It is who I am

I have been on this Earth, during this episode of existence, for over 11,000 days so far. I am hoping to go another 11,000. A lot of people like to measure their own mortality in years, giving into the idea that the concept of "age" really exists. I have shunned such thought (albeit logical) for a more radical outlook on personal growth. I have never bought into the notion that your age matters, but instead, it is the experience and your interpretation of those experiences that matter. Age is just a way for us to try and measure someone’s life in a comprehensible way, a way that makes sense to us. People always ask each other, "hey, how old are you?" Regardless of the answer, what does it really tell you about the person? NOTHING!!!! Telling someone my age does not given them any insight into me as a human besides the fact that I have survived this long. I know some 18 year olds that are more mature and serious than a lot of 30 year olds; some 30 year olds more mature than 50 year olds. I am sure we all do, and that has really been the sticking point for me to think of myself, and others, in terms of days, not year. Every day is a new experience. Every day is a chance to learn something, to evolve, to become a better person. Not every year, EVERY DAY. If more people took the time to slow down life and see that we all are just living in a collection of moments then it is of this humble opinion that people would be generally happier, more content and more satisfied with what they DO have instead of what they DON'T have. It sounds very hokey, but live for the moment. Life is fleeting.

You wake up one day and someone you love is gone. Do you think about how old you are at that moment or do you begin to reflect upon fond experiences you had with that person???? Age does not matter; how a person makes you feel does. Call me crazy (and a lot of people do) but if we treated each day with a passion for betterment of self and society, with a thirst for experience (good and bad) and with a desire to make tomorrow brighter for everyone, would the world not be a stronger, more harmonious place??? Of course, this utopian outlook is usually called foolish, impossible and downright hippy-ish. But just for a second consider it. Consider if people were no longer stigmatized by age, but instead what they know. Consider if people were encouraged to give back, instead of take. Consider if people forgot about time and ALWAYS just enjoyed the moment.

We are all we have done, all we have felt and all we have thought and that is all we are.

That Spirit of Christmas

Look around!!!! Did you lose it??? Have you found it??? Want some help????

It isn’t about presents, or food, or decorations or music. It isn’t about what you do or do not get. And it certainly isn’t about YOU.

It is about the Christmas Spirit, and nothing else. But what exactly embodies that spirit??? In a simple, but loaded word that holds different meaning to us all, LOVE.

Love for the family you only see around the holiday times. You know they love you, you know you love them. Nothing else really matters

Love for traditions and family “rituals.” Whether it is singing the “Chipmunk Song” with your sibling on the edge of your parents bed every Christmas morning or embarking to the same destination for Christmas dinner every year, it is that perpetual familiarity that we all reminisce about, and as we get older, long for.

Love for the wonder, innocence and imagination of kids. They believe in Santa. They love to sing simple songs like Rudolph. They can get more excited over an inexpensive plastic car that makes noises than any adult can for anything at that point in the season.

Love for the generosity of adults. In my parents house they had to build an addition just to be able to have enough space to keep all the gifts my mother buys. I am sure she is not alone in this notion of trying to appease and please everyone with the gifts they want. It is the ultimate form of unselfishness, and something more people should replicate.

Love for surprises, good conversation and even better laughter. When I was young, it was the enjoyment of hanging out with my cousins, looking out the window for Santa or sitting at the “kids” table. Now, nothing could take the place of seeing your family all in the same spot, sharing stories, cracking jokes and reflecting on the Christmases past while laying the foundation of “family” for the Christmases in the future.

Love for embracing sadness and creating happiness. There are people we have loved and lost, and, at the holidays, we always remember them more. That is good for the soul, even if it is accompanied by tears. And as we lose people to the inevitability of life, we continue to watch as our families fill in those gaps with news faces that stem from marriages and births. The cycle of life always continues, and Christmas reminds us of that.

Love for the hope of better and brighter days to come. Christmas is a time of renewal and rebirth. It is a chance to reflect on the years journey, and an opportunity to prepare for the days ahead. It is a reminder that as one year closes, a new one has just begun (Thank You John and Yoko).

So, as the late, great Ray Charles said, lets keep the true Spirit of Christmas with us, “ALL THROUGH THE YEAR.”

Read, Write, Think

Many, many moons ago, when my hair still lived above the bottom of my ears, I resided in Gretna, Louisiana; right across the river from the French Quarter in New Orleans. It used to be a 10 minute drive, at most, to possibly the biggest party spot in the entire U.S. Quite an amazing and inviting back yard for a bunch of 22 year olds. It was very easy to get lost in that laid back southern lifestyle. By the time I came home my hair was entering its current hippie-ish like state, I traded bandanas for kangols and I could not stop using the phrase ya'll ( to be accurate, I still find myself using this particular phrase). Those months spent in the South will always be some of the fondest of my life. And not because we lived right near a party so immense that it lasts 2 whole weeks, although that was very cool.

Now, there is many things I remember about that trip, and, interestingly enough, many things I do not. Certain moments are a little more hazy and vague than others, but there are also those moments that are as clear as day. Like when we literally took an entire street sign, post and all, loaded in our SUV and brought it back to our condo. I was never quite sure why we took it, but I can never forget going over the Mississippi River Bridge with a street sign pole hanging out the window. Classic!

The inspiration for this reflection comes from the fact that this upcoming Tuesday is Fat Tuesday and my friends are making the joyous journey back to New Orleans for some pure southern fun that, in this humble opinion, the whole world should experience at least once. Most of the travelers are first timers. But there is a wise Prof Thug Nug (finally got this hyperlink thing down) going on the trek and he will be able to show the others the correct partying path. Without question, fun will be had by all.

When I was living in Gretna, I told my roommates that instead of wasting the remaining days I had left partying day/night I would rather , READ WRITE THINK. This was met with laughter that is still heard today. It was an absurd notion that those three things were going to be able to be accomplished while living in such a lively city. I tried my best to do all three, although the time I fell asleep on the porch probably is a good example of occasional failures. I read a Hesse novel. I did write in notebooks, about what I read as well as any and all topics. Every now and then I stumble across those literary "gems"and read what I wrote. I kind of laugh at myself because it truly is so funny how at 22 I thought I had a good idea about how life would go. I thought I knew exactly where I would be when I was 31. I wrote about emotions that I thought I completely understood, and made philosophical assumptions without true experience. I did think. In fact, I did this more than anything else. I went on walks by the river, would sit on a bench for an hour or so and just watch people walk by. I thought about a lot of things. Some way more than others. I thought about my mother having breast cancer, I thought about my father man-ing up like always to deal with it, I thought about my brother and sister and the 2 beautiful twins they were about to have. I thought about my life, what would I do, who would I love, where would I live. The crazy part is the life I have is not even close to the life I imagined during those contemplative days. NOT EVEN CLOSE!!!! The life I lead is exponentially better than what my emotionally/spiritually feeble 22 year old mind could come up with. At that youthful age I could not mentally construct a vision of the future that took into account all the twists/turns, love/loss that would come to embody my own existence. But really, at 22, who can.

We all change. Acceptance of that fact makes a lot of things easier.

But something that has not changed is that I have not stopped reading, writing and thinking. I do it in different forms now, with different people in different ways, but I still do them all with the same passion I had as that young man with short hair stuffed underneath a baby blue kangol. I like to think that I have gotten smarter, we all do. But in reality, it is not smarter we get, it is only more experienced, wiser. Are You Experienced????

Thinking about New Orleans and writing about it so that other people can read about it...wow...circle!!!

Thank Ya'll for reading, come back now ya'hear!!!!

The Arnold Palmer 3

Steve slammed his fist against the railing, and instantly regretted his decision as his pinky finger stung with pain.

"Idiot," he muttered as he put his finger to his mouth and kiss-sucked on it to ease the pain. It was a habit he picked up at 7 years old, the first time he stubbed his finger on a basketball.

The elevator continued upward. Steve's mind berated him with a singular question, over and over: "Why did you come back here?"

"I don't fucking know," he sighed.

The doors opened and he stepped forward. As he put pressure on his foot, the pain was almost unbearable. Was a broken toe supposed to hurt this much? Maybe he broke his entire foot? It sure felt like it.

He decided to risk the embarrassment of any remaining employees seeing him and hopped his way to his office. He got to his door, opened it, and hopped to the couch in his office. He had never used the grey eyesore in the 3 years he worked there. It was a left-over from Paul, the guy who had Steve's job before he decided to take a swim in the Hudson River, after he dove off the George Washington Bridge, of course. He hated the couch, but right now he was glad he never had it removed. He plopped down on it, put his legs up on the armrests, and let out a loud sigh.

He wanted to take off his shoe and sock to look at his toe, but he was hesitant. His foot was throbbing like speakers at a rave, and he was a little scared to see what it looked like. Plus, what if he took off his shoe and couldn't get it back on?

He shut his eyes and tried not to think of the worst. Maybe he could get worker's comp out of this? Of course, that would require him telling people this story, and that wasn't happening. Besides, he wasn't on company grounds, and it was somewhat his fault. Ok, it was entirely his fault, but he shouldn't have to pay for it. Maybe he could say he fell inside the building? If he crafted a decent story and stuck with it, nobody would be the wiser.

Except he had a way of getting caught in every lie he ever told. Ever. A life of crime was not for him. His friends and family knew him as one of the most honest people in the world. He appreciated the thought, but the only reason he was so honest was because he knew he'd get caught otherwise. He was practical and realistic more than anything else.

And as a practical realist, he knew he had to get his toe looked at by a professional. These things didn't just "get better".

But he was so tired all of a sudden. The pain was draining him of all energy. A little nap wouldn't hurt. Five minutes was all he needed, then he'd mail that damn letter and drive himself home. He'd go to the hospital first thing in the morning. Right now he needed a nap, and tonight, he needed that Arnold Palmer.

He envisioned ice cubes swirling around in a light brownish liquid, the sugar from the iced tea and lemonade mixing perfectly with the vodka to create the refreshing taste of a summer breeze by the ocean.

That was going to taste good. He drifted off with a smile on his face.



"Ahhhhhhhh! Dammit!" Steve shot up straight on the couch and screamed as his foot hit the ground. In his sleep, he had turned over on his side, causing his legs to fall off the armrests.

"Dammit!" He yelled, reaching down to his foot.

He was still a little out of it from his nap. It took him a few seconds to recall everything that happened, and when it all came back, a wave of depression washed over him. He envisioned the future hospital bill, the constant pain and discomfort for the next few weeks, the awkwardness of walking in a cast on crutches, the inevitable conversations with every single person in his life about what happened.

"Dammit."

He got to his knees and crawled to his desk. He felt moronic, but it was easier than hopping. Besides, hopping around was equally moronic. He reached his desk and pulled himself up so he could rest his elbows on its surface. He looked at the small clock on his desk.

It read 8:30.

"8:30!"

Had he really been asleep for that long? How was that possible?

He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. Its screen read 8:29.

"Well, that's much better."

He pulled himself up on one foot. He needed to get the damn letter and get home. CSI was coming on soon, and that Arnold Palmer wasn't drinking itself.

He reached for the envelope.

Which wasn't where he left it.

Of course.


-end part 3

I Love You All...Class Dismissed.

First Rays of a New Rising Sun

               
Welcome to Wild World of the Weedle, where "peace" and "chaos" live happily in harmony. It is a pleasure to be able to write alongside such literary geniuses as the Prof. Thug-Nug and the unpredictable and infallible doggie, Stoned Willy Poonhound. What a blog this will be!!!!!!!


A "wise" person once told me that in order to change the world, you going to have to start from your corner. Consider this blog part of that corner. As has been written in the past, this blog will contain humor, fictitious stories, factual stories, music, art, feelings, emotions and a whole slew of truthiness about the realities of our lives and how we have perceived those experiences. It’s like a literary jambalaya for your souls and minds. Chicken Soup ain't got shit on the Weedle!!!!!!

 
All three of us have our own styles of writing, and all three styles are unique to our personalities. I know how I write. I know what I like to talk about and how I like to say things, in the same way that Prof. Thugalicious knows how he writes, and what he likes to write about. All three of us are different in that respect, BUT at the end of the day we all have the same goals in mind: to make our readers look at the world a little different, experience things a little differently and encourage others to read write and think (well at least me and the Prof want those things, that poonhound only got two goals on his mind, one rhymes with hugs the other with moon). As we throw more and more words onto these pages, I hope that people gain a greater insight into who we are, where we are from, what we think and how the mind of the Weedle works.


So, let’s begin this new day on this new blog!


Flashback 2001 - University of Connecticut


I woke up this morning, just like any other morning. Translation: I stayed in my bed until I was forcefully woken up by one of my three roommates at the time. That was how my college days living at E9 went. Schedule classes for late mornings, early afternoons and wake up when I liked and went to bed whenever. But this day was different. This day had a bad vibe from the onset. As I lay in my bed, damning the sun from shining through my window, my roommate Geoff came in the room with a look of concern on his face. He said something like, "Yo, there is some crazy shit happening right now." Half asleep, I am completely confused. He walks over to my TV, turns it on and changes the channel from its semi=permanent state of being on ESPN to the local news channel. After wiping the sleep from my eyes I began to see why he was so concerned. Right there on my little 13 inch TV I saw one of the Twin Towers with a big hole in it, on fire. WTF!!!!! As we both sat there watching, for a good ten minutes, all of a sudden we see the OTHER tower catching on fire. Oh Shit!!!!! We had no clue the who, what and why of the situation. All we knew is that we were looking at two of the most iconic buildings in the World, set on fire and in a state of emergency. It did not come out right away what exactly was happening so, I took my shower and, begrudgidly, went to class. I would have stayed home all day watching TV because I am a news whore when it comes to, well, anything of worldly importance. But instead I made the trek to my Amer. Lit. class. That is when things really started to hit home about the reality of what was happening. Once I am in class, a girl that sat about 4 seats away from me was crying her eyes out. The teacher walked in, took her out in the hall real quick to talk, then came back in alone. Our teacher told us that he sent the student home. We weren’t sure why she got to go back to her dorm, but we were still stuck in class. In that instance he explained to us why. He said that our classmate’s brother worked at the Twin Towers and she had no clue if he was okay. Instantly, that jealousy I had towards that student for getting to leave class early disappeared. She was now dealing with something that none of us had any clue how we would react to. She did not come back to that class that day, or ever. I never saw her again and I have always wondered what happened to her and her family. I am not sure f her brother got out, or if he was one of the fallen heroes in that tragic event. Either way I know that her and her family would never be the same. What I did not realize at the time was that I and everyone I knew would never be the same either.

 

UConn cancelled classes the rest of the day, which, if you have ever been to UConn, you know that is unheard of (unless we won the National Championship in Men’s basketball, UConn women get no love on campus.) I went back to my apartment and spent the rest of the day glued to the TV, trying to make sense of what was happening, and why, and how. No answers came that day, and some still have never been answered. Sports were cancelled. News stations only carried news about the Towers. Even the sports machine ESPN turned into CNN for the rest of the day. There were no highlights of Bonds hitting homeruns, just saddened sportscasters trying to figure out this mess just like the rest of us. As the towers crumbled into dust I could almost hear America, as a whole, crying. We had friends that called us up just to tell us that they loved us. I remember one friend who called and talked to all four of us living in our apartment because he just wanted to make sure we knew that he cared and truly hoped that this evilness he was witnessing would never touch any of us. It was pure and it was real, something Americans seem to lack more often than not. We should not wait till tragedy strikes to tell the ones we care for how much we love them in our lives. Do it every day, every chance because life is fleeting.

 

The fragileness and delicateness of life was one of the major lessons I took from that unparallel tragedy. Here I am, almost eleven years later, and I feel the need to write about it because those feelings I had that day have never left me and I am pretty sure they have not left ANYONE who is old enough to remember the impact it had on the nation. September 12th, 2001 was the first day of a new America, a New World. It was a chance for people to be better, to be nicer, to embrace differences more and work to make the world more harmonious. It was a new start for not only America, but the World. If we, as humans, harnessed that emotion we felt while watching the Towers fall everyday in our lives I like to think that we would be better towards one another. I like to think that if we rode that way of loving, positive nature we would be living in a world with less "haters" and more "lovers." But of all those things that I like to think about, of all those things that world could make the world better I still find myself thinking most about one single moment:

 

Did that girl from my class ever get to see her brother again????

 

Spread Love, Spread Peace

A New Day

Mobb Deep - The Start of Your Ending

Hello you beautiful people. As you probably noticed, there have been a few changes to the blog. It was a great run for Of Intersections and Strange Things Told, but the time has come for a new blog to emerge. 

It was only a matter of time that Spoven Weedle Presents... took over the internet. 

If you've been paying attention to the blog for the past year, you know a little bit about SWP. You may even recall that my partner-in-weedle actually had a blog called Spoven Weedle Presents... However, we decided that we should merge our creative forces, since that was the basis of SWP in the first place. 

So there will be three authors to this blog: myself (Prof Thug); Nick Jake; and the hound, the myth, the legend, Stoned Willy Poonhound. It's the Holy Trinity, the foundation of SWP. 

Not too much will change, except for the amount of awesomeness. You'll still read my random thoughts and stories, you'll still be treated to the words of wisdom from Stoned Willy, and now you'll also be privy to the mental musings of the other founder of SWP, Nick Jake. 

I hope you enjoy the new layout and continue to enjoy my ramblings. I sincerely appreciate anybody taking the time to read this crap in the midst of the literally millions of other things you could be reading.

I Love You All...Class Disissed.

The Arnold Palmer 2

Steve's toe was throbbing. He had never broken a bone, but he knew for certain he had just broken his big toe.

Looks like a percocet will be going along with that Arnold Palmer.

He hobbled back to his office building, contemplating whether he should even bother going back for the letter. That goddamn letter was the cause of all this. He should just forget it and slip it in the mail early Monday morning.

But some sense of duty or morality, or fear of his boss (despite the man's senility and high pitched voice, he still had a wiry strength beneath his wrinkled exterior and a menacing stare that haunted Steve at night) caused him to open the door to his building and hop to the elevators.

He waited for what he swore was longer than any stupid frickin elevator had ever taken since the sons of bitchin things were invented and finally stepped in as the doors opened. He pushed the "4" and immediately dropped to the floor in agony.

He took off the shoe and sock on his right foot. His big toe was now an even bigger toe, and it seemed to be pointing a little more to the left than usual. He gently touched the base of the toe and winced as pain shot through his whole foot.

The elevator stopped and the doors opened to his floor. He grabbed his sock and shoe and attempted to stand up. Before he could get to his feet, the doors closed. He reached for the "open door" button but the elevator already started downward.

Dammit.

Somebody downstairs must have pushed the button. Now he'd have to ride back up with another body in the cramped space of the elevator. He gingerly put his sock back on and put his foot into his shoe. He grabbed the railing on the wall and slowly pulled himself up. The pain increased.

The elevator stopped and the doors opened to reveal the building's custodian. He was a young man, nice enough, but very introverted. As usual he was wearing earbuds listening to some kind of music at a level that was completely unnecessary for a club, never mind for headphones.

Steve managed a slight smile that must have looked like he was biting his lip, because he was. The young custodian nodded in his direction and looked back down at the giant industrial sized vacuum cleaner he was pushing.

He shoved the vacuum into the elevator, maneuvering it around Steve's feet, but not quite enough, bumping the broken toe with the edge of the machine.

Steve bit down a little harder on his lip, tasting blood.

"Sorry, dude" the custodian mumbled.

"No problem," Steve replied in an unusually high pitched squeak.

The custodian pressed the "2" button and the elevator lunged upwards.

After a slow, jerky ride with unbearably awkward silence (basically, a typical elevator ride) they finally reached the second floor. The young man pushed the vacuum forward, this time missing Steve's swollen foot, and walked into the hallway.

The doors closed and Steve let out a loud groan. He reached down to grab his foot. It didn't do him any good, but it was an instinctual reaction that somehow soothed him slightly. He massaged his shoe for a moment then realized the elevator was not moving. He hadn't pressed the button for his floor.

He reached for the panel of buttons and felt the elevator start downward.

"Oh come on!"

He pushed the "4" button so he wouldn't forget, and leaned back on the elevator wall as the metal cage eased downward on its cables.

The doors opened on the ground floor to reveal a young brunette woman. Her arms were crossing her body, carrying a stack of papers and folders. A rung of keys hung from her hand.

This must be the new employee on the third floor that all the guys were talking about, Steve thought. He had been so busy in the past few weeks he hadn't even seen her yet. She was not as pretty as most of the guys said (then again most of the guys in the office were married and much older so any young woman in their presence was considered a goddess) but she was prettier than he had imagined. What was she doing here at this hour?

She smiled at him and stepped in the elevator. He attempted his best smile but was sure he looked like he was suppressing gas.

She turned toward the panel of buttons and pressed the "2". As she did, her keys fell onto the floor.

"Oops" she uttered, clenching her papers tightly to her chest.

They both looked at the keys, then each other, then back at the keys.

Clearly Steve was expected to pick up the keys in this situation, and normally he would not have hesitated. In fact, he would have offered to help with her things as soon as she got in if not for his throbbing appendage. (Usually, a throbbing appendage is the reason guys offer to help an attractive woman, but this was not a typical situation.)

Instead, he stepped towards the keys and cringed as his toe sent shock waves of pain up his leg. He stopped in his place and held on to the railing with both hands.

The silence filled the small space, and for Steve, lasted an eternity.

The young woman took a last exasperated look at Steve and bent down to pick up her keys. As she did, some of her papers fell to the floor.

Steve groaned to himself. He tried to move again, but the pain was too much. He wanted to explain himself to the woman. She'd understand. He just couldn't get the words out. The pain had erased his ability to form a coherent sentence.

By the time words started to form in his mouth, the doors had opened, all of the papers and keys were in her hands, and she was out the door. He couldn't see it, but he knew she had a look of disgust on her face.

"Toe...mm-broke!' He sputtered as the doors closed.

Dammit!

He really needed that Arnold Palmer.

-end pt. 2

I Love You All...Class Dismissed.

Are You There God? It's Me, Randomness

I just saw this article description on CNN News: "Believe it or not, it’s been nearly 43 years since “Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret'"... I was going to write a random post tonight about whatever came to my head, and a few weeks back I decided I should do a post about some of my earliest reading experiences, specifically "Are You There, God, It's Me Margaret", by the most banned author in America, Judy Blume. So I took those two semi-formed thoughts, along with the random viewing of an online article, and combined them to create an introduction to a post for a blog titled, "Of Intersections and Strange Things Told" because I thought it was fitting.

And here we are.

I remember reading the book at an early age, maybe 11 or 12. Definitely in middle school or even younger. I remember that it was well written and that I really cared about the characters. Blume was one of my favorite writers as a kid. Like the best children's and young adult authors, they seem to remember what it's like to be in the age group they are targeting and they treat kids as competent individuals, unlike most adults.What I remember most, however, is Margaret dealing with puberty and having her first period. Here I was, just going though puberty myself, and a main character in a major novel was going through the same things, albeit in a much bloodier and disgusting manner.

I was lucky as a kid. In Hartford we got health class/sex ed in 6th grade. I had this giant, looming male sex ed teacher who taught us everything, so I was exposed to reality at a young age. I think more kids should be taught about the realities of life at an earlier age. I know it was a huge benefit for me; I wasn't lost in the world. Why do so many people think that hiding reality of the world from kids is the best way to prepare them for the world? Anyway, while reading the book, I wasn't disgusted by the descriptions or confused by the subject matter or anything like that; I simply related (very deeply) to this young girl going through the most traumatic time of every person's life. One scene that clearly sticks out is Margaret stretching her chest in and out, repeating to herself, "I must, I must, I must increase my bust!" There were so many emotions running through me while reading that. There was the young, hormone-crazed boy fantasizing about a pretty girl and her breasts; there was the young pre-teen, trying to figure life out for himself, sympathizing with this poor girl, knowing exactly how she felt as she wished for a certain part of her anatomy to grow just the slightest bit; there was the still somewhat-religious, overly-guilty Catholic side of me that felt bad for having such an intimate look into this girl's life; and there was the lover of language, marveling at the fact that words on a page could make me feel so much. 

Mostly I remember her breasts.

Honestly, though, it was just a really good book that made me feel like I wasn't alone in the world and that what I was going through actually mattered.

Many years after I read it, somebody mentioned the book, and I said I read it in middle school. She seemed very surprised and asked if I wasn't "weirded out" by all the "period talk." At the time of the discussion, I hardly recalled the "period talk" and I only remembered that it was an amazingly real and awesome coming-of-age story (and the breasts scene).

So yeah, I've been influenced by reading since I was able to do it, and I encourage people to read as much as possible. Literally as much as possible. There is so much good material out there to read (and listen to and watch) that you should be constantly eye-gobbling it all up. Yes, you should be exercising and eating right and carrying on meaningful relationships yadda yadda, but you should also be taking in as much information and differing perspectives and art as possible. It's awesome, I swear.

Create, too. The best (and most important) part of taking in all the information and opinions and entertainment that you can is creating something in return. Creating something is one of the best feelings in the world. And when you start creating things, you'll have times when you feel like it's not even you doing it. Authors have talked about the "words already being there", they just put it on paper. Athletes talk about getting in the "zone" and not even thinking about what they're doing. The act of creating something, whether it's a novel, a sculpture, a ridiculous blog post, or a perfect game, is a thing of wonder that even the creator doesn't fully comprehend.

Maybe this is a stretch, but I think that's why we are so fascinated with the idea of an ultimate "Creator". We feel that we have to give credit to something for creating this amazing thing called life. It couldn't have just happened, someone must have planned this. But maybe, like with many works of art, or with the perfect game that LSD couldn't even ruin, the creation of a work of beauty is out of the control of anyone or anything. Maybe it just exists because it needed to exist?

Fuck do I know, but another thing I remember about "Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret" is the main character questioning the presence of God. I didn't think you could even do that. This girl was looking for some guidance from above and she got no response (hello middle school) so she questioned whether He was even there or not. Damn. I wanted to be half as courageous as her. She even touched on the topic of masturbation. This was a time in my life when I thought touching myself was a one-way ticket to the fiery pits of Lucifer's torture chamber (obviously, I still did it anyway, spending what should have been a relaxing post-climactic state in a confused sweat, terrified of the damnation that surely awaited me).

Needless to say, many of the topics in the book became recurring themes of my life (not so much the wishing for an increased bust size or worrying about menstruation, but definitely the questioning of god and masturbation). That's the crazy part about art, you never know what's going to leave a mark. I read AYTGIMM (for all you acronym fanatics out there) without knowing what I was getting into, and I may not have read it if I knew what it was about, but I remember it to this day and know for a fact that it had a profound impact on me

So go read! Take in some art! Watch some GoPro videos (that's art if I've ever seen it).

If you're looking for things to read, type in an author you like in Amazon.com and they'll give you hundreds of suggestions. Or, look at the side of this page for my favorite blogs. There has been a lot of estrogen on this page so far, so here's a little testosterone: check out my brotha, my roommate, my Corbin Frat Brat Packy Patna, J Roc-a-Block Roc-a-Fella and his awesome blog Men vs Beer. (http://menvsbeer.blogspot.com) Learn about some good beers, read about some good times (maybe see a few pics of the Prof himself) and enjoy a good read. Maybe you'll start your own blog about something you're interested in, or maybe you'll just blog your random thoughts. Or, if you already have a blog, maybe this is what you need to help you step up your game.

Your thoughts and ideas are important, no matter how random, so let the world hear them. Besides, we could use a little more randomness in this highly regulated and structured society of ours.

I Love You All...Class Dismissed.

Stoned Willy's Guide to Valentine's Day

Stoned Willy Poonhound's Guide to a 

Poontastic Valentine's Day

Wassup Bitches n' Mutts! It's Spoven Weedle's Spiritual Sherpa here to lead ya on a journey to the land a breast milk n' fine honeys. Let a true hound show ya how its goin down.

Ya may not like his music, but the ugly bastard bagged Beyonce. Respect the poonhound game.

Not only is today the 84th anniversary of evrybody's favorite Prohibition Era massacre, today is also the day some fools long ago decided to designate as a celebration of evrybody's favorite activity: bumpin uglies. Ya know, doin the freak nasty, the ole in out, in out. Gettin sum stank on the hang low, a lil of the old how's your father, some hide the salami, pack the pepperoni, guzzle the gabba gool, pork the pig. Im talkin bout some body rockin knockin the boots, rockin out in the nappy dugout, swimmin in a sea of shag.Yeah that's right, lovehounds,  it's Valentine's Day, the Hallmark Holiday that the US Greeting Card Association wants to remind you is extremely important to the person or persons yer currently bonin, so make sure to buy em a lil sumthin nice this year ya heartless bastard.

Now before I go revealin some of my best tricks to landin that pretty lil sumpin sumpin ya had yer eye on since you quit World of Warcraft n' finally left yer apartment, lemme break down what type 'a tradition it is we're actually carryin on here today. Back in the day when Rome was runnin shit, they had a lil celebration from February 13th to 15th. Just like any typical Roman party, they started by sacrificin a goat n' a dog (A DOG? YOU MOTHERFUHHHH RRRRRR GRRRR GRRRRR GRRRR ok calm down calm down all the Romans are dead, hubris and an overextended central government did em in, yer okay yer okay). From there, the party got a lil more awesome for the Romans and a lil less awesome for the Ro-womans. After the animal sacrifice (grrrrr fuckers) evrybody got naked 'n drunk, then the women made their own sacrifice: they waited in line as the men took the dead animal hides and whipped the shit out of em with the carcasses. Next, men drew women's names from a hat 'n got to diddle the fiddle of whoever they picked for the rest of the celebration. Women actually encouraged all this cuz they thought the ritual made em more fertile.

So, what does this mean? It means that since the beginnin of time, bitches n' mutts have done some wild shit to bust a nut.

A poonhound must know how to use this knowledge to his advantage.

Heed my words n' yer gonna be chillin with bitches way outta yer league n' knockin em up like a drunken Seth Rogen. Or if ya prefer, you'll be knockin fly honeys off yer collar like that special powder knocked those fleas off my collar last spring. By the way, just to officially end all the rumors, those fleas came from a pile of grass I rolled in at the park and definitely NOT from that lil Pekingese bitch from down the street.

Ok, so if ya didnt plan in advance for this lil national celebration of the beautiful union of two souls, all week ya been lookin round yer class or office or local bar for a warm body to spend Valentine's with so you dont have to act like yer celebratin "Singles Awareness Day" which should never be referred to in its acronym form (SAD) because the resulting irony would be so intense it would cause a black hole to form and tear the very fabric of our existence. At this point, chances are ya got slim pickens. The general poulation is about 10% date-able and you already nanaged to scare off another 5% with those facebook pics you were tagged in at last week's house party with yer cousin Chuck (what were ya doin with his gerbil anyway? Weird, man).  Here's a helpful poonhound hint: give that quiet lil chicadee at work or school wearin the conservative dress and her hair in a bun a holler. Ya never know, it could be a She's All That situation and ya could end up with Rachel Leigh Cook idolizin yer nutsack cuz ya asked her out when nobody but Steve from Sales with the wild dandruff would give her the time of day. More importantly, that lil shy dove in the office could be a screamin cockatiel in the sack, survivin on a strict diet of her man's testicular love juice.

So when ya finally got a lil date, pay attention to the bitch. Or at least pretend. A few simple nods and "yups" and "really?"'s really make her nipples push thru the light fabrics she's wearin. Askin questions about whatever type a female drama she's talkin bout will cause her thighs to slowly spread throughout supper, and if ya can somehow tie the convo into some shit she was talkin about in a previous convo, her vaginal canal will turn into Mega Maid and suck the air outta yer scrotum right thru yer urethra.

Here's how a typical Slick Willy Pimpin conversation goes down:

Fine-Ass Bitch: "So this chick at work is really gettin on my last nerve, I swear to God."

Me: *nods, looks deep into her eyes very understandingly* "Yeah?"

Dime-Piece Bitch: "Yeah, and Im not puttin up with it much longer."

Me: "What's goin on?"

Perfect Ten Bitch: "I worked too damn hard. I mean....(indecipherable babblin for three to sixteen minutes)...She swears she's better than me."

Me: "Kinda like that chick from yer yoga class right? The one ya talked about the other day."

Westminster Dog Show Blue Ribbon Award-Winning Bitch: "Yes!" *looks at me with wide eyes* "Yes, oh my god I cant believe you remembered that." *gently puts her paw on mine, lettin her eyes roam nonchalantly from my eyes to my crotch and back to my eyes* "Let's fuck."

And that's how it go. So either start carin about these bitches or start takin acting classes. Either way, when ya got the "thoughtful and carin individual" thing down, yer precious jewels will be sucked up by that vacuum-poon soon enough.

And when she goes from "suck" to "blow"? Mmmmmmm....

Since it's Valentine's Day and even the most jaded of bitches will still appreciate a gift, givin gifts is a good idea. Just dont half ass it. Unless of course yer in a long term relationship n ya established yerself as a poonhound who doesnt believe love can be expressed thru material goods n what not n yer love is so infinite and deep it could never be cheapened by gifts so ya dont exchange anything besides maybe on chrismas and every other birthday. In that situation, ya can stop at the highway underpass n grab a few roses n balloons out the back of a beat-up Plymouth Voyager and yer bitch will flip out 'n give you an unsolicited beejer cuz yer so thoughtful and spontaneous. But most of ya aint on that level of poonhoundery yet. It takes years of giftless holidays and anniversaries to establish that mindset in a bitch.

So for the rest of ya, avoid the last second gas station or CVS gifts. If ya end up empty handed at the time of the date, tell her ya got a surprise n then go to the bathroom and find some tickets or sum shit on yer smartphone. Hell, get nothing, it's better than 7-11 roses. And if ya get her 7-11 roses and she appreciates it, watch out, ya probably got a crackhead on yer hands. Then again, if shes the type that likes to wrap her mouth around a glass tube that used to hold gas station flowers and suck in crack cocaine fumes, ya know yer in for a real freaky Valentine's. 

If yer not ready for A Crackhead Valentine, chocolate is a good alternative. But fuck those bullshit assortment heart boxes with their three good caramels and maybe a peanut butter fillin' and the rest filled with some pink goo that oozes nastiness between yer teeth. Ya end up throwin half the box away cuz ya took a bite of 8 pieces and every one was cherry gel or bullshit coconut. Nah, spend a lil extra and get a shitload of specific chocolates she likes. If ya dont know what she likes, get milk chocolate, caramel, and peanut butter. If she dont like those or at least one of em, she gets no joy from life and aint worth yer time anyway lil homey.

Flowers are aite but they're played out. Plus, now she gotta find a vase for em, maybe even cut the thorns and stems, water em, all that other nonsense, and they still die quick. So get her sumthin that will at least increase her sexual desire, like chocolate, or get her somethin a lil more memorable. Tickets to some kind of event are always good. VIP tickets are better. A personal, private show in Alicia Key's limo parked in a lot overlookin the Grand Canyon at sunset is even better, but that's Weedle Level 6 and ya got a long way til ya reach that state of consciousness.

Now, ya dont gotta go crazy. Sometimes a thoughtful lil gift is better than a big ole expensive whatever whatever. Remember, pay attention to her (or pretend) and listen for lil hints that she drops when yer with her. And she will drop em. While walkin down a typical city block, a woman will spit out the phrase "Ohh that's nice" or "That'll look good with my red heels" or "I should get those after I get my income tax check" or "Yeah that diamond-studded double-ended dildo looks fun" on average at least 7 times. If ya can remember just a few of those instances, yer gonna have plenty of ideas for a gift that's sure to induce a wet bob on the knob.

Alright mutts, thats enough Wisdom of the Poonhound for one day. Peep my words, yes my heavenly words, and you'll have bitches locked up like 73rd. Word to big Ruck.

And bitches, understand that Im doin this for the benefit of the finer, sexier-in-a-summer-dress gender. I want ya all to be happy and Im tryin to teach these young hounds how to provide the happiness ya deserve. Yer welcome for that. Also, I dont leave anybody out when Im droppin knowledge, so Ill drop one last gem for ya bootylicious selves. This is very important and its somethin to keep in mind, especially durin these lil holidays when dudes buy ya that diamond-studded double-ended dildo and think they got a free access pass to all yer erogenous zones. So on this Valentine's Day, remember bitches:

Now go out there n celebrate yer sexual desires.

-Stoned Willy Poonhound, SWP World Ambassador

-----

Well! That was interesting! I hope you can take something from all this...on second thought, maybe you shouldn't take anything from this. Ever.

Peace!

I Love You All...Class Dismissed.

Stoned Willy's Guide to Building a Snow Mansion

Hey there blog fans! For today's blog, I'm doing something a little different. Of Intersections and Strange Things Told is proud to present our first guest writer. I'd like to introduce to you...Stoned Willy Poonhound.

Stoned Willy Poonhound's Guide to Building a Snow Mansion

Wassup Bitches and Mutts!

If yer like me 'n ya live on the Beast Coast, ya just got dumped on by a lil' blizzard named Nemo (who name's these damn things? It's like they're doing it on purpose for the internet meme creators). Well, ya can't let a lil' thing like two feet of snow get in yer way of gettin it IN like a real poonhound should. In fact, if ya know what yer doin' (or if ya have an experienced poonhound like me to lead ya) two feet of snow can add a whole new level of enjoyment to yer typical poonhound activities.

I'm gonna break it down real simple so even the most basic of numbskulls can skim thru this thing and still learn what they need to build a serious snow mansion. That's right...mansion. We don't build forts 'roun here. This is grown ass poonhounding, this aint for lil' poonpups. 

So, first things first. Yer gonna need...

Hallucinogens

Lots of em.

Many people skip this step. That is a mistake. Hallucinogens are the key to the creation of any solid snow structure; they open the doors of perception and make ya see all types of designs and formations to make in the snow. Also, spendin a lot of time exposed to snow can lead to a condition called snow blindness, and hallucinogens are a well known preventative type measure against that horrible affliction (citation needed). 

A lot of people think crazy stunnin visuals are needed to enjoy a hallucinogenic trip, but that is not true. In fact, snow is perfect for trippin cuz the endless white causes your brain to create its own light show. Next time yer lookin to trip yer balls off, stare at the snow for 30 seconds 'n look away real quick. Yea. Fireworks.

Poonhounds prefer psilocybin (magic mushrooms) but acid, lsd, dmt or any other hallucinogen of yer choosin will do just fine. I recommend mushrooms cuz they're all-natural 'n the others may cause ya to forget that yer building a snow castle and put ya into a deep dissociative state where ya think yer trapped in an avalanche 'n the only person who can save ya is Sylvester Stallone but he's too busy fightin John Lithgow so ya gotta dig yerself out but ya can't tell which way is up or down cuz gravity has no effect on yer body cuz it's just a theory anyway man I mean who the hell does Newton think he is and matter a fact who the hell does that beaver over there think he is with his tiny top hat and bow tie why is he dressed up like that and why isn't he helpin dig he's just starin at ya with his little nose twitching and his teeth making that noise that's usually so cute but now it's crazy loud and annoying and it may cause yer left eye to burst from its socket so ya better choke that damn beaver but it's too late he's gone and yer arm is buried in snow up to the shoulder cuz ya lunged for an imaginary beaver and now ya wished ya listened to those damn drug PSAs in 5th grade gym class.

So yea, I just go with mushrooms.

Mushrooms are a very spiritual psychedelic, 'n it's important to get in the right mindstate before ya take em so that yer in the right mindstate while yer on em. Before I eat god's toe fungus, I like to spend a lil' time meditatin on the beauty of the circle of life while evacuatin all waste from my body into the porcelain throne. For the simpletons, that means I think positive thoughts on the toilet taking a shit before I eat shrooms.

Taking a psychedelic voyage is all about love and positivity and peace. Positive Energy Activates Constant Elevation. Bring positive vibes 'n all will be right in yer brave new world. 'N make sure to eat at least a quarter.

Down the hatch!

So now that yer mind is right, next yer gonna need...

Music

This is somethin ya need prepared well before yer journey. Everything's better with music, 'specially a spiritual quest to construct the most spectacular spectacle of a snow mansion. 

Yer gonna need an ipod or a smartphone and a small mobile speaker. I like this guy:

Look at his lil' winter hat! This lil' fool actually carries a mean sound, and he fits right in yer coat pocket so he'll stay dry. ImixID Audiobots are the name of these speakers and I highly recommend em. They're great for all types of outdoor poonhoound activities. Yo ImixID holler at me 'bout that product placement deal my doggies.

Yer gonna need a playlist just for this adventure (unless ya already have a Trip List, as a real poonhound always should). Here's a few suggestions:

-Anything and everything by Bonobo (a must)

-Jimi

-Blockhead

-DJ Shadow

-El-P (especially his instrumental stuff)

-DJ Krush

-Tommy James and the Shondells' two best songs

-Pink Floyd 

-Led Zeppelin

-Anything from the Beatle's LSD Years

-A selection of Black Hippy songs

-Ol' Dirty Bastard

I guess ya could make a playlist of any music ya love personally, but for real, ya should learn to love all the stuff I mentioned. These artists have a way of heightenin the intensity and beauty of a spiritual journey that will forever change the way ya listen to music. Especially Ol' Dirty Bastard. Word.

Ok, you should be mentally and aurally prepared to start building your winter wonderland. Now you just need...

At Least 2 Feet of Snow

Minimum. Otherwise ya gotta shovel yer whole yard and half a yer neighbor's just to have enough to make a lil' snow coffin for yerself. Fuck that. Two feet of snow is perfect cuz ya get all the snow from the driveway and road and sidewalks, which gives ya 'bout 4 feet of snow over a good portion of the yard. Plus, as ya dig, ya keep adding to the top, so it gets even higher. If yer in an area gettin more than two feet of snow on the reg, ya don't need me to tell ya how to build a proper snow castle, ya probably live in one. And if ya live in an area that didn't get at least two feet of snow, ya didn't eat those mushrooms already did ya? Damn. I knew I shoulda mentioned this rule first.

Ah well, for the rest of ya, ya should be knee deep in snow on a head full of shrooms with a small speaker in yer coat blasting the trippiest music outside of a Twilight Zone episode. 

Now, let's talk about the diggin equipment yer gonna need...

Yer Damn Hands

It's a snow fort. Mansion. Whatever. It's snow. Put on some gloves and start diggin. Ya got intricate, powerful tools attached to the ends of both yer arms. Use em. 

But since yer ancestors evolved to form opposable thumbs (ya lucky sons of monkeys) ya might as well use those, too. So if yer not hound enough to dig with yer bare paws, use...

A Cheap Little Snow Scraper Thing

Put this in yer dominant hand 'n get to hackin. This is strong enough for areas ya want to bulldoze thru 'n precise enough for when ya wanna put the finishin touches on the ceiling and ionic columns and whatnot. Besides the scraper, yer gonna need sumthin to remove the snow as ya dig. A push broom does a good job clearin out the snow from the inside. Most people simply use a shovel to get rid of all the extra snow. That's cuz most people aren't poonhounds. We don't take the easy way. What I use is a metal dust pan to scoop the snow. But wait, yer probly sayin, "doesn't that make more work for yaself?" Huh. Yer mos def not an experienced snow architect. That's ok, that's why I'm here to guide ya thru it. 

The dust pan holds the perfect amount of snow with each scoop. When throwing snow on top of the ceilin of yer structure, ya can't throw a large amount of snow at one time. A heavy load will collapse the whole damn thing. I use the dust pan to slowly spread out the snow on top of the castle, lettin it to grow at a nice even pace. The snow gets packed down as it rises up, and I can keep diggin out the ceilin from the inside. 

This is scientifical shit right here. I use the dust pan cuz I'm a perfectionist. I keep my angles precise.

Also, I forgot to get the shovel before I ate the shrooms 'n Jimi started talking to my soul while his guitar tore a lightnin bolt thru my brain so I just picked up the first thing that looked like it could hold snow 'n headed out into the cold night air like the abominable shroom-man.

I could have used an ice cream scoop and it wouldn't have mattered. The psilocybin tapped into the natural diggin instincts of my breed and as ODB shimmy shimmied his ya I cleared out 125 square feet of snow.

Another reason to use the random shit lyin around your house is because it's cost effective. Ya dont need to waste any good equipment on this lil' venture. At one point, I got lost in the melody of a Blockhead beat when the broom suddenly became a beautiful black stallion that I mounted and used to gallop round the driveway. Unfortunately, the stallion couldn't hold my weight and it snapped in half. So don't use yer best equipment is what I'm sayin.

Bein a poonhound means knowin when to pimp and knowin when to scrimp. You can scrimp on the diggin tools ya use to make yer snow castle (like I said, ya really only need yer hands) but when it comes time for the tools yer gonna need inside yer castle, a real poonhound knows it's time to pimp...

A Proper Beverage 

A drink says a lot about a hound. I typically don't drink anythin that doesn't come in a purple velvet bag, but in blizzard conditions, the beverage ya choose can literally make or break the success of yer venture. We all know that liquor warms our insides, despite what quack doctors wanna tell us, but when buildin a snow mansion, ya need a beverage that will lend yer ice abode the touch of class that distinguishes a masterpiece of snow architecture from a flimsy, low-class snow shack. 

Another thing that separates the real craftshounds from the fake is what ya got decoratin yer snow pad. Yes poonhounds, it's truly what's on the inside that counts.

Lights

Ya need something to light up yer newly dug snow mansion, but ya dont wanna be running extension cords or wasting a whole bunch of batteries. I highly recommend the lil' lights that come with these gloves:

See that lil' light on the index finger? Take it off the gloves and stick the back of the light right into the ceilin. They'll stick there for however long ya need and ya got yerself an illuminated igloo of ecstasy. 

Now yer ready to enjoy the fruits of yer labor. The great thing bout chillin in a snow castle is that ya can make a pillow anywhere you want. Find yer comfort zone and lay yer hooded head down on a pile of fresh snow, letting yer mind drift into the pleasantly melancholic soundwaves comin from yer pocket 'n the dazzlin light show behind yer eyelids. Any other personal indulgences you may want to...indulge in should be prepared well in advance. Ya dont wanna be in a dimly lit snow fortress listening to Bonzo's Montreux on a head full of psychotropic substances tryin to roll an acceptable L. Any tasks requirin fine motor skills need to be done before ya imbibe any hallucinogens. Again, all my real poonhounds already know.

Once ya settle in, yer gonna find yer head 'n butt groove, yer drink and whatever whatever will be right in arm's reach, yer body 'n mind n' soul will be perfectly in synch with each other 'n the natural world around ya...this is Parad-Ice. (Come up with yer own name puns, that one's mine.) Now all ya need to do is call up some snow bunnies, tell em to bundle up and come over to the Poonhound Playa's Ball on Ice, and start spreadin that weedle love. 

Well, there ya have it. If ya follow these steps, yer gonna have the most impressive snow domicile (snowmicile?) on yer block. A good snow castle is perfect for journeys into yer inner-most being, chillin with yer favorite bitches and mutts, or for more practical purposes, such as like when ya need a lil' hideaway from those bail bondsmen that may or may not be lookin for ya. I'm not sayin I'm wanted in three states, I'm just...wait. Ya hear that? That twitchin....and teeth suckin....that goddamn beaver's back! Why's he starin at me? Did I disturb his nest? Do beavers have nests? Why is he so loud?

"Po' up."

What?! It talks! I jumped to all fours inside my Fortress of Poon-itude. Shit, I talk, so I guess I shouldn't be too surprised. What did he say?

"Po' up."

Huh? Am I buggin out? Well, I mean, yeah I'm buggin out, but what is he sayin?

"Po' up."

Wait a minute. I thought for a second, then repeated, "Po up?" 

A single word came out of the beaver's twitchy lil' mouth. "Drank."

I replied, "Head shot?"

"Drank." He waddled closer to me. "Sit down."

I sat back on my hind legs.

We said in unison, "Drank."

He reached his short arm towards me. I felt a natural urge to bite his furry little paw, but sumthin held me back long enough to watch him grab my bottle of whiskey, unscrew the top, and tip it in my direction.

This wasn't a belligerent beaver bent on me buggin out on a bad trip. He was my spirit animal, here to guide me on an inward journey to enlightenment. 

I took a drank and offered it back to him, but he was already gone. It was just me, Stoned Willy Poonhound, trippin my un-neutered balls off in a freshly built ice hotel with Kendrick Lamar bumpin on my miniature snowman speaker and three of my favorite bitches on their way.

And that's how ya build a snow mansion.

Peace!!! and Spread Weedle!

-Stoned Willy Poonhound, SWP World Ambassador

Disclaimer: The views and opinions expressed in this article are those of Stoned Willy Poonhound and do not necessarily reflect the views or positions of this blog. Names and places are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Events portrayed in this article are creations of the psychotic/genius mind of a fictitious character. They should not be attempted in the real-world. 

Unless of course you're a big boy or girl and you don't need any stupid "legal disclaimer" telling you what to do.




I Love You All...Class Dismissed.

The Arnold Palmer

It was 4:48 PM. Twelve more minutes. He could handle twelve more minutes. Hell, he hadn't done a thing since he saw his desktop clock read 4:09 PM. To be perfectly honest, he hadn't done a thing since he finished that leftover burrito for lunch. At this particular moment, his mind was fixated on the ice cold Arnold Palmer he was going to make himself when he got home.

It was Friday evening, the start to a three day weekend for Steve Hollands. He had been working 5 day work weeks for 48 weeks straight. This week he had put in 58 hours between his two jobs.  He didn't feel too bad about slacking off for the last few hours.

His boss, a 75 year-old semi-senile millionaire with a penchant for cheap cars and cheap suits was in a meeting all day, the only reason Steve was able to relax. Normally, the old man would be standing, or more likely leaning, over Steve's shoulder, watching him type away on his obsolete desktop. Steve respected financial conservatism, but he also respected technology that worked properly.

He actually didn't mind the slower processing speed on this lazy afternoon. Let the internet take its sweet ole' time loading up prank videos on youtube. What did he care? He was out of here at 5 PM and he could watch videos in the comfort of his own home, sipping an Arnold Palmer.

As he watched two roommates deliver nearly fatal pranks on each other (both pranks involving fireworks and a live raccoon) the door to his office swung open and a high pitched, crackly voice screeched out:

"Hollands! I need you to write up a proposal to Belgium."

Steve shot forward in his chair and clicked on the "x" to close the youtube browser. The porn he had left open appeared in its place. After sneaking one last glance at the heavy-set redhead with nothing on but a pair of high heels, he frantically clicked the page closed and opened a spreadsheet as his boss walked around to his side of the desk.

"Uhh, Belgium, sir?"

"Yeah, we're looking to expand."

"Of course."

Steve's stomach sent a hateful bubble through his digestive tract. His shoulders slumped and he put his fingers to his forehead, attempting to smooth out the wrinkles taking permanent hold beneath his widow's peak. The Arnold Palmer was now another 20 minutes away, at least.


He stopped typing and glanced at the time.

5:18 PM.

"Dammit."

"What's that, Hollands?"

"Nothing. How's this sir?"

As his boss read the proposal out loud, Steve felt a rising resentment at the old man. There was a creeping sensation that he would cause physical harm if he had to hear the whole letter read in that high pitched squeal. Objects on his desk were beginning to look like weapons.

He began humming softly to himself, thinking of the cold digestif waiting for him at home. Good thing, too, because the leftover burrito from lunch wasn't digestif'ing too well.

"Not bad Hollands. Print it on our letterhead, make 2 copies, and send one out to this address." He handed Steve a paper and walked out of the office.

The paper had numbers and letters scribbled on it. Steve never contemplated the connection between someone's voice and their penmanship, but he swore his boss's handwriting was as shrill and piercing as his voice.

Steve wanted to rip the paper into pieces. Instead, he made a few copies (his boss had a way of losing things) and put one in an envelope. He shut down his computer, grabbed his coat and walked out the door. There was a mailbox in front of the building down the street, so he'd drop off the envelope on the way home.


He bounded down the four flights of stairs and out into the bright sun. He sometimes wished he had a job with summers off, but he always savored the moment he left his office and felt the warmth of the summer sunshine envelop his body.

He walked down the street, and as he got close to the blue metal box, he thought about the last minutes at work. Why had he gotten so upset when his boss asked him to do a simple task? It took an extra 30 minutes. He hadn't done any work since lunch, and the work his boss was asking for was a cinch. Why did he let it affect his mood so drastically? Was he that desperate to get to his drink? Did he have a problem?

Maybe he was over thinking it.

He opened the slot on the mailbox and reached for the envelope...which he had left on his desk.

"Dammit!"

He slammed the lid shut and kicked the mailbox, breaking his big toe.

"Son of a shit!"

-end part 1


I Love You All...Class Dismissed.