A Rambling.

I am 22. I attend a University in an accelerated course for my Bachelor’s Degree. I watch Pretty Little Liars, listen to mainstream Top 40 radio, and my favorite book is Catcher in the Rye. I’m sure by now a total of three out of the five people (if that) who read this have already clicked the ‘X’ button on their screen to get my filth off of their precious MacBooks. Yes, I also own a MacBook.
Being age 22 means that I am constantly going through the odd feelings of being better than everybody but at the same time being irrelvant and unimportant compared to everybody else out there. It’s only logical to compare my life to Michael Jackson’s legacy, right?
Everybody has me figured out by now. College student, feminist, activist, etc. I guess I could claim all those titles, but for a title don’t you have to actually do something? Sharing an article I found interesting on Facebook doesn’t necessarily make me brilliant. I can also assure everybody that I have not done any research on the topic aside from said article.

This is what is going on today. But, instead of actually doing something about it, I’ll just write a blog post. I wouldn’t want to cause too much attention to myself (or would I?)

Sometimes at night I sit and think- ‘Have I really changed that much since high school?’ Granted, it’s only been five years, but a lot can happen in that timespan. Hell, a lot can happen in five minutes.
Let’s list the changes:

1. Moved out.
2. Went natural.
3. Got a full time job.

That’s about it. I’ve picked up some different hobbies and retreated back to ones that I’ve dropped off. I’ve binge-watched Orange is the New Black with the best of them, along with Californication. On occasion I’ll get drunk alone in my apartment and smoke marijuana. (I’ll never buy my own pot though, because I don’t do drugs. Isn’t that the thought process?) All the while, I’ll bitch about how much I “hate” people and how “life sucks” yet I want to “help” people with my degree. Pick a side, will ya?!

Listen- I love going to school and what I’m learning, but I’ll tell you what I really want (and what I believe most people want) We want to be remembered. We want to be famous! For what? It doesn’t matter. From Nelson Mandela to Britney Spears, everybody has left a legacy. Some have left a legacy so large that it seems that nobody can fill those shoes. Those shoes shouldn’t have to be filled!

The world is a big place- I mean, it’s really fucking big. Why should everybody be saying “This person is going to be the next Michael Jackson” or “This person is going to be the next Maya Angelou”? Michael Jackson and Maya Angelou did their duties. They have already graced the world and they have already left.

Stop trying to compare yourself to those who have already made their mark. Stop following in the footsteps left by them. There is a lot of fucking land and ocean to be discovered. Leave your mark someplace else.



Self Deprecation

It’s been months since I’ve written. Not just here, but anywhere. Falling into an adult routine of growing up has sucked the creativity out of my mind. That’s just an excuse though- I could go outside, I could recall past emotions, I could skip a few days of my medication. I could do anything just to write. So why don’t I? Perhaps it’s because I already have lines and lines of words tossed together, but they still don’t have a home. Perhaps I’m just lazy. Do you want to know the real answer though? It’s because I am my own worst critic. I believe that happens to all of us, especially if we identify as artists. We study the painters, the writers, the musicians before us and try to mimic them- this is the downfall. They paved the way without knowing that they would change the world. Or maybe they just took a lot of drugs. Probably both. 

The downfall to writing (at least for me) is listening to other things as I’m writing. Even now, I’m listening to music (but that’s okay since these aren’t lyrics), but when I attempt to write for my own band, the same words that I just listened to spew across my page. I just wrote down lyrics of another band like a fifteen year old stuck in math class. 

Maybe I’m scared that nobody will like them. I think I’m more scared that won’t like them, because ten out of ten times, I don’t. Why does it matter if I like them though? Aren’t they expressing how I feel? My emotions, my thoughts. 

I have big dreams, but the only thing standing in my way is…me.


A number of therapists I’ve gone to have told me that writing helps with anger. 

Years and endless drafts of stories, poems and lyrics I have found that it does not. The anger intensifies with every stroke of the pen. Then I get to see what I have written and nine times out of ten it has made me angrier. Perhaps it was poorly written and didn’t execute what I was trying to say. Perhaps I just drew a blank and it doesn’t make sense. The majority of the time though, it just makes me focus on the issue that is angering me. 

Not more than a half-hour ago I admitted to myself, out loud, that I was still angry about something that had happened approximately around the end of December beginning of January. I won’t dive into details, but it involves a number of people I love (my family and my significant other) as well as myself being taken advantage of and disrespected. 

My many therapists have also told me not to hold on to the anger or to “let it go” as well as “don’t regret”. I detest both of these phrases. Some things I cannot let go and that is one of my many genetic flaws. I regret not stepping in sooner when I saw the people I love being mistreated. I regret not stopping things sooner when I realized how poorly I was being treated. There was a catch though. 

I allowed this to go on because the perpetrator at hand had a mental disability. I will not openly disclose which one but I will say that it involves the 15q11-13 chromosomal region.

I am made up of nothing but bones and anger. My heart only beats when I’m fired up. The blood in my system has dried out and been replaced with a fire. 




It’s weird, the way people view writers. We’re viewed as brooding, substance abusers, and arrogant. Other writers though, those that write reviews for films, albums, and even food, are viewed as some type of god. Almost as if what they say is the last word. 

I’ll admit, I enjoy a nice drink every now and again. I also enjoy getting drunk some nights. I also enjoy going to school and work because I know I can’t make a career out of writing. I don’t typically write like this, I’m more of a lyricists. I’ve only recently started writing fiction again. My problem with fiction though, I never know where it ends. 

Everything I write, whether it be lyrics to a song or a story, is all told from my perspective. But does that make it non-fiction? Some nights I can’t tell if I’m dreaming or if I’m actually living in reality. The technology we have today, I don’t remember having as a child (to be fair I was born in 1991). 

As soon as I typed in the year I was born, I could feel your facial expressions change. Now my knowledge is limited due to me being 21. I receive this a lot, more often than one would think. Even in classrooms. The place where I’m supposed to be learning and expanding my knowledge, ridicules me for my young age.

I’m not sure where I’m going with this. I just know I had to write it. 


There was a noose in the house up the street. Nobody lived there. My dad said when he was younger the house was empty as well, but that noose was still there. It never bothered me until one night.

I had gone up the street with one of my friends, Eddie. I’m not sure what we were doing that night, probably getting into some trouble as most kids do growing up. We reached the doorstep and Eddie twisted the knob, opening the door. I didn’t think that was weird at the time, but looking back…

We went inside the house. It didn’t smell like death, but it didn’t feel too welcoming. Eddie ran off somewhere, I could hear him laughing faintly. I took my time in the foyer, studying faded yellow paint on the walls. Making my way to the kitchen, I noticed that everything was clean. Recently clean. I didn’t think anything of that back then…

The kitchen was where the noose was. I remember reaching up and touching the rope, envisioning my own head sitting in it. Would it work the first try? What did loosing oxygen feel like? Would I like myself better if I was dead?

So I did it.

I remember watching Eddie from above, finding my body and screaming. I remember viewing my deceased physical body hanging, floating. I only regret one thing though- I left the noose crooked.

Consumed- Short Story

The sun shone across my face in a diagonal fashion, rudely interrupting me from my nightmare. In this most recent one, I was required to go through a number of different obstacle courses, as if the Saw films combined with the 90’s kid game show Double Dare. At the end I would violently vomit while being forced to continue because my life was at stake. I’m not sure why I continued.

I began to stretch out my limbs and muscles, groaning at such a good pain. I looked at my phone, which was nonchalantly tossed on the ground. Three missed calls. They could only be from two people: my boss or my mother. I haven’t been to work in about two weeks with no reason or warning. I hoped they were all from my boss. I stood up, stretched one last time, and walked into my kitchen. There was coffee, I’m not sure when I made it or if it was even safe to drink. I lifted up the pot, looked at the black liquid, disregarded a few cobwebs and flies around the top, poured it into a cup and downed it. Bitter and cold. Actually, It was one of the most disgusting things I have ever drank, but I shrugged and headed to the shower. I turned the nozzle to the rusty H and cold water came out. I sighed and proceeded to bathe myself, for how long I’m not exactly sure. I walked out naked just to see how badly I let myself go. I passed a window and just from a glance I knew it was bad. I looked down to see nothing but hair and gut.

The doorbell rang and I quickly put a towel around my waist, out of common courtesy. I checked the peephole to see who would possibly come to my door; nobody aside from the mailman apparently. I opened the door. “Hey, how’re you doing?” I tried my best to sound chipper, but it obviously didn’t work. He didn’t seem to care though. “Fine, and you? Have a nice day.” That was the most social interaction I accepted on a daily basis. I forget how long it’s been since I’ve actually gone out with somebody. Not on a date or anything, just in general. “Let’s see what we got,” I mumbled carelessly to myself, “Bill…bill…bill…” something caught my eye. Looking closer I saw that it was just the electric bill. I scoffed and mumbled a few choice words under my breath as I dropped all of the day’s mail onto a table.

How did my life get like this? When did it get so difficult to remember a happy time in my life? Everything seems so hard now. Well, not necessarily hard but…meaningless? Shallow? Maybe a syllable of those two. Should I be grateful for what I do have, meaning my life? Probably. If I don’t act grateful, I’ll get the classic, ‘there are kids in insert-third-world-county-here who would die for what you have,’ meanwhile I just want to…not die, but not live.

Oh wait. I’m already not living.

Something stole my soul, my reasons for emotion to show across my face and through my actions. I don’t know where it is now, but I’m not sure if I care. Wait, I know I don’t care. I am nothing but a zombie. I am not the ones in the movies or comics; bloodthirsty and aching to kill. I am not “living dead”. I am just dead, without the honor of being ignited and becoming nothing but ash. I have been bad during my life and my punishment? Staying in this world. I walked to the refrigerator to see what food I did not have to eat today when my phone rang. I turned to look at it, the screen lighting up, a designated sound alerting me. I closed the door to the fridge and picked it up. Mom. I sighed and decided to answer.


“Why haven’t you been answering my calls? I’ve been worried sick about you! The least you could do is let your poor mother know you’re alive!”

Silence. She didn’t know I was dead. Even if I told her she wouldn’t believe me. Just like she never believed me when I tried to tell her things. I was always “overdramatic,” or “exaggerating”.

“Are you there? Dade? Dade, answer your mother!”

“Sorry, sorry, I was looking at something…”

“Why don’t you come over for dinner tonight? Your father and I are cooking your favorite.”

She was lying. My favorite was the Beef ‘n Cheddar from Arby’s.

“I’m fine.”

“It’s been so long since we last saw you!”

“I’m fine.”

“Dade, we miss you. Your father misses you, your siblings-“

“Stop. Please stop this.”

“I can’t Dade! Please, just one dinner. Don’t be like this just stop by. Show us that you still are a part of this family and-“

She was tearing up. Her words became nothing but stifled sobs and deep breaths.

“I’m fine.”

I hung up the phone and laid back down on the couch. I stared up at the crack in the ceiling. I turned and viewed the peeling wallpaper, the corners hanging down, threatening to fall and pull everything on the walls down with them. I sighed. The bills were already collecting dust, as were books I never read and albums I never listened to. I could not even see the screen of the television, there was so much dust on it. I don’t think it worked anyway. I looked at the time. 11:00 a.m. I did not know if that was accurate, but it didn’t matter I suppose. I went into my bedroom and put on some clothes. I didn’t know if they were clean, nor did I care.

I dropped the towel around my waist and it silently collapsed onto the floor. I picked up the first pair of boxers I found, looked for any noticeable stains, and pulled them on, and began the search for pants and a shirt. Everything on the floor was covered in dust, flies, stains, and didn’t fit me. ‘When was the last time I had clothes that fit?’ I thought to myself. Finally I found a pair of khakis and pulled them over my boxers. They were a little short, but I had some boots that made them look like they fit. I threw on a long sleeved band shirt, which was also a little short, but I had a jacket. Did I like the band? I don’t know. It had been so long since I last listened to music.

I looked out the window and recoiled in pain. The sun was so bright. I inhaled overdramatically and brought my knuckles up to the corners of my eyes to wipe away the sleep and whatever else was still lingering there. I walked out my door, but didn’t bother to lock it. Why should I? There’s nothing to steal. Everything that was available to steal has already been stolen. I walked down two flights of stairs before reaching the main door to the apartment complex in which I lived. I stared at the street, which looked empty to me but to the world was full of bumper-to-bumper traffic. I stepped off the curb to try and feel some sort of rush; adrenaline, fear, danger. I felt nothing. I stepped back onto the sidewalk. My feet began to move, not in a stepping motion, but it felt more like they were gliding, gliding over the cement. “Hey there.” I looked to the side, saw nothing, looked up, saw nothing, looked down and saw a man. A homeless man actually. “Spare some change?” He had the brightest smile on his face, although the only thing he owned was probably the cup in his hand, which was rattling from few coins that he managed to collect, and some tattered blanket that looked like it was from a nuclear waste plant.

“Uh, sorry.”

“What’s wrong, son?”

“Son? What?”

“It’s a term of endearment. You look like you’re not there. Sad almost. A handsome guy like you shouldn’t be sad. If anybody should be sad, it should be me. I picked up this shit-stained cup from the trash and I sit here trying to scrounge up a dollar in change every day. But I’m not sad.”

“Life lesson from a bum. A master fuck-up. Perfect.”

“Alright, you want to know something? You think you’ve got it good son, don’t you? You got a roof over your head, correct?”

I nodded, not phased by anything he was saying.

“You got yourself a damn roof that might leak every once in a while. You got a shower, a kitchen, a bed or a couch, yeah? Well maybe we should just switch our goddamn places because you obviously don’t know the meaning of gratefulness.”

I stared.

“Right now I only have forty-three goddamn cents in this goddamn shit cup. Forty-three goddamn cents. What can you get for forty-three goddamn cents? Nothin’! I ain’t lookin’ to go buy some fancy Mercedes or some fancy loft in some fancy apartment complex. I ain’t even tryin’ to buy new clothes! You know what this forty-three goddamn cents is goin’ to? The homeless shelter.”

“Why don’t you just go there?”

“I can make it on my own. Always have. I feel better like this. I get my exercise when I walk all over town, I always manage to find a decent meal or some water or somethin’ to thrive off of, and other people can’t do that. But I can. So why should I be the selfish sonofabitch, who’s able to survive on his own, take that from other people? I shouldn’t. It’s called bein’ goddamn selfless.”

I stared. He spit everywhere.

“Nothin’ but a goddamn selfish bastard, you are.”

I stared. He stared back.

“Here.” I dropped the key to my apartment in his cup.

“The hell is this shit?”

“Here,” I gave him my jacket and shoes, “Go to 4th avenue and Pine street. There’s an apartment complex there. This is the key to apartment 2C. It’s yours now. I don’t deserve it. I’m not trying to help you out so don’t get on your damn high horse I’m just trying to give myself what I deserve. Take this too.” I handed him my wallet and gave him all the information about my bank account. “I don’t know how much I have in there. It might be not be a lot but you can probably figure something out on how to get by. You can live there for the rest of my lease and forever I guess.”

“What in the hell-“

“Shutup. Just take it and go.”

He stood up and left. Just like that.

I sat down on the cold ground. A shiver ran up my spine. “Christ,” I mumbled to myself. I sighed and looked around. I looked at all the people walking by. I looked at the Prada, Gucci, Fendi, and other designer bags that swung in my face. I saw the iPhones, the Blackberries, and the Androids all being tapped and yelled into furiously, for their owners obviously had important messages to send to the recipients. I saw the girls hanging all over the boys babbling nonsense in their ears. I saw the animals trotting about and trying to urinate, and their owners just dragging them along, yelling. I saw everything. I saw everything that people lived for and I felt alive.

I was no longer corrupted by the world’s constant need to be up-to-date with the latest and greatest trends, whether it was electronic, fashion, or slang. I sat and watched for days, months, years, watching as everything advanced except for people. People never advanced. People stopped advancing a long time ago.

I watched as everybody avoided me. I heard mothers whisper under their breath, telling their children to stay away from me, as if I was some sort of monster. I saw the disgusted and confused looks I got, I heard the names I was called; bum, junkie, deadbeat. I had no reason to defend myself. I had no reason to defend myself from a world consumed by consumerism. I had no reason to defend myself from the people who had all of their defenses up. I was free. Free of my mothers expectations, and society’s expectations. Free of the life path I was born into. Free of the stresses of trying to become the very best. Free of the media who yells at me, saying I’m not good enough without whatever shit is selling. Free of the rules that had once held me down. I had given everything to a man I hadn’t known for more than five minutes. I had ruined his life. I didn’t care.

I was free.

Short Story- Untitled and Unfinished

The best part of moving into a new neighborhood is the slew of letters I have to write to all my neighbors. There’s nothing better than typing ‘Hi, I’m a sex offender!’ on my computer and letting it print ten, twenty, thirty, a thousand times. If that wasn’t bad enough, I also get to learn all my new neighbors names and their addresses, so they can learn that I’m a sex offender. My mother always told me that first impressions are the lasting impressions, and with these letters, I’m sure nobody will ever forget who I am.

Here’s the thing though- I’m not a real sex offender. I’m nineteen and my ex-girlfriend is seventeen. Everything was consensual on both of our ends. I didn’t force her to do anything, there were no threats, nothing. It was pure ecstasy, pure love. Nobody sees that though. If I asked you what you thought of whenever you heard the phrase “sex offender” you’d think I raped little girls and boys. I don’t blame you though, since that’s what you learned. Believe me though, I’m not attracted to children. They shit their pants, their hands are always sticky, and for some godforsaken reason they always need to be yelling. Fucking kids. Getting back on track though, I can tell you that my mom hates me. Yes, my very own mother is part of the society that hates me and fears me. I suppose fear is a large word. It’s not that she fears me, it’s just…if she knew this is where I’d be at nineteen she’d probably just go to the clinic.

My name’s Nick and I’m fresh out of jail. Since I’m a sex offender, this means I’m societies bait. Go onto any sex offender website and you’ll find me along with the real scum. The guys that actually stick their fingers up a newborn’s anus or rip out the insides of a little girl. I shouldn’t be calling them scum though, considering I’m one of them. We’re all brothers and sisters, right? What a crock.

I got a story for you actually. Just the other day I was taking a walk, a stroll rather, to get some fresh air. The sun was out and it was mid-morning, around 10:00, so I figured why not? So I’m walkin’, mindin’ my own business and I realized I was by the playground. Most people think that all kids are in school by 10:00 but they forget about the kids that are too young to be enrolled. I know I did. The looks I got from the moms and dads playin’ with their three year old kid…if looks could kill, I would’ve been crucified. I’m pretty sure one of them had their phone out, ready to call the cops!

This is my life. This is my life every damn day because my ex-girlfriend decided to file for sagitory rape.