In celebration of my 100 recordings milestone, here's my new album.

"The Money Standard"

Thank you to everyone who has supported over the years and a special thanks to Tom Fulp!

   Betty June loved all her flowers with all her heart and that love did not stop at the seeds. She knew that each one of the seeds had a special gift stored inside and she was overjoyed to see the gifts they gave each time one would grow.

   In Betty's flower shop, it was considered cruel to keep seeds within pouches to sell to the customers. Instead, they were contained within clear jars, so they may gaze in wonder about the flower shop at all the plants that used to be little seeds just like they were. 

    Jeb was especially eager to grow as soon as possible. As far back as he could remember, he had always desired to become a rose. He was not like most other seeds in the jar who had not figured out what they wanted to become yet.

Jeb wondered how the other seeds could have any doubt about what they should become in adulthood. Roses were beautiful and cherished as gifts of affection from lover to lover. They also had thorns which could prick those who we’re not delicate enough and do not appreciate their beauty.

The goal for Jeb was to be chosen as a flower that will be gifted to someone to show affection. Jeb considered that life would be easy for him, seeing as he already had the answers to his future, or at least an idea of what he will become.

    One day a man came to Debbie’s shop and purchased a handful of seeds from Jeb’s jar. Jeb was one of the lucky ones to get picked. He squealed with joy the entire ride to his new home where he would turn into a beautiful Rose.

 Jeb was given his own pot with rich soil. The other seeds from Jeb’s jar were in the garden too; each having their own pot to grow in.

  Jeb joined the conversation his neighbors were having around him and soon found himself bragging about how quickly he would turn into the most wonderful shade of red they had ever seen. 

One neighbor expressed that he could not understand why Jeb wanted to be a rose so bad.

Another seed told Jeb that he doubted that anyone of them would turn into a rose at all, nor did they want to. They went on to say that it would be embarrassing having to deal with all the attention that roses generate.

  A few weeks passed and one morning Jeb noticed that nearly all the other pots in the garden 

had budded.

Little green leaves could be seen on the tops of all the pots surrounding Jeb.

This worried him deeply. Why had he not started to grow yet? He was exhausted from trying so hard to grow each day. He would stay up at night later than the others and stare at the moon, hoping it would help him grow.

   A few months passed and now it was clear to Jeb that the other seeds were turning into blackberry bushes. Every one of them had begun to produce their first berries. 

 Jeb was not a berry bush. He knew that. How could he possibly become something that did not even have a flower? Sure, they had thorns like roses, and that was sort-of appealing to Jeb, but 

twas simply not what he wanted to be all in all.

 A year passed and Jeb had not grown into anything.

     He hadn’t given up on becoming a rose and knew he never would. This thought scared him. If all he wanted to become was something that he could not be, then would he turn out to be nothing at all? He would even settle for becoming a blackberry bush. They were not adored such as roses and no lover would ever give one as a gift, but they sort of looked like Roses and at this point it was about survival for Jeb.

  Jeb pictured all the other flowers besides Rose’s that he used to see at the flower shop.

He tried with all his will to grow into a morning glory for a few days and then after that decided that he was to flower into a daffodil; that phase lasted for a few weeks.

He even tried to talk to the bushes about his new identities as various flowers and pretended to have as much enthusiasm about being a lilac as he had shared about becoming a rose.

The bushes ignored the tiny sound coming from their former peer and around that time, most of the bushes had resolved to flat out ignore Jeb when he spoke. 

   The man who’s garden they lived in came out one day and picked the season’s wealth of berries from the bushes around Jeb and the bushes were all very pleased that their fruits were being so thoroughly enjoyed. 

  Finally, the man came out to the garden again one day and looked down into Jeb’s pot. He grabbed Jeb and placed him in a tiny jar and put the jar in his car.

Jeb was nervous at first but soon ecstatic to be in Betty June's flower shop once again.

  The man complained to Betty that this seed had not grown into a bush. Debbie exchanged Jeb for another seed. Jeb could not return to the jar with the other seeds, he knew that. He was too old and didn’t grow. He was certain that he was to be thrown into the trash. 

   He gazed at the Roses that he grew up admiring within the flower shop and he wept. 

   Betty loved her seeds too much to just throw Jeb in the trash. She tried a few different mixtures of soil and exposed Jeb to different amounts of lights each day.

Jeb sat in his new pot and thought to himself that Debbie was sure to give up trying to make him grow, but sure enough, suddenly Jeb began to sprout little green leaves. 

  Within a month, Jeb was a full-grown Marigold.

Betty said to herself that he was the most beautiful Marigold she had ever grown.

  A young man came into the shop shortly after Jeb had grown and asked for the most beautiful flower he could buy for his wife. Betty didn’t need any time to decide which one to send the man home with. The man agreed with Betty that Jeb was certainly the most beautiful flower he had ever seen.

Chapter One:

Fiona: Sometimes we think that the constant ups and downs and the loops and hoops are exclusive to ourselves alone.

I think we are all on the same rollercoaster and the only difference is the cart you’re in and everyone is tall enough to ride…

Chaz: Where did you learn to be so wise?

Fiona: If I were so wise, the person in the driver's seat presently wouldn’t be a tranny…

Fiona: …

Fiona: Wisdom is trying to not be foolish rather than trying to be clever, and being aware enough to observe that everyone tries...or some junk

Chaz: I want to know everything you know…Can you teach me how to play guitar like you?

Fiona: You’re already better at it than I am.

Chaz: No way! You’ve spent your whole life doing it. things, like… things like chasing your dreams and I’m… I wish I had done that but. I’m not jealous or anything… but I wish I…

Fiona: It's not too late to start. I have an aunt who just got her first period, god rest her soul. Everyone imagines having done different things, I’d suppose. Get the fuck out of my lane… fucking Lyft drivers! I Guarantee that guy imagines this alot. Prick! Do you remember which ones the middle finger?

Chuck: Third from your thumb. Third from your pinky.

Fiona: Great. Now the thumbs a finger.

Fiona: Regardless…

Fiona: I would have done basically the opposite of what I have achieved in whatever this shit around all our faces is.

Chaz: Like what?

Fiona: I’d rather have been like her.

Chaz: Like who. 

Fiona: The lady pushing the stroller we just passed. Don’t hurt your neck, sweetie. She was a mother with a baby - is the point.

Fiona: If you had kids would you want a boy or a girl?

Chaz:. Look! We will never be together. I have to draw a line somewhere.

Fiona: You’ve drawn that line in the sand several times; so many, that it’s beginning to resemble a pit. I told you that I’m okay with being friends only. It sort of hurts my feelings that you keep reminding me of this in the sense that you make me think that you see me as guileful or deceptive. Like I’m a depraved pariah just because I am transgender; panhandling on Pico at day and haunting alleyways on Alvarado by night. I don’t expect anything of anyone or of anything. Expectations in this world is like racing butterflies and placing wagers on the winner.

Fiona: Anyway, that’s the one thing I don’t regret in all the dream chasing, having tits and stuff. 

Chaz: Hahaha.

Fiona: The pictures of myself on the husk of my FaceBook that now resembles Chernobyl, only more radioactive. The .gifs of dude me on stage at sold-out clubs, alongside C- celbs and D+ porn stars . The videos of me at book signings. That clip of me winning a poetry award and electing to tell the lore of the Man From Nantucket, instead of the poem that won, when I received the thrifty, fools-gold plated trophy that was in the shape of something I never learned about in geometry . The reel of fake me, playing the P.C-Herien roles in Target ads; blowing a rape-whistle at a white male coworker for asking an obviously Asian female colleague what kind of Asian she is; and all the other blah blah who gives a Mormons-gooch-about-shit I’ve did. If you knew the moments that strung these “achievements” all together, you’d probably have less dejection about not following those staggered footprints, as they were each placed within a frozen blizzard over sheets of well-trodden ice.

Chaz: Tell me.

Fiona: I suppose that most of the discourse of my life stems from a single line I drew in the sand on a beach that I can no longer recall. I also don’t recall exactly if I was even the one who drew it.

Chapter Two

Shannon: How come you never wanna to do any boy’s stuff, Finny?

Finn: I dunno. 

Shannon: Let’s pway WWC! I’ll be the Ondertakaw and you be Mankine, cuz he’s funny like you Funny Finny.

Maddy: You two get out of the mud! I swear, Shannon! I just bought you that dress. 

Finn: I’m...I’m sorry Missus K. I didn’t mean t-

Maddy: Shh...Shh. Finny. Don’t cry angel. If I know my daughter at all, I know that she started it. Oh sweetie. There, there. Let’s get you two back and get you into dry clothes. 

Shannon: One small step for Finny, one giant leaf for Shannon-kind!

Finn: Missus K? These clothes are really big.

Mady: That’s because Todd is in second grade and he's grown for twice as long as you’ve been alive. Go run along and ask Todd for a turn on the Sega sweetie, I have to give your troublemaker friend a bath and a spanking. 

Finn: Okay Missus K.

Mady: Who is it?

Mady: Finny. You are supposed to wait for someone to let you in after you knock or there would be no point in knocking.

Finn: But I'm hungry ma’am.

Mady: Todd, can you grab a GoGurt and string-cheese for Finny, sweetie?

Todd: Last die mom.

Mady: Todd!

Todd: Awe! Mommmmm! That was my last life! Fine. 

Mady: Run along Finny. Go get a sna… what’s the matter sweetie?

Finny: Did Shannon get an owie playing WWB?

Mady: No, angel. She just got a little muddy and grounded.

Shannon: Not fair. Bahaha. You’re the worst.

Mady: Get back here missy! You’re hair is still wet.

Finny: Where did Shannons p-p go, Missus K?

Mady: Oh, don’t be silly. She’s a girl and you are a boy, young man.

Finny: I know that.

Mady: Then you understand there’s a difference right?

Finny: Yes ma’am. When we go to kindee gardens, I put my bapak in the blue cubby because I’m a boy and the girls put their bapaps in the pink cubby.

Mady: Hehe, that’s true. There are other differences too though, angel.

Finny: Yes. Girls go potty in the rezroom with the stick-guy picter that has a triangel and boys go to the regular stick-guy picter, and that’s it.

Mady: Oh dear. I am not qualified for this sort of discussion. Come, lets get your snack and it’s nap time for you two.

Mady: Don’t you feel better now that you’re in warm clothes and not covered in mud, children?

Finny: Yes.

Shannon: No!

Finny: Missus K.?

Mady: Yes?

Finn: What are summore diffrents for boys and girls?

Mady: Okay Finny. I will tell you one more but you have to promise that you will ask your parents to give you more answers? Promise

Finn: I promise.

Mady: Well. You know how Zoro has a mustache? Well, you’re too little to grow a Zoro mustache but someday you will be able to because you’re a boy.

Finn: But Shannon won’t be able to grow a mussacch?

Mady: No sweetie. Oh my lord, Shannon! I just washed your face! Sharpie, again! I can’t afford to repaint your room, the living room, the kitchen, the closet, the neighbors walls, the parrot.

Shannon: I am zoro! Swish, swish, swish.

Finn: Hehehe. I guess girls can have mustacchz. Hehe.

Mady: You’re Zoro and I’m parent-of-the-year. You two sword fight. Mommies going to go have some apple juice.

Finn: May I have some, please?

Mady: No.

Chapter Three

Chaz: The... “the sand.”

Fiona: Yes, almost there. Don’t get too excited, The sand is painfully gravely at Point Dume as you might expect from something that sounds like where Sauron takes his new Grindr dates. Good place to kill a fifth without the impending doom of the drunk tank though.

Chaz: You said that there was a specific line in the sand that changed your life?

Fiona: Yeah. I suppose it was the moment that I left the little girl I was at the closest fire station, without bothering to ring the bell or knock. I chose a side as life makes us do. I don’t know if either side would have led to resolution on an irresolute planet. I am certain they both would not have, actually.

Chaz: I get what you mean. I don’t know if the road sodas I’ve had but I kind of felt the same thing when I was a kid. Pull over so I can take a leak.

Fiona: That is definitely the road sodas.

Fiona: You look five pounds lighter.

Chaz: Shut up.

Fiona: Ok. You were saying something?

Chaz: Yeeya… When I was a kid, I mean. I stole my sister's panties and wore makeup and stuff. It felt pretty alright. I dunno. I mean. I mean… It was… well I get it.

Fiona: We’re here. Welcome to Malibu where the slogan of the town is “get off my lawn - some rich guy” population: zero poor people.

Fiona: Alright Charles. Let’s play a slightly different variation of frisbee. 

Chaz: I didn’t know frr-frisbee w-was a game.

Fiona: That’s disk golf. It’s not a game but let's make it interesting.

Chaz: Word.

Fiona. If you’d like to; draw a line in the sand right about there and no matter where the frisbee goes, you have to catch it from the side you pick.

Chaz: That’s ridiculous. Why would I do that? 

Fiona: I dunno. I didn’t say I was going to draw it for you. 

Chaz: Okay, so then when it’s your turn…

Fiona: Oh no, sweetie. I’d rather just throw the thing and not worry about arbitrary lines or compete. I know that I have this whole shore to respond to whatever comes my way, and it’s nice.

Chaz: Ouch!

Fiona: That wasn’t a diss, it was a…

Chaz: No, I meant that this beach has sand like fucking glass.

Fiona: Tolld you to bring footwear but you just can’t tell a man what to do. Especially if you have tits.

Fiona: I think the main reason I jumped lady-balls deep into being a tough guy for twenty-eight unceremonious years was that there's not only the pressure of society, or rather, the pressure of other men to become a man, but after my little brother was... after he was molested by the babysitter I…

Chaz: Stop. Nope. I can’t talk about shit like that. Fuck! look what you made me do.

Fiona: It’s okay. I’m sorry. I’ll go get it. 

Chaz: No, it’s lost. I’m gonna grab another from the van. Shit!

Fiona: …Ok man. Maybe just the guitar? I’m pooped with frisbee anyway

Chaz: …

Fiona: And the wine, please!

Chapter Four

Chaz: Hey Fiona

Fiona: Hey Charles

Chaz: Can I show you a song I wrote

Fiona: Of course

Chaz: I wrote it back when I was in middle school. I sort of haven’t written too much since.

Fiona: That was pretty good. I’d suggest a bridge of some sort; something to break up the riffs and to articulate the words better. Sounds like the lyrics were good but even if you have good words if you say them through your teeth, they sound untrue.

Chaz: I’ll try that. I guess I gave up because I’m not really sure about how to go about writing songs anyway. Got any tips?

Fiona: Name that one “Crawdads”

Chaz: Why?

Fiona: The words remind me of something involving crawdads. I don’t know. Probably a lousy reason to name it that, as it is not my song.

Chaz: Crawdads… What if I change the third verse from “never met dad to…” I don’t know…”something crawdad?”

Fiona: Nah. Too on the nose. If you want to plainly spell out the concept of the song, what’s the point of the lyrics and music? Why not just hop in front of a crowd and say “daddy left me at a young age and I can’t remember his face?” The concept should be tacitly buried at least six feet deep within the words

Fiona: I think that far too often, particularly in modern music, the cart is put before the horse.

I feel the best songs that I’ve written at least, the music was developed with the purpose to be an appealing enough vehicle for the lyrics to drive.

A song is like a bullet.

The music is the gun powder and casing that propels the bullet itself - the words and concept, into the hearts of the listener and when you have a hit, you will hear…

“Headshot!” Counter-Strike style.

The artist is the gun.

To take this metaphor one step further, an artist should have a gun safe full of all the different armaments they will need to shoot the correct caliber that is appropriate to the situation; sometimes maybe the weapon that’s appropriate hits the mark without a single word and the title may simply a what key it’s in and that it’s a sonnet or a waltz or I don’t know. Some Beethoven shit.

No matter which gun you use that is your favorite, not one of them is universally appropriate for every situation.

Fiona: Charles?

Chapter Five

Vercin: How come the steak isn’t on a hook?

Finn: Crawdadin’ ain’t like fishin’ 

Vercin: That's a big-ass one! It’s going to eat the whole thing.

Finn: When I say “now,” splash the water from your side and these little fuckers will swim backwards faster than shit. You gotta try and come at them in a way where they will all shoot into this here bucket.

Vercin: Ready.

Finn: Now!

Vercin: Rad! How many did we catch?

Finn: Looks like eight. The big one got away.

Finn: What kind of man do you see yourself being someday?

Vercin: I don’t know. I don’t ever think about that, really.

Finn: Got you bitch! Ha! 

Vercin: The big one?

Finn: I think it’s a different one, but it’s as big.

Vercin: How about you? What kind of man are you gonna be?

Finn: I’m gonna be like the Godfather. Tough, but fair. A gentleman but not too gentle. People are gonna know not to mess with me. Classy, brave, defender of the innocent, destroyer of the bad guys. Kind of like Batman except, I would have killed the Joker a hundred times by now If I were him.

Vercin: Yeah. Pretty much me too. I’ll be Robin though. You can be Batman.

Vercin: Dynamic Duo. The Dark Knight and Boy Wonder.

Finn: Yeah…

Finn: Boy, wonder what time the sun goes down tonight? No moon tonight, that broad with the nice rack on the news said, gonna be a dark night. We got enough Crawdads. Let's go.

Dear Mr. Waters

I am not sure how to begin this letter as I have so much to say to you and I don’t want to come across as a fanatic or a crank although, seeing as the entire mafia that is todays media has labeled you as such - coupled with the knowledge of your character and how you are a champion of the very few on the fringes or otherwise, that cannot help but say what their hearts implore them to voice, regardless of the consequences, I believe that these words may be considered.

I suppose that I am a bleeding heart and artist, and mainly this is your fault.

Thanks a lot.

Before we get into the politics and saving the world, which I thought I would eventually grow out of, I think it is necessary to illustrate how much your life and your art has to do with the trajectory of my own existence.

I used to dream of meeting John Lennon even though he was assassinated ten years or so before I was born.

I often cry when I think of his death, in fact I am presently swallowing my heart that his risen to my throat for the very mention of this great tragedy.

I think if I was able to speak to Mr. Lennon, I would simply say “Thank you for everything.”

The other person I used to dream about meeting someday is you.

In fact.

I started a band when I was 17 and have had no success other than the reward of spending nearly the amount of years in my life pursing music than I had lived when I first took one small step and one giant leap into this quixotic yet, fulfilling endeavor.

Anyway….Enough about me.

Let’s talk about me.

The Final Cut is my favorite record. 

I recall an embarrassing moment when I was twelve or so, when my older sister walked into my bedroom and I was laying on my bed, blaring that CD, singing every word and pantomiming conducting the strings and other instrumentations.

I played The Final Cut so many times on my CD player that it eventually warped or possibly melted from the unforgiving Northern Nevada heat, as my lower middle class family could not afford to run the A/C unit.

Enough gushing about how much I idolize you… for now.

I want to be honest and say the following.

My best friend; he is around your age. He is a mentor and saved my life and is good man.

He is Jewish.

He sends me several articles a month about how you are anti-Semitic.

And I am shamefully admitting that I never read any of them and that, even though you are possibly the person who I have looked up to the most and made the most substantial impact on who I am today, I started to believe my friend that you are of the mindset of what he is convinced of about you.

I finally got around to doing, as your amazing and strong mother instilled in you, reading about things that are weighing on me. And I followed through with the other bit of advice she gave you when she said this. 

Read up on the opposition, the other side.

I have deduced…

That you truly are the hero that I grew up admiring and although I am now a geriatric millennial and maybe too far along in life and too poor and too marginalized because of the particular sect of society that I am apart of to stand up for what my heart says is right, your bravery and your concern for basic human rights as well as your conviction to keep standing your ground on these issues, it inspires me so much and has given me strength.

At the risk of deafening the point.

Mr. Waters.

You are a hero and…

Thank you for everything.

Customers sometimes ask me how I got into bartending and they don’t believe me when I tell them that I’ve been doing it since I was seventeen.

The setting is Reno Nevada, one of the last frontiers of the Wild West during the time which was 2007

Back when the one or two folks in town who did receive a DUI for being sauced so goddamn always - behind a wheel or otherwise, would not only fail at reciting the alphabet during a sobriety test, but were more confused by the letters DUI than they were in receiving one.

I got a job as a bagger at a grocery store

At sixteen.

I showed rare promise when the store director observed that I did not put a gallon of milk on top of a carton of eggs in an extra-ass double paper bag.

I was immediately reassigned to work on the overnight freight crew, unloading trucks and stocking shelves from midnight to eight-thirty.

I ascended to freight manager just because the ones old enough to have been charged with the task noped the fuck out when they realized how brutal the work was and how crap it was having to commit the hours and by default, resigning having a social life - not as if the neck beard I replaced socialized beyond faping it to Barbie Doll tea parties in his mommas basement.

Now I’m seventeen.

I had no life, in part because of my sleep schedule, but mostly because I was a misanthropic little cunt.

My Roommates who were identical twins and in their thirties, kept trying to get me to go out and be a human for two seconds.

I finally gave in and I bought the worlds most legit fake id for $300 - hologram and all.

The twinks…

The twins took me to some trash frat bar and it was my turn to nope the fuck out.

A friend recently clarified to me that the words “trash” and “frat” are synonyms.

Thanks Sean!

So tweedle-dee and tweedle-dumbAF, sez:

“Let’s go to that new bar on Arlington. The house that got turned into a bar.”

I walk in with the twins.

It’s just them, the bartender and myself.

Bar is actually gorgeous.

Bear-skin rug near the fireplace.

Art that was no-joshing, some of the best I’ve seen to this day.

And the bar top.

A solid piece of African limestone quarried from a riverbed, presumably by children.

Barkeep asks for my ID.

Place it on the bar.

“You’re gonna make me pick that shit up? Try again kiddo.”

I hand it to Jeremy, who was actually the owner of the bar.

He grins.

“That’s a pretty good fake.”

He was taken aback when I didn’t panic that he realized I was just a kid with a fake.

I didn’t care about drinking or haunting a bar. 

#nihilist 

I was ready to leave.

I stood up and started for the door, without caring to grab the fake.

“Wait! Hey kid…”

I stopped and half turned.

“You’ve got crusty mustard all down the front of your sweater.”

I notice the stain for the first time and rub it twice like it would get rid of it and like I cared that it was even there.

A salute and:

“Duly noted!” Me sez.

I made it to the door.

Jeremy shouts.

“Hey. Help me out here. I don’t drink alone but I’m also a drunk.”

“Sucks”

Turn the door knob.

“You’re either special or special Ed dude.”

He lays out two Dark and Stormies on the bar.

“The latter.”

Out on the patio now.

Waiting for the twins to finish playing pool.

Realize I left my lighter on the bar as I felaciate a marb red.

Before I could do the walk of shame back to where I had sat, Jeremy walks out to the patio with a Marb Green.

Tosses my blue zippo to me and brings the cocktails.

Sits down.

I never drank much before, I was a prolific stoner them daze.

“Cheers, weirdo” 

We clinked our bucket glasses and I set my cocktail on the table and drank from the straw without lifting the glass.

Jeremy cracked up.

He took the straws out of the glass, threw them elsewhere into the night and rebuked me for fucking up a cheers as well as drinking from a straw without holding my drink, like a bitch.

The one drink got my glow going and I opened up about being a songwriter/singer blah blah.

Jeremy takes me to the basement.

Was a bit leery of him making a skin lamp out of my ass but he seemed like a salt of the earth kind of guy, plus I was in anger management through elementary and middle school and they didn’t even try to talk my through the anger, they just gave me a bat and a pillow. 

“Don’t ever be Irish….”

Ghandi - during an interview about how to be peaceful and forgiving.

What happened next became both the bat and the pillow for the next ten years.

Jeremy had his drum kit, a PA, mic and stand, bass amp and bass guitar.

We wrote a whole album that night.

Little did I know I would soon be not only the main bartender at Strega, but also part owner along with Jeremy.

To be Continued….

I get off and not Inna good way.

Get it.jpg

Offs from work at grocery store at 8:30am

Can’t wait to drive my candy-apple red Jetta back to my place and write another song about how life sucks.

Jeremy calls my razor flip-phone.

“Dude… Joy called in because she did too much acid…three days ago. We have to open today because it’s some holiday that people get turnt up on.”

“St. Paddies…?”

“Dude, you know I hate religion. Anyway I’m at my folks estate in Tahoe and the hottest bitch you’d ever seent gave me some special k. I need you to open the bar today.”

I was confused.

“Dude, If the cereal you’re eating conflicts with you physically, maybe try being gluten-free like I…”

“The stars… I see them… I ate them all!”

Laughter.

Moaning.

So, 3pm I dig the key to the bar out from under the mat.

Guess I’m a bartender.

Thank gosh my only customer was good-ole Spit Snograss.

Jet-black died hair. Spiked like Dexter Holland from The Offspring. Heavy metal rings on every finger that died his fingers green. A swaztika on more than two of them.

Hated this chode more than I hated the rest of humanity because, fuck Nazis.

At least the bar was empty and he only drank Bud light Platinum.

Easy. I got dis.

Spit did a rail of what looked like shards of sugar-glass, right atop the bar.

He was telling me his sad ass life story but my focus was entirely on the purple blood cascading from his right nostril.

I pointed out to Spit that he was bleeding.

He snorted it up like it was another rail and stuffed the nostril with some Vaseline that appeared from the only pocket within his trench coat that was not stuffed with a gun or drugs.

Mahogany front door bursts open.

Three of the hottest chicks is ever seen come in.

I would have been half-mast if I wasn’t shitting lead, thinking about what would happen if one of them orders a lemon drop.

Thank fuck they go straight down the hall that is out of my sight towards the bathrooms.

Half an hour later, Spit reminded me about the girls and he went to go lurk and try to get laid or sell them all the things illicit.

They gone.

Not only they gone.

Paintings are all gone as well.

I think myself “Well at least the exhibition of paintings this time were total dog mierda” 

I shrug it off.

Spit goes to the Chev next door to buy some more Parliaments.

He comes back and he’s all like:

“Bro. This chicks robbed the Chev at gun point. The fuzz was there and I told them about the stolen paintings.”

I told this cunt hair that I was 17.

“Dude! Why would you tell them to come here? You know I’m underage!”

“Yeah. Fuck the police! I’m out.”

Spit Snoggrass… you.. why I oughta…

Sorry. 

Don’t mean to talk shit on the dead.

About six months later he suicided by way of cops.

Had the road rage.

Fishtailed a suburban with a mother and her infant child aboard.

Held mother at gun point.

He was just holes after the standoff.

Back to my first shift as a bartender.

Cops come in bar from The Chev.

I give them the fake.

One disappears to his unit, meanwhile my own unit is baby-dick.

Other cop:

“What do you think the paintings are worth”

“Dog shit, zero moneys. Not worth zero moneys or dog shit.”

Which brings us to Bruce Lindsay.

The coin-purse who painted these things.

I hung around the bar long enough to f-wording-ly despise this pedantic fat-old lawyer.

Whenever he sat down, he wanted a “true” Manhattan and tried to not let us see him gag at the mixture of sweet and dry vermouth with rye, while we could not help but gag about his folk album that he always made us play over the mains.

“For every Bob Dylan and Shakespeare, there’s a thousand who never were recognized. I am both Dylan and Shakespeare.”

Ok Morressy….

Now this cuck paints?

FML.

So we hung his trash cuz…

light bulbs need energies.

Even before I pretended to be a barkeep, I would happily show new guests the really amazing artwork at the bar.

I gave a few guided tours to patrons about Bruce’s exhibit.

“So here we have “Dog shit it blue.”

This one is brilliantly dubbed “Crimson Dog Poo. 

And now we’re at the Magnum Opus: “Dog Shit in Dog shit - medium, Dog shit. The frame is made from imported Korean free-range canine turds.”

I closed the bar at ten and wished I had been living it up in Tahoe eating krunk-ass cereal.

Pounding on the door.

It was around after the fifth set of poundings (not as hot as it sounds) that I got all Irish and ran up to the door. Flung it open and repeated “Closed you cunt!”

“Not to me you’re not!”

Bruce elbowed me as his fat both fluidly and rigidly avalanches into bar.

“Who said my paintings are worth… dog shit!?”

So Bruce sat down at the bar…

“Make me a perfect…”

I shooshed him.

“Here you go. I think this is whiskey.”

I poured him a double of something brown.

“My paintings have been heralded as the quintessential….”

He put his stupid expensive archeologist hat on the bar. 

I picked it up and frisbeed it to the door.

“Why you little so-and-so!”

“Look Leonardo… I’m 17. We got robbed and I told the cops your paintings were shit so that they wouldn’t keep investigating the issue.”

That’s when I stepped off the steep and treacherous path of always telling the truth, into becoming a gift of gab lier. 

Bartenders best resource.

“Oh. Beg pardon. I’ll represent you in court! I’m a very well known…”

Weeks passed.

Three months now.

A detective who boasted a pair that most cops become cops because they ain’t gots…

He’s calling. 

All the time.

Two new phones, hair dye, a fake mustache. Nothing threw this guy from the scent.

Finally he and four other badges show up at the grocery store and bring me to the precinct.

They bring me into the lineup room and I’m behind a two way mirror looking at…

Dudes?

Five of them.

“Tell us who did it son…”

I didn’t recognize any of them.

“Your honor. They were hawt chicks”

“No. They were bunch of trannies boy! Which one?”

I point at whoever.

Detective grabs my elbow and moves my pointed finger to the one they wanted.

“I can go now?”

No reply.

Enrolling now for bartending school. 

Dm me.

Family, for me has been a bitter sweet experience…

Expectations in this world, are as unrealistic as trying to race butterfly’s against one another and placing bets on the outcome.

I was not without and am now not without family who love me deeply, but, life cast many tragic waves in our direction and once the damage is done, you can try to navigate back to the exact spot on the high seas that you came from, but as the saying goes… “You never step into the same river twice.”

This is a big part of why I want to raise children. I’d like to hope that I could give them just a little more than I had, as I’m sure my parents had tried to do for me.

I was a step mother for three little girls about three years ago. 

The father beat them and abused them in many ways.

I was living at his ranch because he needed a sound engineer and my car had just broke down. he couldn't afford to lose me for his business, so he asked me to journey from Reno to the boonies some forty miles out.  

I' tried to ignore him yelling at the little angels each day. 

They were three, four and five.

Nissa, Rukia and Lilliana.

The moment I heard a fist connect to the eldest Lilliana, I bum rushed the prick and beat him up within inches of his life.

I wanted to get away from this toxic man, but those little girls needed me. They never had anyone who really loved them, and I felt unconditional love in my heart again, like I had never felt it previously.

I took them to school. Cooked three meals a day. Helped with homework, comforted them while they dealt with severe ptsd that no innocent child should ever have to deal with

God blessed me to allow me to come into their lives when they needed love so bad and protection. 

The chips fell in a way where, I no longer have any ties to them, but god, do I pray that I did everything I could for them during the time I was lucky enough to have the privilege of caring for them.

I wrote several stories for little ones and for the girls. 

They each still have their own little copies of the stories that I made - arts and craft style, each one was unique to each child.

Those stories are all I have left in regards to the girls.

I pray to god often - tears in my eyes, and I beg god and the arch angels and Christ to keep them safe.

In my prayers, I ask the father to reassign anything good that is coming my way. Take it all and give the girls all of it for, how could I have good fortune in this world if they do not? and even if I did have grace, it would not be good fortune if they still suffered.

My final prayer before I had to leave the little ones was that whatever this cold world has up it’s sleeves for the babies, just please, keep them together. 

I told them this every single day, especially when they fought. “That’s your big (or little) sister. You three must never forget how much you do and will mean to each other and you have to promise to me that no matter what, you girls will stick together.

I stressed this because I wholeheartedly swore before to them that now, now that I was there, I would never ever leave them and I will be their guide always and forever.

When things happened that made me realize that I couldn’t make good on my pledge, the only thing I could do was tell them that they three are what matters and I frantically redoubled my efforts to give them any tool I could I think of that they might need as they continued their trudge through this heartbreaking reality.

I tried to not let the girls know that I had to go, and I was so composed and thought they would just go back to being blissful little ones, but as I walked out the front door for the last time…. Liliana sensed that this was goodbye. 

Her eyes welled up and she had that same terrified look on her face from the last time her father hit her.

“Paige. Where are you going? Why?”

She was shaking like a ship that’s anchor suddenly detached itself from it in the stormy sea.

“Oh, sweetie. Sweetie don’t cry. It’s ok. It’s ok angel. I’m always. Always….I’m with you.”

I couldn’t keep face anymore. 

I cried physically. My throat, my eyes.my face. But I couldn’t let that be the last memory.

I choked back the.

I choked it all back and smiled.

I took a knee and placed my hand on her shoulder. 

She was looking at the ground, just crying her big emerald eyes out.

“Hey, hey, hey. Look at me sweetie.”

It was more difficult to remain seemingly emotionally sound for her than it is to run a three minute mile for a life-long smoker.

Somehow I mustered the courage to do so.

“I love you so much sweetheart.”

She could barely articulate the words but she said she loved me too.

“Well angel. No matter where I go or where the world takes you and your sisters. If you have someone in your heart. You’ll never be without them. What’s in your heart Liliiana. There’s nothing and none one that can take that from you. It will always be yours sweetie.”

Lilliana bravely nodded her head, eyes returning to the hardwood floor and then lassoed her little arms around me and the sounds of her sobs became muffled against my chest.

I put my arms up in the air like a minimum wage bank teller at gun point.

I was in shock.

I wore the same expression you reflexively have when you find yourself in water that is so cold, that, if your brain could work just then, it certainly would not believe that the water was not frozen

Of all my years of bouncing at punk clubs and bartending biker-bars, having guns drawn on me a few times and disarming knife wielding tweakers with a wet floor sign… I never faced shock before. I was in in a magnitude 8.1 earthquake in my twenties that almost killed me. Still no shock.

This was the only time that I finally had the revelation of what people mean when they recount their episodes in life that put them in shock.

I also had never actually been jaw dropped before and until then, I thought it was just an old idiom.

That was the moment I literally felt my heart break into fragments.

Tears cascaded down my cheeks and my eyes kept darting from left to right as if I was desperately searching my mind for any thought or hope that would make this moment hurt less.

When I did not return the hug with my arms, she squeezed even tighter until I knew that if I did not hold her in return it would be just as abusive as her father has been to her.

We hugged and cried for what felt like ten minutes but was probably less than a minute.

I could hear the youngest one, Nissa coming out of her and her sisters bedroom.

She was in her typical and diabolical “ruler of the universe” mood and had stolen some toy from the middle child, Rukia.

Rukia was chasing Nissa into the living room and as soon as Nissa saw Lilliana and I hugging, she stomped her feet, discarded the toy and said: 

“I want to hug Paige!”

Nissa’s little feet pitter pattered towards us and she tried to elbow her big sis out of the way.

I laughed and wiped the tears away.

Rukia always was afraid of missing out on anything her sisters were doing, which is typical for a middle child.

“No, I want a hug!” 

They all tackled me and as light as they all were, I almost fell onto my back.

“Girls, girls! How many times do I have to tell you that hugs are a very good thing to share for sisters!”

Liliana and Nissa we’re both squeaky wheels and had a way of asserting that they wanted attention but little Rukia was too shy to articulate what she needed.

As a middle child myself, I always gave a little more attention to her and she reminded me so much of myself when I was her age.

I rise and both Lilliana and Nissa are hugging my legs. I picked Rukia up in my arms and when she was face to face with me, she saw that I had been crying.

She wipes the tears from my cheeks and she had gone from a pouty mood to a silly one. 

She said “Payy (Paige) why you cwy?” In one of her silly voices. All three of them liked to do silly voices and Rukia repeated this phrase several times, each time the sentence was more and more silly.

I was thankful for this reprieve from the heaviest moment of my life of saying goodbye to Lilliana and because of it, I was able to walk out the door with the bravest and kindest smile I’ve ever mustered.

They say during extreme or traumatic situations, you might see your life flash before your eyes. In this scenario, as I turned the key in the ignition to head back to life before love, it was not my life that flashed before me. It was their lives. Or at least, how I had hoped beyond hope their lives would be.

I saw Rukias first breakup, Nissa asking for help on her resume, Lilliana as prom Queen.

i saw them all three surprising me at whatever bland but steady job I took to provide for them. They have mom’s favorite flowers, marigolds and they knew that because they still had the handwritten stories I wrote for them all those years ago and Lillianas favorite was that one about flowers that had filled their minds with imaginative hopes and breathed new confidence into their worlds that it’s okay to have dreams.

Then, they are at the hospital, taking shifts to stay by my side, one by one as the end comes nearer and nearer for me.

Then it’s my time.

Rukia cries first, then Nissa, but Lilliana, keeps it together. She knows that she has many years left to address the pain but she is brave enough to not let my final moment be a sad one And She puts on the bravest and kindest smile she’s ever mustered.

Sometimes things come to us in life that hurt but there’s a sense of relief that, maybe if you could survive that pain, you might be able to bounce back regardless of whatever comes your way.

This pain may even make you feel relieved, to think that, as a result of that pain… Maybe pain could be on a scale of 1-10 - like how a doctor tries to gauge a medical affliction you have, you know, with those emoji posters in the exam room that starts with a happy emoji at level one and by level ten, the emoji looks like a red faced Eric Cartmen ranting about Jews.

You can’t assign a number to the level of pain for losing someone you loved with all your heart, who is your heart.

Unconditional love is the bravest and most vulnerable mode of loving.

What happens when your daughter, son or sibling that you have dutifully and gently helped to raise from an innocent dove, finds themself plummet far too low to a swamp where snakes and crocodiles flourish, when their natural state was to soar amongst gold and auburn clouds?

What becomes If you’re beloved realizes that pain can surpass the limits of 1-10, maybe even on to infinity?

This realization can end anyone, even someone as innocent and angelic as the one(s) to you who are your everything - the ones you will ever see as a little blameless angel, can be subjected to the damnation of a broken and predatory world.

You subsequently accept what you knew before they came into your life and saved it, what they realized that took them from you.

The pain of life is unimpeachable and inescapable for all.

Pain in this world is infinite.

But you can’t be blamed for trying to place it on a scale.

Maybe you thought that since there can only be so many colors, and only a dozen or less different emotions a human can feel, that pain was as limited and comprehensible.

We try to encourage our little ones or ones that we protect and implore them that they can go anywhere and do anything and that this a a magical world….

but when this magical world takes the magic from them and as a result you as well, you can either change your tune and shield those who you love from this world and retaliate against the things that stole the innocents from angels whom unwittingly illuminated an otherwise dark landscape as well as your very vision itself, or you can accept that, a world that is capable of hurting the most vulnerable ones, despite doing everything you could do, to make existence for them to be a good and kind one - that world can’t be real and maybe reality is just nightmares in between beautiful dreams, and our greatest error is thinking our waking life is existence and our dreams are not real.

I cannot determine one way or another…

But the one thing that I am sure of that is real, 

Is love.

Story for Rukia

Here is a story about a desperate green bird named Senior Verde and his attempt to win the heart of the woman he has adored since he was a chick. 

Her name is Rosita.

 Every mating season since adulthood, Senior Verde has danced for Rosita in front his bright green nest that he decorated just for her. No matter how bright the colors of his nest or no matter how hard he danced for her, she was unaffected by his efforts to court her.

 One day a chameleon came into their village and wandered past senior Verde’s nest.

Senior Verde saw the chameleon and he jumped out of his nest quickly.

“Hey lizard! Hey you with the eyes! My name is Senior Verde, and I could use your help with something especially important to me, please!”

The chameleon paused and gave his attention to Senior Verde.

 “Why, you are the most brilliant green thing I have ever seen in my life! It is nearly the end of our one day a year to find a mate and Rosita is still unimpressed by me. Will you stand next to my green nest and make it even greener for my love?”

The chameleon answered, 

“I am the chameleon of the sunset.”

“That’s great” - said Verde, “Just a little to the left and…PERFECT!

Don’t move an inch.

Look lizard! she’s coming.”

Rosita examined the nest and like the years before, she had very little enthusiasm for Verde and his love for all thing green.

“What about my favorite color, pink?” she asked out loud.

She started to move to the next nest when suddenly the sun began to set, and the sky changed to all the colors of the rainbow. The colors of the sky met the chameleon on the jungle floor and began to change the color of its skin. Rosita paused to watch the display. 

The chameleon changed from blue to green, then to red and then to orange, then purple and gold and finally pink.

Senior Verde yelled at the chameleon and told him to stop changing colors and to immediately return to the most vivid green he could produce but to Verde’s shock, Rosita immediately fell in

love with him for putting on such a wonderful show for her.”

“Lizard! My friend. I am so sorry that I tried to make you into something you are not for my own selfish cause. It was your ability to change colors that won my love’s heart, even though you were the brightest color of green I’ve ever seen; you were also the most beautiful shade of every color that exists!

Please tell me your name so that we can name our first born after you, my dear friend!”

“I am the chameleon of the sunset”        

    Story for Nissa

When we think of beings with awareness, we feel a little alone perhaps; being the only ones we know who are sentient. 

Maybe we are misguided in thinking this.

In fact. I know most certainly that this is not true.

I’m not going to make a case for dolphins or elephants or aliens from somewhere in the inky unknown.

This is a story about a river.

Now, when we see rivers, we generally perceive them as a singular, ever-flowing and unaware mass but, not that this is a revelation, they are made of different currents, traveling together endlessly.

What if I told you that each one of these currents have their own identity, names as well as ambitions and feelings?

This is a story of Sarah, the current.

She travelled on and on with other currents that she knew or came to know along side her. Some of these currents she had known since she first came to be in this world. Others she had met in her travels and they replaced some of the childhood friend currents that at one time, Sarah would never have Imagined parting with.

The banks of the river were lush and green and the trees bore fruit and the fauna ate and played and mated along these banks and many currents were happy to know that they were giving life to an ecosystem.

Beyond these banks, the land was arid and dry and the soil was dead and hard as stones.

Sarah was tired of being lost in a mix of currents that made up the river because she had always wanted to be recognized as an individual and not just a part of a group.

This was a rare sentiment among the currents, however she had met and had known several currents who also felt like they wanted their own identity and to make their own special mark in the world.

These currents inspired her and were the catalyst for her longing to be something more and to divert to another path that was truly her own.

Carry, was Sarah’s best friend growing up and Carry had very wild and almost taboo ideas and was the most individualistic person she had ever met.

One day, Carry couldn’t take being part of the crowd any longer and she told Sarah that she would be leaving the river soon. 

Part of Sarah was deeply afraid for her friend but another part really wished that she would do it and succeed, so that Sarah may have hope to someday do the same.

The day had come and it was a particularly hot day with very low humidity.

The river banked hard to the east near some rapids and without another thought, Carry used all of her strength to bank to the West.

Carry flowed over hard clay without the shade of any trees. 

Carry had finally become her very own stream. 

Sure a river is mightier than a stream but this stream was entirely her own effort and ambitions.

Carry made it as far as half a mile before the sun vaporized her into nothingness and after, there was nothing that would ever signify that she had one been a stream of her own.

Sarah mourned her dear friend and almost abandoned the idea of trying to become her own stream, or day she say, river, someday.

As the years passed, Sarah met many others like Carry who wanted to do and even tried to do the same thing Carry had attempted.

They all failed and burnt up in the sun.

The other complacent currents would “tisk-tisk” about these foolish currents and felt little to no remorse or empathy for their loss.

It had been pouring rain for several days at one time and they had not seen the sun in a while. 

The river flooded here and there and some of even the most conforming currents were lost to the banks of the river due to the storm, never to rejoin the pack.

Sarah decided that this was her chance. 

There was a hard western bend up ahead and with all her might, she went to the east instead.

She heard some of her friends calling after her to come back but she just kept going.

The storm lasted long enough for Sarah to survive solo, and by the time the weather had returned to normal, green grass and large bushes had grown around Sarah’s stream. 

Years passed, and now Sarahs stream dwarfed her home river in size by almost double.

Her banks were green and the trees bore fruit and the fauna ate their fill and played joyfully.

Story for Lilliana

   Betty June loved all her flowers with all her heart and that love did not stop at the seeds. She knew that each one of the seeds had a special gift stored inside and she was overjoyed to see the gifts they gave each time one would grow.

   In Betty's flower shop, it was considered cruel to keep seeds within pouches to sell to the customers. Instead, they were contained within clear jars, so they may gaze in wonder about the flower shop at all the plants that used to be little seeds just like they were. 

    Jeb was especially eager to grow as soon as possible. As far back as he could remember, he had always desired to become a rose. He was not like most other seeds in the jar who had not figured out what they wanted to become yet.

Jeb wondered how the other seeds could have any doubt about what they should become in adulthood. Roses were beautiful and cherished as gifts of affection from lover to lover. They also had thorns which could prick those who we’re not delicate enough and do not appreciate their beauty.

The goal for Jeb was to be chosen as a flower that will be gifted to someone to show affection. Jeb considered that life would be easy for him, seeing as he already had the answers to his future, or at least an idea of what he will become.

    One day a man came to Debbie’s shop and purchased a handful of seeds from Jeb’s jar. Jeb was one of the lucky ones to get picked. He squealed with joy the entire ride to his new home where he would turn into a beautiful Rose.

 Jeb was given his own pot with rich soil. The other seeds from Jeb’s jar were in the garden too; each having their own pot to grow in.

  Jeb joined the conversation his neighbors were having around him and soon found himself bragging about how quickly he would turn into the most wonderful shade of red they had ever seen. 

One neighbor expressed that he could not understand why Jeb wanted to be a rose so bad.

Another seed told Jeb that he doubted that anyone of them would turn into a rose at all, nor did they want to. They went on to say that it would be embarrassing having to deal with all the attention that roses generate.

  A few weeks passed and one morning Jeb noticed that nearly all the other pots in the garden 

had budded.

Little green leaves could be seen on the tops of all the pots surrounding Jeb.

This worried him deeply. Why had he not started to grow yet? He was exhausted from trying so hard to grow each day. He would stay up at night later than the others and stare at the moon, hoping it would help him grow.

   A few months passed and now it was clear to Jeb that the other seeds were turning into blackberry bushes. Every one of them had begun to produce their first berries. 

 Jeb was not a berry bush. He knew that. How could he possibly become something that did not even have a flower? Sure, they had thorns like roses, and that was sort-of appealing to Jeb, but 

twas simply not what he wanted to be all in all.

 A year passed and Jeb had not grown into anything.

     He hadn’t given up on becoming a rose and knew he never would. This thought scared him. If all he wanted to become was something that he could not be, then would he turn out to be nothing at all? He would even settle for becoming a blackberry bush. They were not adored such as roses and no lover would ever give one as a gift, but they sort of looked like Roses and at this point it was about survival for Jeb.

  Jeb pictured all the other flowers besides Rose’s that he used to see at the flower shop.

He tried with all his will to grow into a morning glory for a few days and then after that decided that he was to flower into a daffodil; that phase lasted for a few weeks.

He even tried to talk to the bushes about his new identities as various flowers and pretended to have as much enthusiasm about being a lilac as he had shared about becoming a rose.

The bushes ignored the tiny sound coming from their former peer and around that time, most of the bushes had resolved to flat out ignore Jeb when he spoke. 

   The man who’s garden they lived in came out one day and picked the season’s wealth of berries from the bushes around Jeb and the bushes were all very pleased that their fruits were being so thoroughly enjoyed. 

  Finally, the man came out to the garden again one day and looked down into Jeb’s pot. He grabbed Jeb and placed him in a tiny jar and put the jar in his car.

Jeb was nervous at first but soon ecstatic to be in Betty June's flower shop once again.

  The man complained to Betty that this seed had not grown into a bush. Debbie exchanged Jeb for another seed. Jeb could not return to the jar with the other seeds, he knew that. He was too old and didn’t grow. He was certain that he was to be thrown into the trash. 

   He gazed at the Roses that he grew up admiring within the flower shop and he wept. 

   Betty loved her seeds too much to just throw Jeb in the trash. She tried a few different mixtures of soil and exposed Jeb to different amounts of lights each day.

Jeb sat in his new pot and thought to himself that Debbie was sure to give up trying to make him grow, but sure enough, suddenly Jeb began to sprout little green leaves. 

  Within a month, Jeb was a full-grown Marigold.

Betty said to herself that he was the most beautiful Marigold she had ever grown.

  A young man came into the shop shortly after Jeb had grown and asked for the most beautiful flower he could buy for his wife. Betty didn’t need any time to decide which one to send the man home with. The man agreed with Betty that Jeb was certainly the most beautiful flower he had ever seen.

I finally found the courage to cut off someone who used to be my closest friend but has become a cancer in my world.

I thumb tacked the eviction notice on her door, along with the following letter that I was too chicken shit to say to her face.

“I can’t remember life before you, and am not sure what life after you will look like, but I’m so tired of this toxic exchange.

I pardoned you all those times you helped yourself to my wallet and blasted through funds that took me weeks to earn.

I was patient all those times that you hoarded all of the dishes in your room and you lied about having them until the fruit flies had become so rampant that you brought them all out in a trash liner.

You didn’t even bother to wash the black mold from the dishes and left them in the dishwasher and now we have roaches.

You said you would put the gas in your name in august but never did and the week of Christmas until February, none of us could shower or had heat.

The house party we went to last night, you were the life of the party and saved the backyard concert by running the sound for the bands as the engineer they had was too wasted..

You were the hero of the night but you stayed too long after, got obnoxiously drunk. I was so embarrassed to be associated with you and I’m sure those friends will never want to see me again.

I basically had to wrestle you into a cab and then put your ass to bed on your side because I was worried if you lay on your back, you would choke on your vomit and die.

I don’t want to harp on the things I don’t like about living with you, and I could and have overlooked all of these transgressions.

However, the one thing that I literally cannot see past is your face that I hardly even recognize anymore, in every goddamn mirror.”

Several people in my life… yes, I know a few people. Just ask….um. Ask Joe.

Moving on.

They Have asked me “when is the memoir coming out?”

This is a typical response to when peeps who know enough about my life to consider me the transgender version of Forrest Gump find out that I do words… not like they have ever considered to read them or have shown interest in reading them.

I’ve actually tried my hand at this autobia… however it’s spelled. 

Tried to word one out a few times.

Problem is, anything that I write beyond a few thousand words turns into hocus pocus.

Maybe it’s because I’m a great writer of fiction, but it’s more likely that I’m just a prolific and compulsive fibber who would have been committed in the days before Ronald Regan pretended to close insane asylums in America but really just relocated them to the public transportation vessels in a city near you.

I think I’ll give it a whack now, thoughz

That fateful day began like any other day.

I was absentmindedly walking my Dicrylan dolphin - Chestnut Peanut Butter, from my bungalow, to take they/them for a swim in the nearest lake of mercury, back on Titans most sought after moon - which of course would be, Epsilon_Thesalonia.69…

Ah fuck!

I was honestly just trying to talk about that time I worked at Dominos Pizza for $5.15 an hour.

Whack number two…

The most life-changing and defining moment of my existence began even more unremarkable as my very first boner.

Get first job.

Hell yeah!

I was tap-dancing on cloud nine…what the fuck is a cloud a nine?

I don’t care to google it.

I remember when I first was issued my Lego blue Dominoes polo shirt. 

“Jokes you on you, peers in middle school!” I thought as I looked at my pockmarked face in the mirror, finding more pride in my new uniform than I had found in the one ingrown hair on my lip that wasn’t peach fuzz…So what if it gave me a boil that was so substantial that I almost felt compelled to have a social security number assigned to it and asking my grandma to make it a quilt, like she did for me when I was first born.

Those kids in my math class who always laughed when I couldn’t math, just because I simply needed better glasses.

“You don’t even wear glasses, retard!”

I always had an answer for everything.

“Not by choice! Sorry my parents don’t work for NASA you…you.. fucking coin purse!”

Well I showed them!

Plus. I worked for fucking dominos now. I had way too many adult things to think about anyway.

Child labor laws eat my shorts.

Never so thankful to live in shit-old crap-ass Nevada!

How many middle-aged nobody’s can look back with reverence at the privilege of working at Dominos years before they got sued up the ass for… no, not embezzlement, no insider trading. Getting sued for making legendary-level trash pizza and employing the worlds most apathetic and strung out workforce. 

Dominos was so bunk that they had to run a year long national ad campaign later that decade, that was more or less to the affect of: “Sorry we suck so much ass.”

Being a part of that…

Man on the moon tier shit.

Hold up. I’m crying.

Alright, nuff about NASA.

I wasn’t a pizza cook, nor a mere cashier.

I wasn’t the bitch who has to match dotted lines to one another that guided the feeble minded on how to fold a pizza box.

I was a CSR.

“Customer Service Representative.” 

Immediately changed my MySpace bio to:

“Yes. I’m real.”

That acronym was like “007” on creatine.

Sure, I had to make pizzas, work the register and fold endless towers of boxes that would soon house the worlds most prolifically garbage pizzas, but I was exalted by my boss who later hung himself in a broom closet at another dominos that he had to float out to for a shift as a result of being rejected by the national guard, simply based on smelling him each day.

I was completely at a loss and taken aback…

Those spoiled cunts have a broom closet!?

The feels I got when boss tasked me and only me, with the extra- highly skilled duty of snaking the toilet that he himself ruined each night, because he only ate at work and drank half an Old Crow 750 per shift.

Chills.

So our bestest, most primo VIP client phones in a delivery order one night.

Everyone phoned in, not a soul ever walked in and if they did, it was for directions to Papa Murphys 

The VIP was super important because he broke the the record for repeat business by ordering from us four times. 

I answered the phone before that shit even rang.

This was not a drill…

Hand-tossed, black olive and sausage pizza, medium.

Yes sir! 

Boss was prepping the toilet for me to get the snake out again, but I was a leader and proactive AF and knew that I had to leap into action.

People sometimes hypothesize and fantasize about how they would react in a life or death scenario. 

Most of us would like to think that, if push comes to shove, if we saw a damsel tied to a train track, we would instinctively beat the crap out of the guy with the top hat and Salvador Dali mustache who tied her to the tracks, rescue aforementioned damsel, dodge the kiss on the cheek she tries to show thanks with, Batman into the night and never tell a soul about the good deed.

These are warm and motivational scenarios to entertain, but… until you are in a fight, flight or freeze situation, Glock 19 to your temple, you won’t truly ever know exactly how you would react to such situations, regardless of how many times you imagined that you would be courageous and composed.

I learned just exactly what I am made of that shift.

I had always defaulted to thinking in such situations, I’d be the little twat who broke the real hero’s neck, simply by the hero slipping on the puddle of piss I unknowingly made on the floor in front of hero.

Turns out… I have balls that could sound a gong.

Erm. Before I got rid of balls.

Bam!

I jumped on the line, grabbed the dough, slapped that shit onto the cornflower.

Can’t help but chuckle that I’m already making the za before the ticket finished printing to the kitchen.

Hand rolled it, and even though no one was looking, I tossed it in the air so many times that it stretched out to the point where I had to snag a new dough and use the machine to roll it.

Ladled the sauce like a boss.

I added the cheese in one second. 

Well, I loaded the cheese shoot with perfectly cubed pixels of cheese and hit the button on top that bukakied it all up in that bitch.

Slung toppings with a zealous enthusiasm that I’m sure the cameras didn’t have the fps rate to even record. 

Pizza is delivered.

VIP calls.

“The fuck asshole? I ordered sausage, not beef on my shit.”

There are some moments in life that seem so trivial and unremarkable but in retrospect, you realize those moments we’re exactly what defined who you became on down the road.

Sorry. Tears again, but, I have to get this off my chest.

Those moments define everything you are, and this moment…

Sure as fuck wasn’t one.

“I’m going to Papa Murphys, cock-sore!”

Hate is the quick fix dagger that's easy to wield and quicker to draw but love is an unwieldy bastard sword. Although, if you are strong enough and skilled enough to make use of it, you'll beat any dagger every time.

Mankind's true bane is that we see all of these awful things around us as something external and removed from us.

The reasons things are awful is because we don't see that everything starts with the internal and you can't change a damn thing about the external world without first addressing the internal 

Doesn't matter which side you choose. What matters is to not choose a side and please remember:

Everyone is a son, a daughter, a mother, father, a grandparent. 

Not a single person that you’ve ever met was grown in a Petri dish.

If they hurt. They are hurt 

If they love, they are love

If they become confused and you have answers. Not revealing these to them, is the source of the abuse.

Just as if a hapless and parched wanderer of the desert comes into your establishment where you have water and you own the faucets.

There is no statute or anything on paper that mandates that you give him a drink, but it is not his wandering that kills him when you don’t provide. It is you not providing a drink that kills him.

You are either brave in this world or a coward.

How many things in life have you responded to where there was the right thing to do, the wrong thing, and a third opinion, another choice?”

Bravery is steeped in fear

Cowardice is as much a part of bravery as bravery itself and without this dichotomy there’s neither.

What people do for one another cannot be discounted, however, it is what we do no do for each other that has the greater impact.

SHMEY/SHMEM

(In response to video about exalted trashcan actor Ezra Miller)

Question.

How do you misgender someone who claims to not have a gender?

I imagine that most trans women like me who are functional and want to contribute to society and not be taken as a total joke, would find this dudes behavior and abusive existence to be quite disheartening.

I don’t want to say anything that is hateful but the following will probably be rounded up and discarded as h8speech by the thought police, then quietly sent away with the knackers.

The whole “non-binary” thing is a problem.

I mean, virtually every living organism has gender involved with its existence.

They/them… what are you, a fucking tree? Im not a very educated individual but I think even plants have some gender implications going on.Ferns maybe? I dunno. Someone told me ferns are fungi or some crap.

Moving on.

For some dumb reason, I still have a facebook and whenever I have enough whisky to randomly open it up, it’s like every mofo on my “friends” list is a they/them now.

Dafuq?

Mind you, a lot of these new they/thems I am referring to, actually lampooned me for coming out as a trans WOMAN six years ago.

Some of these coin-purse glory-holes are actually the epitome of their gender and there is no indication in their actions or representation of themselves that they are not the cisgender they were born into, other than their half-assed elected pronoun, which is just a way to seem woke and hip at our expense and a free ride on the coattails of a revolution that they see as just a trend.

People who piss themselves over being misgendered, trans, non binary or anyone within the LGBTQIA+#%LMNOP community, are trolls.

I present as female and have breasts and whatever but my voice is deep and I’m six three.

More people than not use male pronouns when they interact with me on a daily basis.

I don’t mind one bit.

If I spent my whole life being a pronoun hall monitor, I would be even more exhausted than I already am just navigating life as trans in the first place.

If someone genuinely and naturally calls me “Sir” that is a sign of respect and for me to go “Na-ah! ma’am to you!” I might as well just bitch slap them.

I didn’t transition for anyone other than myself and it wasn’t like I needed the world to submit uniformly into validating my womanhood, if anything, I’d rather the message be taken as this : “I am not just a man.”

What is it that we are teaching the youth, When we embolden them to proclaim their identities before they even have that remotely figured out, not that even adults ever really do.

First impressions are so vital.

You can be a chode and correct someone for not instinctively knowing right off the bat that your preferred shmonoun are obviously “it/its”

But just because this is acceptable these days, doesn’t mean that the person you chastised will ever want to fuck wit u again.

What precedence are we setting for future generations by enabling and encouraging society to police something as simple and elemental to coexistence as some thing as simple as saying hello or addressing another individual?

David Byrne said it best.

”My God, What have I done?”

Changing gears…oh wait. Reverse only has one speed.

You know how damn hard of a road it has been for us real transwomen? 

Try battling not only, the hateful and extremely dangerous masses you have to coexist with on a daily basis, but then couple it with combating your own biology with hormones until your body eventually gets the point to stop making testosterone and rewires itself as the gender you always knew you were.

I go onto trash dating apps like Grindr and more than three-quarters of the “trans women” on the app are low-key, discreet cross dressers, who catfish people into thinking they are actually a trans woman.

Tourists…

I like to call this “stolen valor.”

It’s no different than those depraved creeps who buy army fatigues from surplus stores and stand around in malls trying to attract adoration for wars they never fought, tears on the behalf of blood they never shed..

Then you have Ru Paul.

That damn show is the same as Bing Crosby doing black face back in the day and I just as tone deaf.

Many drag queens actually contour their faces to achieve the opposite effect of how trans women contour our faces as to look more like cis women. 

These dudes…

The whole show is just men vacationing in a world they are too chickenshit to do full time, prancing about like “look at how funny it is when a dude dresses like not a dude.”

I could be way off base on my findings regarding this bunk ass program, but at the very least, bottom line is that it attaches a novelty to being trans and makes a spectacle of it, which is very harmful.

Ru Paul.

The pain that your money grab show has reverberated to nobody trans women like myself is blood on your hands.

People all around marginalize us all the time, but I’d like to think there may be a special place in hell for those who get rich from it.

I can’t wait for the day in the not-distant future when a new generation looks back at “Black Face…” I mean “Drag Race” with jaw-dropped disbelief, not entirely unalike how…uh.. how whatever the fuck todays new generation does when they realize the “Man Show” was not only a thing, but had success and longevity.

Clutch in, downshift…

The goddamn lgbtq community.

Some of the most tone deaf and bigoted people towards us have been gay men and women.

Just because you’re gay, that doesn’t mean you have any idea how it feels to be born into a body that you don’t align with.

We get lumped in with gays but stonewall happened like half a century ago and gay people can find and maintain a decent job like a straight person can.

When I came out as trans, it was five years before I was given work despite my prolific resume.

Imagine if the black community had muddied the waters of their plight by involving Chinese, Mexican and German minorities in their mission statement?

My point being, just because you are a minority, doesn’t mean you face the exact same challenges that a different minority does and all sects of the oppressed must come together with their kind for liberation or perish.

Closing statements.

Hey Weho.

Maybe you should use the stupid amount of bread yall drop into Pride each year and invest it in into resources for trans women.

Sure, we could attend the festival, and many do methinks, but, any trans woman who celebrates false freedoms and accepts the community who has sold her out and boasts huge profit margins as a result, is lost.

She is decades behind the rest of her supposed community, and has no clue that her froggy legs have begun to boil.

Jesus Herby-Hancock Christ… blessed be deez women and ALL women, but if you are trans and subscribe to the community, you may be clocking a room-temperature iq or have nothing in your arsenal that even resembles self respect…..

Gay Boiz and gals.

You should consider dropping the “T” from your acronym that is almost longer than the alphabet these days.

Alright already…let’s get the elephant out of the room.

We all know that I’m getting at.

Starbucks. 

When I was a kid, If you didn’t want pickles and onions in your McDonald’s cheeseburger, it was an unwritten rule that the thing to do was to simply scrape them off with the wrapper it came in.

Now the consumer is so entitled to whatever they want that they can waltz into any franchise that’s worth it’s salt on Wall Street and crap on their menu to compliment their fucked tastes.

Hell… the other day I saw some poor minimum wage teenagers working at Hotdog on a Stick, improvising diy hollandaise sauce for a chick with a service peacock for crying out loud!

I’m nobody in this world and I may be the first to initiate this dialogue, and the ones I’ve addressed this to will just write it off as a one-off soapbox harangue but, mark my words. What I have illustrated to whomever this may concern….

This will all gather enough inertia very soon to the point where it will have to be addressed, and by that time, y’all will be so balls deep in it, that you won’t have the wherewithal to recognize that you have long since marched past the borderline between the right and the wrong side of history, and will find yourself utterly lost within the latter.

What was I on about again?

Oh yeah.

There are 69 genders and furries suck.

MATTERS OF EXPRESSION 

I generally hate idioms and sayings, and only really use them in my writing when I am making some sort of satire over their mindless usages or just bastardize them into something I feel be worth the LOLS. (No previous examples of this come to mind presently, but I’m sure one or two will poop up in this existential harangue )

“Cleanliness is next to godliness.” 

…facepalm

“Murphy’s Law” 

Who the fuck is Murphy? 

I mean I know, because I escaped skewl young enough to still have a portion of a brain, but unless someone can tell me the origins of such sayings as well as what they really mean, they can toss off.

Not to be an elitest history nerd, but it is not enough to get the gist of what an old turn of phrase really means, you have to understand Its utility within history, to really comprehend what you are regurgitating and even then. Come up with your own shit, Carlos Mencia.

For example...

“Crossing the Rubicon.”

Not widely known to the generation before us geriatric millennials, nonetheless, it is a good one to start with.

Julius Caeser was such a cunning-ass Chad, that he realized, in order to seize Roman Rule, it would be more prudent to dip out with his legions that he had bromanced for decades, and go pwn the shit out of the Gauls, until the Roman proletariat unanimously fangirled, Single-White-Female Status, enough for him to pwn the senate back in Rome.

Just before he and his army came back to Rome, the senate sent him a note that more or less read:

 “Giaus...my dawg. Look, you’re boss AF and folks are all super wet about your ass-whooping those Gaulish choddums that we all wanted to teabag for hella dayz, but, disband your brodeo before you cross the Rubicon, or else war, and shit.”

History says that Caeser was conflicted about crossing or disbanding, but, those days were only called the iron-age because of dudes hulking burnished nuts.

He crossed, the rest is history...

Sort of.

“Crossing the Rubicon” s not just an OG way of saying: “Fork in the Road.”

Besides its meaning being far more nuanced in the sense that it is not merely a “this way or that” expression, it also means that, when you choose to cross or not to, the choice is final and you have to double down on your decision, no matter what comes from making it.

The reverberations of this moment in history, have resounded on and on and still oscillate further to this day.

Caeser’s march changed Rome from a Republic into an Empire whose new mode of governance spread its influence to far-flung lands that it would have never touched as a Republic and so many cultures, if not all, have some ties back to the Romans presently.

“I was blind, but now I can see!”

When Monty Python first coined this phrase in their ground-breaking film “The Life Of Brian.” which was the catalyst that marked the beginning of the eigth-most butt-hurt period of the Catholic Church's’ history... 

Godbless your cotton socks, George Harrison.

Ah crap.

I used a saying that I don’t know nothing about.

Alright. Alright.

Python didn’t come up with the phrase, but I can’t help but picture the blindman in the film who exclaims this and subsequently falls into a ditch, every time I hear it. 

Rofl.

“I was blind, but now I see.” Came from histories dullest tool in the shed (shit, another idiom. I’m bunk AF) and prolific snake-oil merchant, The Apostle Paul of The New Testament.

Shortly after Jesus was killed, Christians flared up like a case of herpes contracted back during The Summer of Love.

Paul, the Roman, persecuted the followers of Christ with an insidious bloodlust and fucked their shit up hard.

That is, until one glorious day when Paul and his companions (slaves) summited some hill somewhere and Jesus appeared with a backdrop of blinding white light and this Is what he said verbatum:

“Paul, my child...why you such a prick?”

Paul dropped to his knees, blinder than the LGBTQLMNOP#&*+ - carry the one community itself, and proclaimed... some bullshit. 

Pauls companions (slaves) then guided his trash-ass back to Rome, where he was able to see once more.

But this time he saw the holy spirit....erm...he saw dollar signs in regards to the holy spirit/dove thing.

Paul realized.

“If you can’t beat them, beat them.”

(Aw snap. There’s your example!)

The larger portion of the New Testament that this cock-sore highjacked, you know the part after the not so bad shit of the four gospels, the parts about “Fuck gays. Sex bad.” that became the catholic church.

Taint Paul used Jesus as a device to pretty much shit on his teachings and make tons of skrilla on his sacrifice in the process, you can thank this dog-shit idiom for it all.

Paul, and then later, the Catholic church, changed the OG commandment of “Be fruitful and multiply” to “Do not be fruitful and.... Gosh dayam. Kids is TOTES hawt!” - another antiquated saying that didn’t quite... AGE.... well..

🦗 🦗

I can hear what you all are thinking at this point....

“Jesus Hieronymus Christ. Someone get this mother-bitchen glory-hole off the Allah-forsaken stage....”

Alright, alright. Back to the existential woke shit in a second, but first, I can’t forget the Jews here.

Jp, Jews is pretty dope TBH. 

Circumcision FTW.

Ammarite?

This brings me to the actual and genuine reflection that I’ve been beating my bush around to get to.

There is one idiom that I think unintentionally is quite important and could change the course of history much more substantially than super-nuts Caesar and Anti-Christ Paul have done combined.

“I don’t start fights, I finish them.”

Sounds like the most toxic-masculine self-stroke thing to say, that if you are a cyst-gender male, you probs learned from that time where your dad beat up your friend's dad and this saying is what your dad said about it before his liver failed from rotgut later that summer, as a result of being manly AF for saucing it up always, no chaser, then tucking you in with an old-man strength fist of tough love, that cultivated hairs on your chest courser than a Brillo pad, long before puberty.

But really. 

If you actually think about what this phrase might be saying.

When someone hurts you, it is because they have been hurt before and they feel that the world functions in a way where to be tough and to muscle through, you have to pay the pain and confusion forward.

To not start a fight is noble and to end them can be the bravest thing a person can do.

To not pass on the buck of hate to beget hate, and to end the fight at yourself by forgiving and 

responding with love and understanding, you truly do not start fights and you truly do finish them.

Jokes aside. I say this genuinely…

Honest Injun.

A COMPLETELY FACTUAL ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE OF PIKEY PAIGE

Several people in my life… yes, I know a few people. Just ask….um. Ask Joe.

Moving on.

They Have asked me “when is the memoir coming out?”

This is a typical response to when peeps who know enough about my life to consider me the transgender version of Forrest Gump find out that I do words… not like they have ever considered to read them or have shown interest in reading them.

I’ve actually tried my hand at this autobia… however it’s spelled. 

Tried to word one out a few times.

Problem is, anything that I write beyond a few thousand words turns into hocus pocus.

Maybe it’s because I’m a great writer of fiction, but it’s more likely that I’m just a prolific and compulsive fibber who would have been committed in the days before Ronald Regan pretended to close insane asylums in America but really just relocated them to the public transportation vessels in a city near you.

I think I’ll give it a whack now, thoughz

That fateful day began like any other day.

I was absentmindedly walking my Dicrylan dolphin - Chestnut Peanut Butter, from my bungalow, to take they/them for a swim in the nearest lake of mercury, back on Titans most sought after moon - which of course would be, Epsilon_Thesalonia.69…

Ah fuck!

I was honestly just trying to talk about that time I worked at Dominos Pizza for $5.15 an hour.

Whack number two…

The most life-changing and defining moment of my existence began even more unremarkable as my very first boner.

Get first job.

Hell yeah!

I was tap-dancing on cloud nine…what the fuck is a cloud a nine?

I don’t care to google it.

I remember when I first was issued my Lego blue Dominoes polo shirt. 

“Jokes you on you, peers in middle school!” I thought as I looked at my pockmarked face in the mirror, finding more pride in my new uniform than I had found in the one ingrown hair on my lip that wasn’t peach fuzz…So what if it gave me a boil that was so substantial that I almost felt compelled to have a social security number assigned to it and asking my grandma to make it a quilt, like she did for me when I was first born.

Those kids in my math class who always laughed when I couldn’t math, just because I simply needed better glasses.

“You don’t even wear glasses, retard!”

I always had an answer for everything.

“Not by choice! Sorry my parents don’t work for NASA you…you.. fucking coin purse!”

Well I showed them!

Plus. I worked for fucking dominos now. I had way too many adult things to think about anyway.

Child labor laws eat my shorts.

Never so thankful to live in shit-old crap-ass Nevada!

How many middle-aged nobody’s can look back with reverence at the privilege of working at Dominos years before they got sued up the ass for… no, not embezzlement, no insider trading. Getting sued for making legendary-level trash pizza and employing the worlds most apathetic and strung out workforce. 

Dominos was so bunk that they had to run a year long national ad campaign later that decade, that was more or less to the affect of: “Sorry we suck so much ass.”

Being a part of that…

Man on the moon tier shit.

Hold up. I’m crying.

Alright, nuff about NASA.

I wasn’t a pizza cook, nor a mere cashier.

I wasn’t the bitch who has to match dotted lines to one another that guided the feeble minded on how to fold a pizza box.

I was a CSR.

“Customer Service Representative.” 

Immediately changed my MySpace bio to:

“Yes. I’m real.”

That acronym was like “007” on creatine.

Sure, I had to make pizzas, work the register and fold endless towers of boxes that would soon house the worlds most prolifically garbage pizzas, but I was exalted by my boss who later hung himself in a broom closet at another dominos that he had to float out to for a shift as a result of being rejected by the national guard, simply based on smelling him each day.

I was completely at a loss and taken aback…

Those spoiled cunts have a broom closet!?

The feels I got when boss tasked me and only me, with the extra- highly skilled duty of snaking the toilet that he himself ruined each night, because he only ate at work and drank half an Old Crow 750 per shift.

Chills.

So our bestest, most primo VIP client phones in a delivery order one night.

Everyone phoned in, not a soul ever walked in and if they did, it was for directions to Papa Murphys 

The VIP was super important because he broke the the record for repeat business by ordering from us four times. 

I answered the phone before that shit even rang.

This was not a drill…

Hand-tossed, black olive and sausage pizza, medium.

Yes sir! 

Boss was prepping the toilet for me to get the snake out again, but I was a leader and proactive AF and knew that I had to leap into action.

People sometimes hypothesize and fantasize about how they would react in a life or death scenario. 

Most of us would like to think that, if push comes to shove, if we saw a damsel tied to a train track, we would instinctively beat the crap out of the guy with the top hat and Salvador Dali mustache who tied her to the tracks, rescue aforementioned damsel, dodge the kiss on the cheek she tries to show thanks with, Batman into the night and never tell a soul about the good deed.

These are warm and motivational scenarios to entertain, but… until you are in a fight, flight or freeze situation, Glock 19 to your temple, you won’t truly ever know exactly how you would react to such situations, regardless of how many times you imagined that you would be courageous and composed.

I learned just exactly what I am made of that shift.

I had always defaulted to thinking in such situations, I’d be the little twat who broke the real hero’s neck, simply by the hero slipping on the puddle of piss I unknowingly made on the floor in front of hero.

Turns out… I have balls that could sound a gong.

Erm. Before I got rid of balls.

Bam!

I jumped on the line, grabbed the dough, slapped that shit onto the cornflower.

Can’t help but chuckle that I’m already making the za before the ticket finished printing to the kitchen.

Hand rolled it, and even though no one was looking, I tossed it in the air so many times that it stretched out to the point where I had to snag a new dough and use the machine to roll it.

Ladled the sauce like a boss.

I added the cheese in one second. 

Well, I loaded the cheese shoot with perfectly cubed pixels of cheese and hit the button on top that bukakied it all up in that bitch.

Slung toppings with a zealous enthusiasm that I’m sure the cameras didn’t have the fps rate to even record. 

Pizza is delivered.

VIP calls.

“The fuck asshole? I ordered sausage, not beef on my shit.”

There are some moments in life that seem so trivial and unremarkable but in retrospect, you realize those moments we’re exactly what defined who you became on down the road.

Sorry. Tears again, but, I have to get this off my chest.

Those moments define everything you are, and this moment…

Sure as fuck wasn’t one.

“I’m going to Papa Murphys, cock-sore!”