Forty-hour work weeks. Thirteen credit hour semester, averaging two hours of homework per hour each week equals approximately thirty-nine hour school weeks. I’m not getting much writing done at all these days. Or drawing. Or guitar-playing. Or exercising. Or reading. So long as there’s time for Doctor Who and Spongebob, what else does a diabetic war veteran need?
Also, I’m really depressed that Writing Advice is gone.
If I could have lunch with Edward Norton,
We would eat sushi like it was going out of style.
We’d talk about his projects,
Our hopes and dreams,
Then we’d write a new movie for fun.
After all this, we would get some more sushi,
Because no sushi is ever enough.
If I could have coffee with Dr. Seuss,
I couldn’t tell you how great it would be.
We’d drink coffee all day,
We’d talk and we’d rhyme,
Then philosophize openly.
Once we were done we would heave a great sigh,
Then we’d drink some more coffee. Duh.
If I could jam with John Fogerty,
He’d be cool with the fact I’m still learning.
He’d give me some hints,
We’d play for a while,
Then we’d make the best record on earth.
After all this, I’d sit back and enjoy,
Because Fogerty makes my ears smile.
If I could just speak with Neil Gaiman,
It would come out something like this:
“Blerg flambdee bugaga … Shwee!”
I’d drool just a bit,
My eyes would dilate,
And he’d be concerned with my mental faculty.
If I could just meet Neil Gaiman …
Several days in to adjusting myself to the Uberman Sleep Schedule, and I’m kind of hating everything that is not coffee at this moment. I’m not accomplishing anything even remotely close to work right now, haven’t been able to focus enough to read, but I have been watching a shit-ton of 1000 Ways to Die. My eyelids are growing heavy, my mind is fuzzy, and the yawning just never stops. I’m over halfway there, so I can’t give it up, but I would beat an old lady with a stick for a few hours of sleep.
I know I’ve been out of the game for a few days, lately. I have been writing, and I have been working. I’ve got a couple of projects going right now. On account of school starting back in two weeks, a likely increase in my hours at work, as well as these new projects, I’m attempting a little experiment with the Uberman Sleep Schedule. My chances of success are not high, but I could definitely use a good twenty-two hours a day in the coming months. If it works, then I solely rely on my discipline to get my shit rolling. Wish me luck.
Clarence Eats Breakfast
Clarence Karrale pushed down the navy cover, waited thirty-one point eight seconds, and removed the sky blue sheets from atop his body. He looked at his toes, noting for the second time this week that his second toe was longer than his big toe, as they wiggled furiously for socks. He considered the argyle socks, but decided to go ahead and wear his gold-toes today.
While looking for an outfit for the day, Clarence was dejected to see that his favorite khakis did not, in fact, wash themselves as he slept. Shrugging, he put on the pair that looked the same, but felt just a tad bit different. Then Clarence slipped on his white t-shirt,followed by his blue-and-white striped button-up. Clarence sighed happily, fidgeted mildly, then headed towards the kitchen.
Opening the cabinet over the fridge, Clarence found only two boxes of largely cinnamon-based cereals and half a can of oats. He opened the fridge to find his individually wrapped pizza slices from the night before, an orange, half a gallon of milk, one bottle of water, and a mostly empty bottle of ketchup. Clarence closed the refrigerator, turned to the cabinet over the oven, and pulled out a box of pancake mix. He poured one cup of mix in to a bowl, cracked one egg and poured the contents in, then mixed in one cup of water and a cup of vegetable oil. Clarence made his pancakes.
After smothering butter over his pancakes, Clarence ate them. They were warm and fluffy, felt warm going down his throat, and ended up being quite filling. Clarence put his plate and fork in the dishwasher, rinsed and washed the pan used to cook the pancakes, fidgeted one more time, then said, “Let’s do this.”
James played guitar in inns ‘round the country,
Leaving his pockets the far side of empty.
For months at a time, he would be on the road,
Singing his songs, meticulously playing each note.
Playing one night in the city Cantarthia,
He was two thousand miles from his fiance, Daria.
Cantarthia was a miserable place,
Hopeless and sad were the looks on each face.
After playing that night, James decided to stay,
Thinking the citizens could stand one more day.
Not much is known about that last night he played,
Whatever happened, his wits were definitely frayed.
Making his way back to Daria in Lordstown,
James had a sort of psychotic breakdown.
Singing a song about his travels abroad,
He expected this particular group to applaud.
When they merely harrumphed and went back to their drink,
James said under his breath, “Time to quit this job, I think.”
He broke the body of his guitar over the nearest lout,
Then began to laugh, and savagely shout.
“I’ve been playing for years in this damn nation,
Making plans with my love for some appreciation!
You bastards have taken my very last nerve,
My anger and frustration is no longer reserve!”
The befuddled group tried to calm the man down,
‘til finally the local sheriff came ‘round.
James has been in jail since that very day,
And back to Daria, he will never make way.
Three years later, Daria is happily married,
Not recalling the name of the man whose baby she carried.
Following a lead on a killer in Sloan,
Rode out one day, Sheriff Ron Stone.
He was sent a letter at his office in Dover,
With a note simply stating, “Please come right over.”
Not much was known about the villain he sought,
But the townspeople all, with fear they were fraught.
Sheriff Ron Stone rode in to town,
Put forth some queries, jotted all down.
His questions all led him to a small little shack
With a small little room with stairs in the back.
He unholstered his pistol and slowly went down,
And in to the darkness he peered all around.
Unable to see, he pulled out a light,
And suddenly wished that things weren’t quite so bright.
All over the ground were carcasses bloodied,
Turning the dirt ‘neath his feet all sorts of muddy.
Upon further inspection he saw in a corner
A white envelope, a request: Butcher’s Order.
The flesh had been stripped from many a bone,
And, queasy, he knew where it all had gone.
Turning around to empty his gut,
He saw at the stairs a young lad and his mutt.
The boy saw the man and went white as a ghost,
Then ran away, fast enough he could boast.
Stone tried to chase him, but lost his cool nerve,
And swore never again his community to serve.
This single day was so full of horror,
He told himself he could take it no more.
The sheriff left town and drifted away,
And no one has seen him since that last day.
A long time ago was a man out in Dyer
Who fancied himself a burglar for hire.
Without a concern, he’d rob and he’d pillage:
There were times Fred would take all of a village.
One day Fred was hired by a loathsome old man,
To steal from his ex-wife all that Fred can.
Fred went to the house where the old woman sat,
Day after day in her weathered old hat.
Edna was obliviously staring out a window,
So Fred started his job, moving cautiously; slow.
He stuffed his large pockets with diamonds and jewels,
And started grabbing things looked over only by fools.
Soon there was little left, save furniture and clothes,
Plus a withered old cat with a very wet nose.
Fred said, “What the hell, the man said take it all.”
So he beckoned the cat with an onerous call.
The cat crept ‘cross the floor and in to the hall,
And about this time Fred saw the lady noticed it all.
Fred looked from her slippers to her old weathered hat,
And noticed the pistol in three seconds flat.
If only he hadn’t noticed the old pistol last,
Hey may have lived longer than the gun’s loud blast.
I can not find
A single word.
I am not blocked,
Merely unheard.
I could write a lot
Of little things
That really don’t
Mean anything.
I write for hours,
Attain nothing,
But keep going
To see what it brings.
Some days I want
To write a book,
To write a poem,
To have a look.
I want to see
The worlds inside;
The ones I create,
The ones that hide.
I don’t care
How it looks today,
I’m more concerned
With how I play
With every word
And every form;
These new constructs:
A coming storm.
The Terrible Tyrant’s Tasty Tostitos
So no shit, there I was, balls deep in my own sweat and grime, riding through the back roads of Iraq in the back of a Stryker. We were essentially just doing a presence patrol to scare insurgents away from attacking the local populace. We had been shot at no less than ten times on this mission alone.
As we were going, the tactical commander of my truck decided it was best to pull off alone on the side of the road for a quick pit stop. As we were the last vehicle in the convoy, all of the other guys drove away while we were just sitting there, the TC taking a piss on the side of the vic.
I stepped out the back to have a smoke when a bullet whizzed right by my ear, lodging in the back of our vehicle. Pissed off, I started returning fire about the same time twenty insurgents jump out of the bushes right by us. I mowed down twelve of them in no time before my gun jammed. Knowing I didn’t have time to fix the issue, I pulled out my trusty KA-BAR with the eight inch blade. As I was running towards the enemy, they shot my TC in the leg.
And that’s when I got mad.
I uttered my ferocious war cry and threw my knife at the nearest guy where it caught him in the eye. I charged forward, pulling the knife out along with the guy’s baby blue and started cutting the hell out of everyone around me. Before I knew it, eight more bad guys were scattered in pieces around me.
I thought it was a big group to be laying an ambush out in the middle of nowhere, so I pulled out my 9 mil and started doing some searching around. Before I knew it, I stumbled across a metal hatch in the ground. Not one to ignore the little things, I yanked the hatch open, only to come face to face with a hairy, disheveled man. I thought he looked familiar, and wouldn’t you know it? It was none other than Saddam Hussein himself.
Well, needless to say, I zip tied the bastard’s hands together and threw him in the back of the Stryker. I put a tourniquet on the TC’s leg since our CLS guy screwed that up, and we were ready to roll.
As we were heading back to our convoy, I tried to strike up a conversation with our captive in an attempt to find out why he did the things he had done; a bit of an interrogation before someone else fucked that one up, too. For the longest time, the man wouldn’t say two words to me, so I decided we would just roll on in silence.
We finally linked back up with our other guys and decided the patrol should come to a close so we could take the prisoner back before shit got real. But on the way back to base, ol’ Saddam threw me for a loop. He eventually turns to me and says, “Do you have any Tostitos? They’re my favorite snack.” No shit, true story. So I pulled out a bag of Tostitos I just happened to be carrying, and I finally got the man to open up to me. Of course I can’t tell you the things we talked about. That’s classified information. But the most terrible tyrant of our time was finally captured and all he wanted was some god damned Tostitos. I’ll be damned.
They tried to put me in for some award or another that day, but I turned it down, as I’m sure you would have. I mean hell. I was just doing my job.
