Category Archives: Life Stories

1 Million Reasons Why You Should Get Into A Fight.

My brother and I would play in the backyard of our house.  We used sticks as swords.  We pretended we were knights or samurais, or two boys with sticks.  One summer day, when the dirt was especially warm, my brother stood across from me holding the stick out in front of him.  “Okay, I’m going to give you a free hit,” my brother said to me, “just hit me.”  For a minute I thought about it.  He told me just to do it, pushing me to slice the air with the wood and initiate a lethal slash on my brother face or into his torso.  I didn’t.  I pretty much just significantly tapped the far end of his stick with mine.  He looked at me and shook his head.  “You don’t know how to fight,” he stated.  I was 6 years old.

In middle school, after all my classes were over, I would hang out in the parking lot along with everyone else who didn’t have to be anywhere soon.  Everyday I fought my classmate, and everyday I lost.  I didn’t know how he did it.  I memorized everything that he did.  He used the same pattern, the same sequence of movements.  He’d throw a punch, step behind my legs and trip me onto the floor, and then punch me several times in the ribs.  I knew it all.  I mathematically pulled it all together.  The punch would lead me backwards, and then since I moved forward after that, he’d be able to trip me.  I ran the sequence in my head over and over.  Every morning I thought I’d be more prepared to fight the next day.  I wasn’t.  I fell onto the floor, and I would feel my lungs collapse every time he’d punch me in the ribs, over and over, until someone screamed for him to stop.  I was 12 years old.


I was working for a newspaper subscription company the summer before I started high school.  I would walk door to door to recite my prepared speech that I usually mumbled over in hopes that someone would buy a newspaper subscription from me.  It was a scam. I didn’t know it until later in life, but it was definitely a scam.  I didn’t get paid hourly.  Some weeks I would work 6 days a week between 3pm to 7 everyday, and I some wee ks I would only end up with 30 dollars worth for that whole week.  However I liked my job.  It brought me into a whole new world of experiences.  I never left a 10 mile radius of my house.  Everyday I’d leave my little city and go to places with lakes, mansions, and our boss would pay for warm oily pizza after work.  I didn’t even know what a Jamba Juice was or a Starbucks until I started working for this job.  We’d come home after the sun would set and I would walk to my house from across the street with my binder, which most of the time didn’t make any sales or anything to show for my day.  It didn’t matter though.  I was starting to see a lot more to my life.

We were sitting in the back parking lot of large retail stores drinking frappacinos.  Those frappacinos were my newest favorite thing.  I felt like an adult; making a paycheck, drinking blended ice coffee.  We were talking about my failed attempt to “slap box” with one of my coworkers during one of our days off. It was pretty ugly.  He didn’t know how to fight either.

“You want to spar?” one of my other coworkers, said almost sporadically.  Matt placed his drink down on the hood of the car and took a few steps away from us into an open area in the empty parking lot.

My coworkers cheered me on.  I seriously didn’t want to fight or humiliate myself in front of all my coworkers.  Before I knew it, I was being pushed closer to my new instant fighting opportunity.  I didn’t know what to do.  We were going to slap box, which is where we weren’t allowed to punch each other with a closed fist, it was still something I obviously wasn’t good at.  I took a breath and thought for a split second.

The plan:  Hit him as many times as fast as possible.

One of my coworkers said go, and I swung my right hand into Matt’s face with my open palm, and then did it again with my left.  Back and forth, left and right, again and again.  It was my only two moves, my two options.  I sucked my hands back and then swung into his face and then did the same thing with my other hand.  I could see my hands rip into the sides of his face.  It was the same pattern, the same sequence, the same tactic, the same attack, and it was working.

Matt put his guard up, placing his forearms up by the sides of his face.  I just went faster.  I needed to get pass his defense, but I only knew one thing that worked.  I didn’t have time to regroup.  Matt would time my hits, and block almost every single one.  Then he would slip through and swing at the side of my face.  So I went faster.  I needed to break through his defense.  So I went faster and swung harder.

I swung again and again.  My eyes focused on the center of his face.  I could see Matt infiltrating my simple pattern of left and right punches.  He caught every open hand with his forearm, and within three of four failed attempts to reach his face, he ran right through into mine with a solid friction burning painful collision across my cheeks.  My ears were getting red.  Before he could suck back and get back into position, I dove in, driving my hands into his face over and over.  It was the only opening I could get.  He would block my hits, slip in his hit, and then before he could regroup I struck him with as many hits as possible, moving forward, not letting him rest.  I could feel my breaths climbing out of my body.  I could feel the weight I placed on my calves and how they tightened every time I followed through with a punch.  It didn’t matter that he was blocking some of my hits; I was hitting him.  I could still see his head swing backwards, and feel the skin on his face break from my hands.  I had it.  It was that eureka moment.  The heartbeats, the slow motion, the solving answers to all the equations.  This moment, it was the moment where everything seemed so simple now that I have the answers.  The aftermath, the conclusions.  I was holding up the master key to unlocking every lock that I could never open and that now stood in front of my face.  I just did what I needed to do, and did everything I could to get there.  I had a path, a working plan, stepping closer and closer towards success.  It didn’t matter that my ears burned red.  It didn’t matter that I was breathing heavily, or that the pain building from under my face echoed across my skin.  I felt a passion burning, running through me with every punch that reached my face, and every poetic journey that ended with my hand ripping onto his face.  I had finally found direction.

I found everything…

“Hold on,” I said laughing, my body aching.  I placed my hands on my knees and caught my breath.  I pulled my body back up quickly, “Okay let’s go!” I said, not waiting another second to get into the fight.

“No, we got to get home,” my boss said.  “What?  Why?” everyone asked in broken unison.  My boss said it would be a long ride home and he didn’t want to get calls from all of our parents asking where we were on a Friday evening.  Matt and I hugged.  Everyone couldn’t stop laughing.  We all couldn’t stop talking about it.  It was a spectacle to witness. Two young boys, I age 13, Matt age 15, both killing each other with open palms in an empty parking lot.  The night sky was clear, filled with stars that evening.

“Is that blood?” Matt said, touching the side of his face.  We all laughed as I sipped from my caramel frappacino.

Evaluation:

  • Find something that works and go with it.
  • The road to success isn’t as complicated as everyone else makes it.
  • If you have a goal, go for it.  Don’t let anything stop you, no matter how much pain you might be in.
  • The world is filled with clutter and information overload.
  • Simplify everything.

Disclaimer:
I don’t encourage fighting.  This happened since when I was a little kid.  Adults getting into physical fights just sounds immature and you could get into a lot of trouble.

Read my previous life lesson here:  The Cure for Assholes and Losers:

How Gambling Makes Dating Easier

My brother and I would play in the backyard of our house.  We used sticks as swords.  We pretended we were knights or samurais, or two boys with sticks.  One summer day, when the dirt was especially warm, my brother stood across from me holding the stick out in front of him.  “Okay, I’m going to give you a free hit,” my brother said to me, “just hit me.”  For a minute I thought about it.  He told me just to do it, pushing me to slice the air with the wood and initiate a lethal slash on my brother face or into his torso.  I didn’t.  I pretty much just significantly tapped the far end of his stick with mine.  He looked at me and shook his head.  “You don’t know how to fight,” he stated.  I was 6 years old.In middle school, after all my classes were over, I would hang out in the parking lot along with everyone else who didn’t have to be anywhere soon.  Everyday I fought my classmate, and everyday I lost.  I didn’t know how he did it.  I memorized everything that he did.  He used the same pattern, the same sequence of movements.  He’d throw a punch, step behind my legs and trip me onto the floor, and then punch me several times in the ribs.  I knew it all.  I mathematically pulled it all together.  The punch would lead me backwards, and then since I moved forward after that, he’d be able to trip me.  I ran the sequence in my head over and over.  Every morning I thought I’d be more prepared to fight the next day.  I wasn’t.  I fell onto the floor, and I would feel my lungs collapse every time he’d punch me in the ribs, over and over, until someone screamed for him to stop.  I was 12 years old.I was working for a newspaper subscription company the summer before I started high school.  I would walk door to door to recite my prepared speech that I usually mumbled over in hopes that someone would buy a newspaper subscription from me.  It was a scam.  I didn’t know it until later in life, but it was definitely a scam.  I didn’t get paid hourly.  Some weeks I would work 6 days a week between 3pm to 7 everyday, and I some weeks I would only end up with 30 dollars worth for that whole week.  However I liked my job.  It brought me into a whole new world of experiences.  I never left a 10 mile radius of my house.  Everyday I’d leave my little city and go to places with lakes, mansions, and our boss would pay for warm oily pizza after work.  I didn’t even know what a Jamba Juice was or a Starbucks until I started working for this job.  We’d come home after the sun would set and I would walk to my house from across the street with my binder, which most of the time didn’t make any sales or anything to show for my day.  It didn’t matter though.  I was starting to see a lot more to my life.We were sitting in the back parking lot of large retail stores drinking frappacinos.  Those frappacinos were my newest favorite thing.  I felt like an adult; making a paycheck, drinking blended ice coffee.  We were talking about my failed attempt to “slap box” with one of my coworkers during one of our days off. It was pretty ugly.  He didn’t know how to fight either. “You want to spar?” one of my other coworkers, said almost sporadically.  Matt placed his drink down on the hood of the car and took a few steps away from us into an open area in the empty parking lot. My coworkers cheered me on.  I seriously didn’t want to fight or humiliate myself in front of all my coworkers.  Before I knew it, I was being pushed closer to my new instant fighting opportunity.  I didn’t know what to do.  We were going to slap box, which is where we weren’t allowed to punch each other with a closed fist, it was still something I obviously wasn’t good at.  I took a breath and thought for a split second. The plan:  Hit him as many times as fast as possible. 

One of my coworkers said go, and I swung my right hand into his face with my open palm, and then did it again with my left.  Back and forth, left and right, again and again.  It was my only two moves, my two options.  I sucked my hands back and then swung into his face and then did the same thing with my other hand.  I could see my hands rip into the sides of his face.  It was the same pattern, the same sequence, the same tactic, the same attack, and it was working.

Matt put his guard up, placing his forearms up by the sides of his face.  I just went faster.  I needed to get pass his defense, but I only knew one thing that worked.  I didn’t have time to regroup.  Matt would time my hits, and block almost every single one.  Then he would slip through and swing at the side of my face.  So I went faster.  I needed to break through his defense.  So I went faster and swung harder.

I swung again and again.  My eyes focused on the center of his face.  I could see Matt infiltrating my simple pattern of left and right punches.  He caught every open hand with his forearm, and within three of four failed attempts to reach his face, he ran right through into mine with a solid friction burning painful collision across my cheeks.  My ears were getting red.  Before he could suck back and get back into position, I dove in, driving my hands into his face over and over.  It was the only opening I could get.  He would block my hits, slip in his hit, and then before he could regroup I struck him with as many hits as possible, moving forward, not letting him rest.  I could feel my breaths climbing out of my body.  I could feel the weight I placed on my calves and how they tightened every time I followed through with a punch.  It didn’t matter that he was blocking some of my hits; I was hitting him.  I could still see his head swing backwards, and feel the skin on his face break from my hands.  I had it.  It was that eureka moment.  The heartbeats, the slow motion, the solving answers to all the equations.  This moment, it was the moment where everything seemed so simple now that I have the answers.  The aftermath, the conclusions.  I was holding up the master key to every unlocking every lock that I could never open and it now stood in front of my face.  I just did what I needed to do, and did everything I could to get there.  I had a path, a working plan, stepping closer and closer towards success.  It didn’t matter that my ears burned red.  It didn’t matter that I was breathing heavily, or that the pain building from under my face echoed across my skin.  I felt a passion burning, running through me with every punch that reached my face, and every poetic journey that ended with my hand ripping onto his face.  I had finally found direction.

“Hold on,” I said laughing, my body aching.  I placed my hands on my knees and caught my breath.  I pulled my body back up quickly, “Okay let’s go!” I said, not waiting another second to get into the fight.

“No, we got to get home,” my boss said.  “What?  Why?” everyone asked in broken unison.  My boss said it would be a long ride home and he didn’t want to get calls from all of our parents asking where we were on a Friday evening.  Matt and I hugged.  Everyone couldn’t stop laughing.  We all couldn’t stop talking about it.  It was a spectacle to witness. Two young boys, I age 13, Matt age 15, both killing each other with open palms in an empty parking lot.  The night sky was clear, filled with stars that evening.

“Is that blood?” Matt said, touching the side of his face.  We all laughed as I sipped from my caramel frappacino.

Evaluation:
Find something that works and go with it.
The road to success isn’t as complicated as everyone else makes it.
If you have a goal, go for it.  Don’t let anything stop you, no matter how much pain you might be in.
The world is filled with clutter and information overload.
Simplify everything.

Disclaimer:
I don’t encourage fighting.  This happened since when I was a little kid.  Adults getting into physical fights just sounds immature and you could get into a lot of trouble.

Read my previous life lesson here.

Yaz Birth Control Killed the Sister I Never Knew

I could hear the painful cries and moans echoing through the hospital walls.  They were more like screams.  It wasn’t ordinary emotions.  They were deep sharp aches that climbed out of the stomach.

“Something happened,” I said to my sister as we came closer to the intensive care unit.
My sister noticed the crying, but she thought it was just the same crying that she heard all day today.  As we came closer we noticed it was different.  It was loud.

“What is that?” she asked me, “What happened?”

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

“Hey Jaype!”  my sister said knocking on my glass window.  I was still in bed, shirtless, wearing pajama pants with my face eating the cotton shirt I wrapped around my pillow.  She continued knocking on my window.  “Jaype!” she said again continuing to try to get my attention from the slightly open window.  Jaype is what my family calls me; it’s my first and second initial crammed into one syllable.  “Jaype!” she said again, “Janelle’s sister is in the hospital.”  I woke up.

I didn’t know Janelle very well except for the fact that she had been in a relationship for the past few years with my brother, Eliot.  They were due to have a baby and I still wasn’t that close to her.  I’m not close to both my brothers.  We just aren’t that type of brothers.  I didn’t even know Eliot’s girlfriend had a sister.  Her name was Janice.  I never met her or heard of her.  Even then, I still got up, got into the shower, put on some pants, a white shirt, and my hoodie, as I headed over to the hospital.

When we got to the hospital it was what it was; excruciating pain, prayer, emotions running rampant.  It wasn’t your normal kick back Saturday morning.  I never met Janelle’s family.  The halls of the ICU and the walls of the waiting room were surrounded with people I didn’t know.  My sister said we were there to give support.  Even if they didn’t know us, they still needed our support.  We shook hands with people we didn’t know, asked them how they knew Janice, got asked how “we” knew Janice and we replied with the same story: her sister is dating my brother.

Everyone was hopeful.  She was fighting, everyone said.  Janice was dying from a blood clot that formed in her lung.  The blood clot started forming because of a birth control she used called Yaz. She entered the hospital last night and she still laid in bed.  Everyone knew she’d get better.  Everyone had hope.

They wanted to sing hymns in the waiting room.  They must’ve been hardcore Catholics.  They didn’t have a music player with speakers, so my brother volunteered himself to get his CD player at our house.  My sister and I drove back home with my brother to go get it.  We pulled up to our house, my brother ran in, and we headed back to the hospital.  My brother walked ahead of us as my sister and I stayed behind.  As we started getting closer to the ICU unit, that’s when we heard the cries.

We walked passed a girl screaming in pain on the floors by the elevators as one of her friends held her in her lap.  She was shaking, trembling, she couldn’t control herself.  We walked through the hallways and everyone crowded the ICU main entrance.  I could feel the frustration in some of their faces.  The dark broken tones breaking all of their hopes.  There emotions were smearing across everyone’s defeated hope.

“They’re starting CPR,” the doctor said to one of the parents, surrounded by everyone else wanting to hear what was happening.

She was already gone.

It must’ve hit everyone so suddenly.  She had just entered the emergency room last night.  Everyone thought she was okay, and that she would recover.  No one even thought that she was dying.  There was no chance that she could’ve been on her last breaths.  She was 22.  She was almost my age.  She didn’t smoke.  She exercised.  She drank occasionally.  Everyone thought she was fighting.  She was supposed to get better.  People were still rushing in only to find that they were too late.  It was just yesterday that they brought her in.  It was 2pm in the afternoon, and Janice had left her body.

My sister was mostly with my brother, who was mostly with Janelle, the whole time holding her.  She cried and yelled, “Why didn’t they take me!  She had so much to live for!”  I watched them comfort her in an almost empty waiting room.  There were hymns playing.

After the painful sudden embrace of death, everything simmered down.  They started bringing people in to see her.  I didn’t feel anything and neither did my sister.  We were there to hug everyone even though no one wanted to hug us.  Nobody knew who we were.  When one mom came in with her daughter she told someone, anyone, to watch her daughter as she went into the ICU to see Janice.  I took her baby into my arms and carried her after she came back out, tearing up, sitting on the floor with a broken spirit.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

My sister took a seat next to me in the hall where I was sitting alone.

“When I was younger and it was only Angel and me, we would always be with mama,” my sister, Shirley said.  Angel was our eldest sister, she was the second oldest.  “One day when we were on the bus with mama the bus crashed and Angel and I were hurt badly.  We were pulled out, but we couldn’t find mama.  Angel kept crying, ‘where’s my mom  Where’s mama!’  When they finally found her, there was blood all over her face.  There was a large opening ripped on top of her head and she was covered in a lot of her own blood.  Angel kept crying.”

“Your sister and I stayed in the waiting room in the hospital.  Angel was still crying.  She was crying a lot.  I didn’t feel anything.  I watched her cry since we left the bus crash and all she did was cry.  I looked at her and said, ‘You cry too much.’”

“We couldn’t sleep at the hospital and they didn’t know how to contact papa so they put us in a foster home.  Papa thought he lost all his family.  He couldn’t find us.  Angel thought we lost our mom and this was going to be how our life would be, no parents, just me and her.”

“Later on, papa picked us and up and took us home.  Mama got better.  But ever since then I noticed that I was sort of desensitized to type of things.  I just don’t cry as much as your older sister,” Shirley said.

“I’m pretty sure I have that too,” I replied.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

When I walked into the ICU, into the room that held the body of the sister I never knew, I felt out of place.  Her family surrounded her life left body.  Her mother and her sister held her hand wondering why it had to be her.

Why Doing Homework Will Make You Fail

Every monday in 7th grade our section in biology class had to do a presentation on a news article.  Everyone had to come up to the front of the class and recite from a piece of binder paper and turn that binder paper into the teacher for credit.  If everyone had their binder paper, news article, assignment in a section, everyone in that section’s grade would go up.  But there was one person in our section that almost never turned in that assignment.  That person was me.

I never did my homework.  When everyone passed homework around to the person in front of them so it could be graded, I never had anything to show.  I never did my homework, I was late with all my projects, and I sucked when it came down to presentations.  So I didn’t do it.  I didn’t care, I was a rebel.  Everyone knew I was a rebel, the one and only boy with the firm belief as to not do his homework.  The day I went into the counselors office where I was told that I was in danger of repeating the 7th grade was the day everything changed.

It was probably late March.  It was early that week and in two days I would have to figure out how to not fail a test.  I didn’t know what to do.  My teacher said I needed to borrow people’s homework so I could read over them and study them.  No one wanted to let me borrow their homework.  Nobody liked me.  I was a rebel.  A day had passed and I had scrambled to find study material, but ended up with nothing.  The idea of repeating the seventh grade was soon becoming a reality.  I felt it was inevitable.  I would fail.  I already felt like I had the hardest life that anyone could’ve thought up, and things would eventually get harder.  It was the natural way of things.  I would be this person forever.  The universe was after me.

I pulled my biology textbook out of my bag.  I opened the book to the beginning of the chapter that the test was on.  I turned the pages until I got to the last page of the chapter.  31 pages.  I never read a book in my life.  I still don’t remember any story or novel or title to any book I’ve ever read in a middle school English class.  However, I turned back to the beginning of the chapter and started reading.

There’s probably a lot of reasons why I didn’t care for middle school.  I had issues in my personal life.  I had video games to play.  Reading the voice bubbles in role playing games like Final Fantasy was the most reading I had ever done continuously.  I had family problems.  Nobody liked me in school.  I was incredibly ugly.  I’m perfect now.  My teachers hated me and picked on me.  One of them even shook my desk and told me I was pathetic.  He was my math teacher and every time he handed out protractors he’d look for the most beat up broken one in his protractor filled box and then he’d throw it on my desk.  All those things were all excuses, and when I was staring at the rest of your life tearing apart in front of me, I knew I better open that book and start reading.

The chapters were broken into segments.  When I finished a segment I went back and I read the captions that had key terms and special requested notes.  I read the segments out loud.  I don’t know why I did, but I did.  It worked better.  I mumbled the words out, recited the definitions over and over, but more importantly I recited the chapters over and over.  By doing this, by reading the whole chapter, the material made sense.  The way homework was designed was to answer numbered questions and to fill in sentences that seemed arbitrary to the next one after it.  This is why people don’t understand homework, because it was presented in pieces of broken glass.  How could someone make sense of it, when the pieces are broken down.  They’re really just broken pieces.

When conversations turn out to be interview questions, people leave them thinking, “What was the point of that?”  When someone gets a bicycle in pieces, and have to figure out how to assemble it, it’s irritating.  Making something out of nothing is the problem.  Getting people to understand things as a whole, as a system, as something that correlates to their life was where information should’ve been but somehow went wrong in the teaching process.  Someone could know all these things about who King Arthur is, but unless they know what order they came in, unless they know the whole story, it really doesn’t make sense how Lancelot ended up with Guinevere.  Everything needs to make sense for people to understand it.

We were grading each other’s test in class.  I gave my test to the person in front of me and I graded the person behind me.  The teacher recited what the answers were, whether they were multiple choice, true or false, or fill in the blank.  With every question we went through I wondered whether or not I got it right.  I hoped I got it right.  I could feel anxiety wrapping around my breaths as we got closer to the end of the 60 questions.

“You did terrible!” my classmate told me with a smile on her face.
“Really?”
“No,” she said, “You got 100%.  You didn’t get anything wrong.”
I felt the breath of hope ease into the pores of my back.

The monday after the weekend my teacher told us who got the highest scores on the test.  He got his Starburst candies to award the highest grades on the test.  “The first person with the highest grade with one hundred percent,” he said, “is Jonathan.”

Everyone stood frozen, jaws open, as if a bullet had just exploded in their mouths.  Even the class suck up, Stephanie, who never got any question wrong was confused.  My biology teacher smiled as he threw me a pack of Starburst.  I caught it in my left hand with brilliance.  I looked around the room to see everyone staring back at me.  All I could do was shake my head and laugh.

Everyone thinks that an A letter grade is only for the incredibly smart prodigies who were naturally born to succeed in life and that everyone else in the world was meant to fail.  That’s not true.  Everyone has the ability to be smart or to succeed.  The material just never made sense to most people, and because of that people tried helplessly to piece it all together.  That’s how people failed.  It wasn’t because they couldn’t learn.  They failed because teachers and their lesson plans were just stupid.  It was never my fault that I couldn’t understand things.  It was their fault that I couldn’t understand what they were teaching.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

“Hey Stephanie,” I said getting the attention of the person who was supposedly supposed to be the smartest person in class, “What’d you get on the test?” I asked her.
“I got 98%,” she replied.  She was in second place.
“Oh,” I said casually, “I got a hundred. . .”  I laughed at her.
She looked at me with glowering hurtful eyes, “Shut up Jon,” she said miserably.
I smiled happily and wondered if she liked apples.

Evaluation:

  • Cut the clutter out.  A lot of information overlaps.
  • Everything’s easier when you start at the source or the root of an issue.
  • Read it out loud.  For me, it helps me catch a lot of things better in my head.
  • Make fun of people for trying so hard.

Read last life story:  That Girl at the Party (Part 2)

That Girl at the Party (Part 2)

Continued from, That Girl at the Party (Part 1)

After the party pretty much thinned out to close friends, we started baking the pizzas that Gavin bought.  It pretty much narrowed down to about 8 or so people.  Bodin was about to fall asleep.  Dina, the puker, left.  Several taxis passed by to pick up different groups of girls.  It was settling down to become the chill night it was meant to be, instead of the over dramatic alcoholic festival cramped into the upstairs of a house.

“Did you just jizz cheese on your pants?” someone said as they noticed that I was rubbing the front of my jeans with a paper towel.  I dropped my pizza on top of my crouch.

“Yeah, I have this premature ejaculation problem.  I should really get it checked,” I said smiling as I wiped myself down in front of everyone.  Everyone stared.  It wasn’t awkward for me as nothing usually is.  I turned around with my back towards everyone and turned my head to stare back at them as I continued to rub the pizza off my crouch.  It looked like I was doing stuff.  Everyone laughed.

Amongst all the people standing around the kitchen oven, there was a tiny girl named Lindsey who stood quietly with her arms crossed.  “Are you hungry?”  I asked her.

“No, I’m fine,” she said with her tiny mouse-like voice.

“Are you sure?” I asked her again, “It’s like a pizza explosion in your mouth!”

She laughed.  “No, I’m fine,” she said again.

“Okay, just making sure,” I said before I took another paper towel and turned away from her and rubbed my pants down again while I stared at everyone.  They laughed.  It was just a funny bit.

“She’s vegetarian,” her boyfriend said.

“Oh there’s a slice without pepperoni on it, right there,” I said pointing to it.

“No I’m really not that hungry,” she replied again.

I looked at her.  She was a tiny girl.  There was something about the way she crossed her arms and wrapped them around her body.  She seriously did look hungry or at least cold.

I ended up playing bass guitar on a dinky looking 6 string guitar along with Gavin and Drake.  They both have bands, and I don’t.  I’m a loser when it comes to music.  The day before, we went to this show Gavin’s band was hosting.  The line up was incredible! There was this one band in particular, that just blew people away.  They had these bright fluorescent lights that would turn on at the peak of a crescendo.  They had this adorable female pianist who set her keyboard away from the audience so they couldn’t see her face, but could only see the sweat glistening across her shoulder blades from the open parts of her tank top.  And there was this one point in their last song where the bassist put down his bass guitar and started playing on the drumset along with the drummer.  It was all really beautiful.  Everyone who saw it must’ve been dreaming in awe.  Gavin and I definitely were; we couldn’t stop talking about it after the show.

After playing guitar, Bodin needed to fall asleep so we needed to clear everything out of his room.  I took the oreos I bought and I placed them on a shelf in the dining room.  Gavin and our friend, Carlito, started placing whatever cans left from our 36 pack in the refrigerator to keep them cold.  Most of us ended up sitting in the living room talking about stupid crap.  I honestly don’t remember because I was falling asleep.

“Look at this bitch right here, the sleepster!” Carlito said.  Everyone laughed.  Carlito always picked on me.  It was funny stuff, nothing personal.   “Sleeping all day everyday!” he continued while everyone laughed.  Long story short, we all went to Vegas for a week and for some reason I was sleeping really early and waking up really early which was pretty much not what everyone else was doing in Vegas.

I walked back into the dining room after hanging out with everyone in the living room.  The only people there were Lindsey and her boyfriend Timmy.  They were eating my fuck’n oreos!

“So how do you like them oreos?”  I asked sitting down across from Lindsey.
“Are they yours?” Lindsey asked.  She looked cautiously nervous.
“Do you know that oreos are vegan?” I said swerving around her question.
“Yeah, I love oreos!” she said.  “So they’re yours then?”
“Yeah, it’s not a big deal, go ahead.  I thought you weren’t hungry?”
“Oh I’m not.”
“You seem like you really like those oreos,” I smiled.  She laughed, her mouth full of oreo cookie.  She was holding two oreos in her hand, one that was bitten in half in one hand, and one side of an oreo with the cream still hanging from it in her other hand.
“You know I strategically put those oreos casually up on that shelf because I knew you were a vegan and so I sneakily put them up in a position so that you’d see them?”  I said talking out of my ass.  She laughed.
“So you put them there just for me?”
“No, I actually just put them there on accident,” I said honestly.

When Timmy came back I started talking about his drumset that was in Drake’s room.  He had just moved up here and didn’t have a place to stay.  His drumset was pretty epic, with several toms and a lot of extra cymbals with a champagne colored finish.  It pretty much filled up half the space of Drake’s room.  When he moved down here he met Lindsey somewhat three weeks ago.  After maybe the second day, they pretty much just hit it off.  Just like that.  Boyfriend and girlfriend.  Titles, notifications, and everything.  They seemed really cute together.  Like one of those couples that look somewhat similar in appearance.

The night was falling quickly.  It was 4am when we started baking the pizza.  Now it was already 6am.  Carlito fell asleep in the corner of the living room and was snoring pretty loudly.  I decided to sit on a round cushioned shape chair.  Gavin sat next to me, his eyes drifting slowly into steady prolonged blinking.

“Hey,” Lindsey said as she appeared in front of the doorway of the living room, “Are you guys all sleeping here?”
“Why are you crashing here too?” Gavin asked her.
“Yeah, usually we sleep in the living room, but it’s okay don’t worry about it,” Lindsey replied.
“No it’s okay, we’re about to bounce anyways.  I just need a few minutes to rest my eyes because I can’t drive right now,” Gavin responded; translation: he was perked.  He got up from his chair and walked out of the room.  I could see him place a pillow on the floor and lay down in the hallway.

Lindsey walked over to where Gavin was first sitting; curiously taking the seat next to mine.  “So where are you from?” she asked me.

“I’m from San Bruno, you?”

“Oh I’m 6 hours north of here.”

“Humbolt?” I said guessing.

“No, a little west of Humbolt.”

“It must be a sucky place if you’re not even going to specify the name of it,” I said.

She laughed.  She told me where it was and that it only had about 700 people population.  She then asked me what I do, and I told her the last job I had was a website content writer.  She asked me if I was going to school, and I told her no, because there seems to be a pattern with most college students nowadays where they go to school and can’t afford to pay off their tuition because they can’t find a job.  She then asked me a whole series of interview questions that I wasn’t too crazy about.  On some level I felt like she just enjoyed my company a little too much.  I wasn’t attracted to her, plus the fact that I had a girlfriend stacked on top of that just made for very unsatisfying riveting answers.  I figured that she was either into talking to me much, or that everyone she has ever met in her seven hundred populated life must’ve sucked some major donkey ass.  I must’ve just happened to be that much more excitingly humble.

Her boyfriend walked back in.  I didn’t care about my seat as much as I didn’t care for Lindsey’s list of questions.  I got up and left them alone.  As I passed Gavin in the hallway he told me to wake him up in 30 minutes or whenever the sun comes up so we could leave.

I sat alone in the dining room with my empty box of oreos.  30 minutes passed and the sun didn’t come up.  I saw a small bright red sweater on one of the dining room chair.  It was probably Lindsey’s because Lindsey was tiny and the sweater looked like it could’ve been worn by a prepubescent ten year old girl.  I walked over to Gavin who laid on the hallway carpet.  He slept on his side facing the wall.   I laid down next to him, rolled the sweater up in a ball and placed it under my head and fell asleep.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

Note from author: If you don’t know yet, my friend’s are in a contest to win band of the month and the contest ends today at 10pm.  Both first place and second place are tied, so we’re pretty much head to head right now.

If you could please tell your friends, your mom, your long distant twin cousin to vote for Commissure, it’d be really awesome!

Go to:  http://sf.thedelimagazine.com/snacks

Vote:  Commissure

It only takes 6 seconds to vote.  And we really need to win this.

Read last literary piece here:  No You Cannot Have My Number:

Boyfriends Don’t Cheat

That Girl at the Party (Part 1)

“I heard Sylvia Plath, she’s awful!” I said upon hearing the name Sylvia Plath.

I walked out of Bodin’s room, two beers quickly traveling through my system in jolly mayhem.  The facial expressions on the two girls sitting in the living room were ecstatic, jaws dropped, and all hell about to go boom.

“Did you just say, Sylvia Plath sucks?” one of the girls said with the slowest ill intentioned tone she could possibly establish.

“Yeah, she’s pretty awful.  Are you a fan of depression or sticking your head in an oven?”

“I don’t know if you know anything about Sylvia Plath, but she is amazing.”

“Not as amazing as John Keats, Pablo Neruda, or Charles Browning.”

“You just named three male poets.”

I looked at her and her focused effort to prove anything.  “Emily Dickenson,” I said in reply.

“Well she’s pretty good.”

“I like Charlotte Bronte,” the other girl said.  “I have a really old used version of Jane Eyre I found in a used bookstore.”

“Yeah?” I said intrigued, “Did it have a little inscription in the cover?”

“Yeah, it was a nice letter or something.”

“Cool!  Did you watch Definitely Maybe?”  I asked her.  Her face suddenly broke.

“Yeah. . .” she replied nervously.

“Wow, well you’re just a pretty little liar now aren’t you?”  She didn’t know anything about Jane Eyre, she just watched the movie Definitely Maybe, and said she read the book because of the part where Ryan Reynolds finds his old love affair’s copy of Jane Eyre she’s been looking for all her life.

“No I read it!  Really!” she proclaimed.

“Okay so what’s the first few chapters about?”

“I don’t know, I read it a long time age,” she replied.  I couldn’t stop laughing at seeing her try.  The other girl, the more feisty argumentative one, got up from off her chair and proclaimed that Bronte sucks.  She was weird.

She was “that” girl at the party.  The one that had to prove people wrong.  She had the solid cementing tone that broke the liquid flow of the party.  She was a downer!  A few hours earlier she had come into Drake’s room as he was choosing music.  With every song that Drake put on, she would comment saying the music was either emo, or screamo, or pop punk.  We would all stare at each other to silently acknowledge that we were all on the same page about ms. know-it-all.  Her name was Dina.

It wasn’t supposed to be a party.  My friend Gavin decided to pick me up along with our other friend Nina, to come hang out at Drake’s house for a chill night.  By the time we got over there, the house was filled with about 15 short skirts and several of flip flops and stilettos.  These girls didn’t even look anywhere near our usual type of crowd.  We all chilled in Bodin’s room isolated from the others, with our 36 pack of MGD beer and packages of store bought cookies, as  we listened to new age heavy metal; not the screamo stuff.

I felt out of place.  I usually do, most of the time I don’t, but this was different; I had a girlfriend.  I lounged around floating in between the large crowds of people that formed from inside the hall, to the kitchen, and into the dining area.  I watched Drake have this conversation, that almost seemed interesting, with this 29 year old girl who talked only about herself.  She was drinking water from a wine glass.  It was all a very confusing group of people.  Heavy make up, furry white jaguar printed coats, and big loopy ear rings.

After 4 cans of MGD, I was pretty much set.  I heaved back and forth in my seat heavily sedated and stumbling over my words.   The house was finally thinning out.  A large group of women disappeared and there was only a few more left stranded.  I found Dina sitting in the hallway, her back leaned up against the wall.  I took a seat next to her on the carpet.

“Hey Bronte lover,” she said.

“Yep, that’s me,” I replied.  “You got a better book that defines your Victorian literary personality?”

“I don’t know,” she said.  She looked like she was about to fall over.  “I like J.D. Salinger.”

“What the fuck?” I said promptly, “Catcher in the Rye???  Nobody likes Catcher in the Rye.  I mean it’s only the most uneventful book in all of history.  Everyone just loves the climactic conflicts beyond talking to hookers and blowing smoke in the faces of nuns,” I said describing my thoughts on Salinger.

She looked at me, her eyes turning sideways.  “You okay?” I asked her.

“. . .  I need to puke.”

The door to the bathroom opened across from us.  Dina got on all fours and crawled herself into the bathroom, closing the door behind her.  The guy who just came out of the bathroom watched her travel from where I was sitting to the now closed door.  He turned back to look at me, “Is she okay?” he asked.

“I think she’s puking. . .”  I said.

To be continued.

Read last literary piece here:  No You Cannot Have My Number:

Boyfriends Don’t Cheat