Well—How Was Your January

…Mine was okay!

I’m currently laying in the dark, trying to sleep. It’s only nine o’clock at night, but I’ve been laying here since seven. I’d really rather be asleep.

Everything is okay. Sometimes this month has felt like spring.

Get more sleep in 2016. Wake up with the sun in 2016. Be the morning jogger. Rise because you want to; commit to do what makes you happy.

Stay resolute.

Good night.

When someone gets beaten to death with a steel pipe across the street from your apartment


You’re probably not going to get beaten to death with a steel pipe outside of your apartment.


Relax. Have a beer. Heck, have two.

It’s not like they didn’t catch the guy. I mean, it took a few days, but. That guy is definitely not going to be beating your life essence out of your ears on the sidewalk by the light of your favorite convenience store anytime soon.

Neither is that guy that yelled at you one night, or that tall werewolf-lookin’ guy with the wallet chain that followed you a different night, or that guy you bought pork rinds for when you were kinda drunk.

No one is going to kill you, if you never, ever, ever, ever, ever leave your house.


Update: this post originally referred to brain death; it became regular death so such is now reflected in the headline. Whee

Well what do *you* think, Sarah?

Uhmmmmm support unions, legalize prostitution, abolish highway speed limits, decriminalize all drug use/possession/sale/trafficking, criminalize private prisons, welcome all immigrants and refugees, support robust public housing, build a dynamic poverty aid program, begin enacting staggered and incentivized gun-forfeiture programs, never enact staggered Internet access, supertax the super rich and abolish the electoral college. Macklemore should both stop and apologize. Smoke weed every day. What? Excuse me? Who the fuck was asking?

The Clarity Chamber of Calamity Jane

sorry about the pictures. I’m remarkably sexy, but I know that’s not how I typically do.

This is a center for words. This is a place for great discourse, where words are weaved together into complex semiotics, symbologies. It’s a syncretistic menage of metonym, curved darkly at the punctum pockmark pieced out piecemeal pour the avaricious heart. Slay the slaw O’Shaughnessy, watch as he hops to the top de la pops. Pip, pip, have a whiff, a whip, a whit, a snort. Put it in your schnozzle hole, slink into a body bag. Funny tricks.

Score sought some said sixty-sixty or somesuch by the second session on the pitch in play but ooh nos. THWACK go the cracks in the bat backbreaking swing, slow slung onto ground and down. Score is over, where’d’e go? The song is done.

Trace the contours of the hyperreal and let the foreign film slide subcutaneous and disperse in heat, in goo, in the flue of you incorporated. Welcome to name of the city, free and the home of the brave.

Be not scared of scaled serpententacles lurching, searching out the grimoire in the scullery, between the heavy bounds, behind the brassy lock. Tis a good book, long and lean, with a crackling spine. Selah.

youtube rabbit hole: stunts & tricks imagineered

Kelsey told me that my blog kicks ass

And I agree with her. It does. What a great compliment, & true.

Kelsey is a girl I know, whom you likely don’t, that I like a lot. She’s cool in the ways you likely aren’t, living for years on end in a foreign country, riding a bike everywhere, not caring about sweating when she shows up smiling at the door. People like me crush on people like that. People like me wish we were that. 

Anyway, Kelsey, thanks for the compliment. I appreciate it very truly. I adore your journey into China, and I hope that you are well. Thank you for your kindnesses. I love you as I love all and sundry—without limit, til the end. 

Journey on into the unexplained.

YouTube Rabbit Hole: Snoop Dogg & Larry King

It’s a Good Idea to Rehearse Your Victory Speech Every Day

Every single day, practicing that victory speech. It keeps your muscles calibrated. Your eyes stay on the prize, as do your lips, ears, and of course you can taste it. What’s that? Victory. I’m talking about success. You need to give it voice, and often, like an incantation. Drink plenty of water, and use Throat Coat.

One day, you’re going to win, and you can’t be caught unawares. Mumble your victory speech while you’re washing your hands, using the sound of rushing water to muffle your voice, so no one can hear what you’re saying and steal it.

This is about you.

I can’t wait to hear your victory speech, just like you can’t wait to hear mine. Fuck. I can’t wait until we’re all winners. We all will win, together, but me first, because fuck you, and thanks mom, this one’s for the midwest.

And then I lick the trophy. I lick it so long it’s uncomfortable. Memes for days. My victory. Me.

All my best, forever. You make sense of it. Selah.

When You Think Your Neighbor is Running an Elaborate Methamphetamine Operation

First of all, don’t panic. Go over.

Watch a Thunder game on their big ass flat screen. Enjoy Salt & Vinegar potato chips—your favorite. It’s 4:00 in the afternoon on a weekday, and you ain’t got shit to do.

In the dining room there is a pool table. Play a game. Play two. Because you are already drunk—it is, in fact, why you knocked on the door—accept the offer of a drink.

“Here’s the trick,” your host says. “Here’s the secret.” He taps a tube of Crystal Light 10-calorie grape flavor powder into a rocks glass of vodka. He hands it to you. Drink it, you psycho. Drink two.

Maybe you mention the great hamburger you had the other day on lunch, at work, from a nearby local  business. You mostly love the onion rings, but you don’t mention this detail. By now,  you’re hearing from your neighbor how we run that place, we own it, that’s one of our places, we got a rent house out there. And you whiff your shot and drink your drink.

After pool, he offers to show you the basement—so you go into the basement, if only to confirm that there is no obvious meth lab here. Maybe it’s at the hamburger place, if it exists at all. Maybe they don’t make meth.

So you sort of allude back to the hamburger place on an unrelated basis as you leave the basement, alive. And then you hear how one week prior this boy’s uncle there who ran the place at the hamburger joint got shot. Shot at work, shot to death. That place has good onion rings. That place’s boss was shot to death. But you’ve been there, since. Postmortem. Didn’t catch a single hint. But damn if that place doesn’t still have some good onion rings.

Pickup trucks come by day and night. There are interlawn collusions with the neighbor one door over.

“My neighbor, I own his house,” you’ve heard, you recall. “He lives there because of me. He owes me.”

There’s a pause for stink-eye.

“Big time.”

When you think your neighbor is running an elaborate methamphetamine operation, say nothing. Do nothing. Inquire about and involve yourself in nothing. When the time comes, shriek “I knew it!!”

And then go steal that flat screen. Put the billiards table on a truck.

I just wanted to get home

I was leaving the Walgreen’s after work and shuffling down the sidewalk toward my car. I just wanted to get home. I didn’t have a bag with me for what I’d bought: two jugs of tea, and a sort of meat snack, bacon jerky. I was overzealous, declining a bag. As I walked, I dropped a tea. Two liters of Arizona Iced Arnold Palmer’s Half and Half Iced Tea & Lemonade Zero Calorie, cracked open at the seal and sideways, spilling out onto the sidewalk, pooling at the edge of some kid’s shoes. His mom was standing with him, looking at something else. I saved what I could of the tea. I mumbled “sorry.” I lurched out into the parking lot, having saved more than half of the tea. It was just beginning to rain.

When Is It Good to Drink Corona Light?

O, Corona.

Brewed and bottled by the Cerveceria Modelo Sociedad Anónima de Capital Variable, um, Corp, Corona is a beer with a lot of haters, a lot of faults, and a huge cultural cache. Like most macro-level beers, it is consumed and enjoyed both ironically and with sincerity in utterly massive volumes, with ironic adherents outnumbered, I would say, by a ratio of 200:1. By which I mean, the two hundred guys at the dusty bar you’re sitting in who all look like they’ve been carrying heavy shit around on some asshole’s orders all day each ordered Corona because they’re thirsty. You did it because you think you’re funny. Whatever! Everybody drink their Corona. No fighting.

Now then—Corona Light.

O, Corona Light.

O, oh, ohhh Corona Light. What is to be done with you? Who drinks you? Are you the market? That vanishingly small market of one that hates gluten but loves pee? Avoids calories, but likes skunk ass? People look at you, when you buy this. And I know this, because I did.

Here, as I sip the first of these—and let me be clear, I’ve had a lot of Corona, light and otherwise—here is a list of times when it is probably justified, through the lens of a broader, cultural sense, to consume Corona Light.

  1. You are dying of thirst in a literal way. Met with the miracle of two twin bottles poking their glass tops out of the sand, you find a Corona Light, and an Evil Twin Lil B. You must choose here the Corona Light, for water, hydration. The Evil Twin is ruined in this heat, anyway. Probably tastes like poison. Corona Light… does not, really.
  2. You are hosting an all-ages marathon of all the Fast & Furious movies, and don’t want the kids feeling left out.
  3. You have cancer, you’re dying, they bring it to you with your applesauce. You don’t even have any say in it. Life sucks.
  4. Dieting! New Me after NYE!
  5. You’ve already taken a handful of Doctor-prescribed chill pills and aren’t particularly trying to stop breathing suddenly while you’re de-stressing at home tonight, with a beer or two.

I can think of such little else.

Anyway, this list is only meant to reflect the culture. Hell, I bought the damn beer, and guess what? I ain’t scared of you motherfuckers. You can do anything you want in life.

youtube rabbit hole: More Bernie

A Story of Craig’s

The following is a Craiglist missed connection post hosted at this url. Its author is anonymous. It is reprinted herein boldly, and without permission, for it is just so beautiful. It touched me, truly, at some deep and inner point of sensitivity about my soul and essence, touched me in the space between my heart and legs. Craig kept the story in the annals of his listings, teetered on the edge of deletion. Here at SSz, We envision a better course for the world. We see another destiny. There is beauty to this story. It must be set free.

The story is called…

Last Night At A Table For Two – m4w

I asked to talk to you, there was something I had to get off my chest.

I asked to meet you at a local café after work. By the time I got there, you were already seated at a small table set for two, sipping a mug of hot chocolate. I know I looked like crap. I hadn’t slept well in over a week, and hadn’t eaten for almost four days. My eyes were swollen from crying. And yet there you were, as beautiful as ever. Your dark hair was in a ponytail, you were visibly shaking from the cold air outside, and you had been picking at a place on your chin. But it didn’t bother me. It just reminded me how real you were, and it was part of why I loved you so much.

I sat down and you immediately asked if I was ok. Your dark eyes, that I had gotten lost in countless times before, were filled with concern.

“Yeah,” I lied, “there is just something I need to tell you.” I saw you tense up. You never did like talking about emotional things.

“Listen, I love you—” I started off, but a lump got caught in my throat. I knew about him. I knew that those long hours you spent not texting me back, you were with him. I never knew what you were doing, and I’m not sure I want to know, but my mind made up stories for me. I imagined him kissing you and slapping your ass, treating you like a piece of property instead of the amazing woman I know you are.

“It’s just… I don’t think I can do this anymore.”

I looked up and I could see the hurt in your eyes. I had tried my best to give you all you ever needed or wanted. I helped you pay for college, so you could realize your dream. I refrained from sex with you, because I was so afraid you would get pregnant, and lose your dream. I gave you massages, and went down on you, because I knew you were stressing and needed some form of release.

But he was still there.

You told me he was just an ex—that all he did was make you mad. I tried everything to make you happy. Flowers, candy, goofy little gifts, just because I love you. And yet there he was, still. And it tore me apart every time.

I could make you laugh when you were sad, and make you scream with my head beneath the sheets, yet you would always run to him.

I tried to reason with myself. It wasn’t a big deal, she knows I love her more than life itself. But you didn’t know—when you were with him, all I could think was, why am I not good enough? You are so perfect, literally the girl of my dreams, and I have tried so hard to be the perfect man for you, because that’s what you deserve. But, I guess my best will never be good enough. I never really had a chance.

I told you how I felt, and you cried and held my hand. I knew my words had hurt you, I’d always hoped that deep down inside you really did love me. I couldn’t stand the thought of hurting you, so I stood up to leave. As I got close to the door, you cried out my name. “Please don’t go.” With fresh tears on my face, I walked out the door, never to see your beautiful smiling face ever again.

The last thing I remember as the warm blood flowed from the artery in my neck, was how I wish I could have held you in my arms one last time. I blindly grabbed for the picture frame that held the picture of our first date. We seemed so happy as we held each other in that photo booth. Soon my vision blurred, and the thought of you faded to nothing but a memory, to be lost forever, as the world grew dark, and the pain disappeared.

Celestial Seasonings

I’m asking gently for a sponsorship. A SCHOLARSHIP.

I don’t know teas, @celestialseasonings.

My life has been spent on 60s drugs and Marvel comics. Hip-hop, soul, and Russian lit. I don’t know a damn thing, Lord. 

Show me the way of the tea.

I’m just so tired of the soda. I’m sick of the sickly-sweet. Bring me into herbal shelter. Envelop me in herbal grace.

I’m brewing a liter of passion peach, and a half measure of blueberry… they’ve served me well in times past, times of crisis, times like this.

Tea is for me, m’lord. Tea is for me.