve got this whole theory…but I’m the only one who cares about it. If you care, ask me, we’ll get coffee and talk about it.


Can we talk about the Gym Douchebag for a second? You know the dude, or chick who gets all dolled up to go workout? No?…oh you know, the weirdly tanned gym stud wearing the graphic T cut-off showing off all his tribal tattoos? (I maintain, by the way, that if I’m feeling spunky enough and I see a white dude with tribal ink that does not look traditional in any way, I’m allowed to ask him which tribe he’s from. It’s a shame that I can’t tell them that “tribe douche” is not an actual thing. I guess open rudeness is frowned upon or whathefuckever).

On more than one occasion I’ve actually had to LEAVE the gym because I was laughing. I was laughing so hard I couldn’t take anything seriously anymore. My workout was over. I’ll tell you how I happened upon this…thing.
I was looking around, judging people, (cuz that’s what you go to the gym for, right) and my shade-riddled gaze fell upon this one mutherfucker…sky-blue-and-yellow Jordans, MASSIVE basketball shorts, one of those fuckin’ sleeveless hoodies, flower-patterned-flat-brim, and a pair of those over-ear-Beats-by-Dre headphones attached to his iPhone…with which he was taking a selfie.

I can only imagine the face I was making. Something that could be described as a cross between disgust and morbid curiosity. The face you make when you smell something completely ghastly but you still want to know where it comes from. Then, like, you start laughing almost uncontrollably and you need to excuse yourself from a public setting cuz open insanity is “not encouraged,” and staring with your mouth open is “creepy” and “unbecoming.”

Before I lose my train of thought…     ….       ….   what?
Oh…before I lose my train of thought lemme tell ya what the description of the “gym douche” does not include:
People who are PASSIONATE about being fit (Bodybuilders, figure builders, crossfitters, and anyone who comes to the gym with a set agenda, who genuinely ENJOY putting together workouts/eating plans/supplement plans and the like). For those people it’s what they do. The people working out. Not the ones sitting down to do a SET OF FUCKING CURLS.

There are TONS of reasons people go to the gym. I can’t speak for other people (except for the dude whose upper-body is JACKED but his legs look like they’re in serious need of a squat set…or seven, I know for a fact he’s there for a date with the 50 pound dumbbells. c’mon man).

The reasons I  attend the gym are as follows:
1) I’m vain as fuck.
2) I REALLY don’t want to be fat (which may or may not also have to do with #1)
3) To maintain my ability to give awesome hugs

now, allow me to extrapolate on these points.

1) When I say I’m vain as fuck, there’s really no other way I can think to explain the consistent checking of myself in any and every reflective surface this world has to offer. I wouldn’t say that mine is a prominent vanity, but if “obsessed” isn’t the word to describe how I feel about how I look then I’m not sure what the word would be. This, of course, like almost everything I write, might be a tad hyperbolic. Meaning that my exaggeration has been taken to a level beyond any genuine meaning. Of course, my vain might not compare at all to other people’s vain. Maybe I care too much what I look like. But I’m not obsessed with working out so I guess it’a a good thing I’ve got killer genes (did I say that out loud?) moving on.

2) It’s true. I don’t. I correlate fatness with weakness. I don’t hate fat things or people, nor am I scared of it/them but usually what being overweight constitutes to me (feel free to tell me to fuck myself at any time) is a combination of laziness and over-indulgence. Of course, there are those who are born with a genetic predisposition or contract a medical condition and in that case, there’s only so much one can do. But nothing is keeping anyone from being active. And that’s the long and short of it.

3) It’s been scientifically proven that a hug that lasts for thirty seconds or longer releases oxytonins (or some shit) whateverthefuck the bodies natural “feel-good” enhancers are…it does that. and the longer you hug…the gooder you feel…(I know what I said).

So that’s why.
But the truth is (and I might’ve already said this) it’s tough for me to actually get into the gym because of all the people who suck. Their vanity clashes with mine and it makes for this weird anxious energy. Every time I’m there I feel like I should be doing something different. Literally anything.
Which may or may not be a valid feeling, whothefuck knows?
maybe I’m just in a bad mood. Final thought, If you gotta go to the gym, don’t be a shitty person. The gym is already a shitty place to be. Til next time.

cheers, beautiful people,