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i hate apple and so can you [Apr. 1st, 2011|12:08 pm]

There is nothing more frustrating than the person who exclaims about their apple products to such a degree that it borders on brave new world indoctrination. You know these types, you may even be one. The tired old stereotypes of the apple loving bearded dirty hipster in the coffee shop writing a novel, these are old stereotypes, and I could do without them. What is worse, is the former windows using type who has recently converted to apple products and has nothing better to do than explain to you endlessly why their apple line of products far surpasses that of their previous windows machines, music players, etc…of course my dad is the number one offender in this case. His favorite phrase is “If I were doing this with my apple it would just work” He blames this problem on everything, from routers, to web pages, phones; TV shows everything that can be thought of.

                Then I have friends in the music community who used to use windows pc’s for music production, after switching to apple, they can’t wait to tell m e about how great it is , even compiling copious amounts of Google research about why the OSX operating system is so stable, all the above. “IT JUST WORKS WILL”

                Usually this is a case of two things; first off, a person who doesn’t know how to operate a computer in the first place is going to be more likely to love an apple computer. There is a reason that the apple OS looks so friendly, like a bunch of brightly colored buttons that wiggle around when you click them. It is because using an apple computer requires the amount of skill to operate an etch a sketch. There is a reason that the app store, the iTunes store, etc… all exists, so that the gears of an operating system are hidden from you permanently. God forbid you would ever have to go into the registry and fix something yourself. NO VIRUSES WILL! I get this one a lot. “Really? No viruses, then I wonder, you were getting viruses on your computer? Probably, BECAUSE YOU DON’T KNOW HOW TO USE THE INTERENT. If you go around clicking very link, going to untrusted sites, agreeing and replying to the Nigerian prince who claims to have 1.5 million dollars in bearer bonds for you, then you deserve the viruses you get. That’s just my opinion. The other reason people love apple so much, is just because of what it looks like. I will admit the aesthetics of a new apple device are pretty nice. But lets say you need to do something normal, exchange a battery, put in third party hardware, put in a new video card, put in a new sound card, delete all the non sense that apple preloads into all their computers, well in that case, you have to take your apple to a “Genius” of course. First off, walking into the apple store is almost like walking into a hipster party that you weren’t invited to, but were dragged to by some of your less good friends. I think if you cut open and bleed anyone in an Apple store, star bucks coffee comes out.  It’s a f*cking madhouse, a million people drooling and putting their filthy fingers on everything in the store. Giant flat screen devices on all ends blaring and subduing everyone with more apple advertisements, keynote speeches from apple execs, and the like. You are already in the apple store, isn’t this a good place for the apple commercials to cease? Also, people in blue shirts who work there, they don’t really work there. That’s why if you walk in, and need some help, no one will help you. That’s because everyone who is an employee is actually is playing with their iphone, or blathering to someone else about the ipad,. The genius is the only one who can fix your computer unfortunately. But when he emerges form his wizard of oz layer, he doesn’t exactly look like a genius, he looks like the kid who sits next to me in social policy class.

Thank god I don’t have to suffer these idiots, I can fix my own computer and so can you.

                Finally, the one thing I hate to hear is about how some factor of computer life would work better on apple. These idiots say it about everything.  My internet would work better on an apple, my phone would work better if it was an apple, my coffee would taste better if it were an apple, my relationship wouldn’t suffer so much if it was an apple, my life wouldn’t be so meaningless if it were an apple …. Oops yes it would, because apple is what takes away the meaning from things in the first place by replacing it with flashy pieces of shit. Think apple makes life better? Watch a keynote address from Steve Jobs and tell me if it is not the most self stroking self indulgent masturbatory experience you have ever seen one person engage in. He loves himself. You can tell.


you dont get a second chance to make a permanent impression [Mar. 27th, 2011|04:06 am]
We had just finished playing our set. I thought we did pretty good, the sound was reasonable. This classy looking dame came up to me afterwards and said she really liked the songs.

Classy dame: “I really like your sound.”
Me: “Thanks, we like your sound too.”
Confused classy dame: “So when did you form ‘Sweep the leg Johnny’?

You see she must have come in late because she was actually confusing me with a different guy. She thought I was the lead singer for “Sweep the leg Johnny”, which I’m not because that band is fucking horrible. If you propped up a sack of apples on a stage and taped instruments in their apple cores it would sound like “Sweep the leg Johnny”.
In actuality, they are a band that we compete with frequently, they are always taking our slots, making a horrid mess on the stage, and their makeup gets all over the backstage area like clown paste.

Me: “Yea I formed “Sweep the leg Johnny” in high school because, as you can see, we love karate kid”

You see when a girl is really attractive, the rules and useful social graces that everyone else uses like a pair of socks no longer apply. I don’t think of myself as a dishonest person, but a really beautiful girl will make me forget my own name or which band I actually do play in. Maybe forget is the wrong word.
So I sat there talking to her for a while. She was wearing ripped up leggings and a tie in her hair. She would look right on the set of “Desperately Seeking Susan” with the amount of bracelets she had on. A real classy diamond. She was hard to look at for too long at a time. But I carried on, for maybe thirty minutes, pretending to be this other guy. I invented all sorts of tales. I told her a make believe life story, I unwound yards of phony brothers and sisters, parents who lived in Bolivia, a job as a Yarn Consultant near a sugar packing plant, aspirations for clogging and macramé, a secret love for banjos and steam powered bicycles.
I talked shit about my own band to her, “Ragdolls on Fire”, she played along. She went really far actually. She said some pretty crazy things about our sound. Some of it was way off base, the rest was just distasteful. Towards the end of the conversation, I was starting to get really angry, standing there at the bar, with this beautiful woman telling me all the ways that my music was cheapening her night time experience, how we copied this band and this band, how I was a really shitty front man. Funny thing, it wasn’t even night time, imagine my laughter.
But to be there with a dangerous girl, with her malicious insults about my band throwing around like rice at a wedding, I just stood there listening. She could hold a conversation with herself. Eyes glowing lightly in the reflection on the bar mirrors opposite. I saw the lead singer for “Sweep the Leg Johnny” coming around from the backstage room, rubbing a bit of eyeliner around his eyes. I told the dame; Sophie was her name, that I would hold her drink while she went to bathroom. I grabbed the lead singer from the other band and led him to the bar. I looked at him, for a while, saying nothing, but thinking violence.
Eventually he said, “What the hell Will?”
Me: “You know your band is pretty good.”
Him: “You think so?”
Me: “No.”

I couldn’t see any resemblance between him and I. We looked nothing alike, unless you counted the fact that I don’t look like a glob of mascara shoved between a slumping pair of shoulders. The dame was walking back, I told him to wait here because “There’s someone I’d like you to meet”
I walked out, to pack up the rest of the gear, and get the hell out of there. I saw them talking to each other as I went into the backstage room. There was mascara everywhere.

anyone on tumblr? [Mar. 26th, 2011|02:04 am]
if so add me, just started one and then ill follow yours.

new writing soon, what have you been up to? [Mar. 22nd, 2011|08:25 am]
Haven't posted any new material in awhile, but new stuff coming soon I believe. I've been far too busy with school. Some of my short stories were published last year which is good fortune on my part. Of course as soon as I get some things into print, the economy of the printed word derails and deflates like a punctured love doll. An anthology with my short story "Situational Dyslexia" just got onto the shelves at Barnes and Noble, imagine my discontent, when I walk into the store to see it, and they are having a going out of business sale. It was triple discounted, so I bought it for myself. Self serving? Soon my publisher is going on a nationwide tour to promote the company and its new fiction, I think I will be doing a reading at the one in austin or dallas, maybe both. Enough about me, what have you been up to?

Posted via Vita (LiveJournal.com client) for iPhone.

who is still on here [Feb. 3rd, 2011|11:45 pm]
I havent been on here in quite some time. Who is still out there?

new music video [Jul. 25th, 2010|11:05 am]
 we just finished this low budget video.


hey if you like the music, why not buy the EP? It would help me get a new typewriter.


(end of shameless promotion)

Ragdolls on Fire [Jul. 7th, 2010|10:54 am]

anna likes to die [May. 31st, 2010|04:06 pm]


Anna has every reason to kill herself. Never underestimate a person with reasons or you may become one. I know the reasons, almost in memory. She worries that if one night she were to kill herself, no one would know her reasons for doing so. But she has as many plans for that as she does reasons.

Before turning on the gas stove, or closing the garage door, or dragging a vertical blade down her arms, Anna has a routine that is just as fatalistic. I see the remains of this plan every day, at the same hour. The U.S.P.S. delivery driver brings another sealed manila envelope to me. Inside is her suicide letter.


"Dear Will,

It is my hope that as this letter arrives to you, I am dead. Be sure to put some water in the dish for my cat, for she thirsts, I’m sure you understand.”


I keep every letter she sends me in the same box, dated. The stack is pretty friggin high now. Every time Anna decides to kill herself, which is every afternoon for 4 months, she writes a letter to me, drives to U.S.P.S. and has it sent to me at my apartment here. I never really grasp at why she doesn’t succeed, because the letters never stop coming.

Occasionally I will smoke a cigarette and read an older one, just for the good memories,


(April 3, 2009)

"Dear Will,

Does it come to you as a grave shock to know that I have passed on into eternity? It baffles me, that while I sit here bleeding to death in my downtown apartment, you are probably sitting in a desk chair at your house smoking a cigarette and reading my letter. But don’t worry; I have no resentments towards you for my ultimate demise. We all end up leaving the planet much in the same way that we came into t it, with a mind that understands very little and usually gets that small fragment wrong any ways. It is possible that if you left your apartment right now, you might find me on the far fringes of life. You might arrive just in time to bring me back to life. I hope you know the difference between the Heimlich maneuver and C.P.R. But you probably won’t come; you sit there, in a dusty room with a letter and a cigarette, listening to mazzy star. It is even more likely that by the time you finish this sentence, is the exact moment when instead of smoking, you could have come to me."


I put out my cigarette after reading that and smiled a little, remembering the last time I went to see her. You would think it was a cry for help. But most of the time Anna tries to convince you kill yourself with her, a suicide pact. Some people invite you over for a movie. It takes a special breed of person to invite you to join them in death.

After I had received the first letter, once I had taken the taken in the premise of the letter, I left my house in a rush and drove over to hers, fearing that I would arrive too late, and being that I had just received it that afternoon. Over the next two months, I would call the postal office and try to get a close estimate of the lapse of time between a letter being dropped for delivery and arrival. Contrasting that with the amount of time it would take to asphyxiate showed that I had a window of maybe ten hours from door to door,  and another ten minutes for her to die from a lack of breathing. I would ask her why she wouldn’t just call me so I could come right to her then and prevent this entire system from repeating over and over. But she was interested in a delayed death experience, like waiting in line for a coroners report. Most people will take a number for anything, provided it is the last time they have to. I think that’s where the saying "I’ve got your number” came from; everyone starts with one in the beginning.

When she answers the door, there is music in the background that is somehow both loud and soft. It always puzzles me when people blast really soft acoustic music at loud volume; it reminds me of someone trying to play a triangle with force. 

"Have you come to watch me die,” Anna says out of the side of her mouth. She has a kitchen knife in one hand a tree branch in the other, which confused me. I couldn’t predict the reason for the branch, but Anna had reasons for many things that made little sense to anyone, herself included.

"Not exactly," I said stepping around the long branches and leaves, "I’ve come because I need to borrow your VCR."

Anna had an enormous collection of soft-core porn that she would copy off of other tapes from the video store, hooking two VCR’s together in an imitation of the ins and outs of her video fetish. I never really understood why she liked soft-core so much, with the soft focus filters, the piano and synth pad soundtrack, ambiguously shot camera positions that reveal only suggestions of sex.

If soft-core porn could be music, it would be elevator music, clean enough for white collar suits, having the ability to exist and seem like it doesn’t simultaneously.

Anna starts rummaging around with incredible noise in the kitchen when I hear something like the sound of a wood chipper coming from the kitchen, When I turn the corner into the kitchen she is just leaving, with that same kitchen knife, flaying around in the air like a fly swatter.

"Don’t follow me around fucker."

"Fine, I just thought I heard something like a machine in here."

"There’s no machine in here except for the wood chipper."

I noticed that the tree branch on the kitchen counter had been severely mutilated on the end, looking as though they might have been chewed up by a dog. There were wood chips coming from the sink, littered around the disposal in the middle.


"Ok I wont, just let me have a look at your…machine here."

She walks back into the living room and disappears behind the bedroom door. Among the chipped bark and wood chunks on the counter were several cut out personal ads from the newspaper. When she wasn’t shoving wood through her kitchen disposal, Anna scoured the newspaper personals looking for Mr. Right.

It’s amazing that people will go to great lengths to meet someone on some kind of romantic pretense. Through the paper? It struck me as odd that lonely people would pay money to put their little snapshots of humanity into print there for all to see. They end up paying by the line and letter for someone to hand them a shovel to bury themselves with, custom fit holes in the ground, sad sad sad newspaper affairs. Anna yells from the bedroom as I stood over her kitchen disposal.

"Will I need some help with something today, can you come along? Will? Where the hell are you?"

I really didn’t want to come on whatever errand it was.

"I am at your disposal," I remarked. 

"Good then, lets leave this place, it stinks of romance and rubbed tree bark."

She looked at me for a confusing moment, and pointed to the shredded wood and said, "I never did understand how they make newspaper paper.”

I also never figured out how newspaper was made or what she was doing with the tree branches. What was always clear about Anna, and there wasn’t much, was that when she was driving you were going to grip for your life to whatever was stationary in the car. She would grapple with ten cd‘s at once, light a cigarette, adjust mirrors and makeup, switch lanes and talk on the phone while holding down a conversation with the passenger at the same time. She did everything but drive, when she was behind the wheel. You got used to that, because she was incredibly fluid with all her actions.

Every now and then, nature will make a person that seems to permeate everyday tasks like a beautiful mesh. Anna was like this, as if her ability to be beautiful gave her superhuman powers of ease with the daily facets of life. While it was easy for her, all those around her seemed to be tumbling in her wake. She swerved around a man on a curb without even looking; I heard his yell fade into the Doppler Effect as I turned around to see him pointing at our car.

The inside of the U.S.P.S. office was crowded with the reek of licked stamps and overworked government paychecks. There was such an abundance of people in there that numbers were being handed out on slips on paper at the front door.

”Be sure not to throw it away after," said the front clerk, "we reuse them." 

"What happens if we do?" I asked.

"We've got your number."

Someone always has your number in the beginning.

"Number 28, please come to the front," an overhead speaker rang.

I looked like at our ticket, it appeared to be four to the power of fifteen. I told myself I read it wrong, shifty eyes.

“What do you have to mail Anna?"

“I’m sending a suicide letter."

“To who?”

“To you, idiot.”

"Why not just give it to me now? I am standing with you. I couldn’t be any closer for delivery."

"Because that would be ridiculous, we are already at the post office."

"It would be ridiculous to mail it to me when I'm already here."

"No it wouldn’t, because you could just pick it up at the front instead of waiting for it to come to your house."

A couple was sitting next to us; they sneered up at me and said, "Would you mind keeping it down for a tick? We can’t hear our number being called."

Anna propped up, closed her fingers around her hand in a tight fist and said, "Do you mind? I am dying."

"Anna please, I wouldn’t wait in this line twice just to pick up a letter that you already have with us now. Just hand it to me.”

I reached over but she closed up fast and said, “I've already bought the stamps!"

"Number 29, come to the counter please."

People in lines, at government offices, seem so drained of life you can almost see right through them. They shed opaque, like thin layers of plastic stripping off a severed limb. If they stand just right, with the sun, you can see straight through the organized tolerance for waiting and observe that beneath the translucent social mores is just another torn appendage like everyone else, waiting to be delivered to another line. It is incredible that in the face of vast amounts of time being sucked dry, everyone will wait patiently and thank the leeches for starting the bleeding. The patient appendages just jockey for a smaller increase in the fraction of personal space that a government office will allow each person. Just enough so that you get a clear view of the angle of every body hair the man in front of you has, under overly bright fluorescent lights, illuminating all the scars of society with precision and clarity.

"Four to the power of fifteen, come to the counter please."

I followed Anna up to the desk. She set the manila down and explained her plan to the postal clerk.

"I need this delivered quickly, because I am dying, within the hour. Will I be able to receive post mortem confirmation of delivery?"

"I‘m sorry ma’am, this isn’t the delivery desk, here take this.” She handed Anna another slip of paper with a letter 'R' inscribed on it. "We recycle these slips daily for reuse so please return the one you had originally in this basket here."

The clerk directed us to another waiting area with even less space for breathing than the first. I almost expected that at some stage of this process we would be sitting on each others’ laps.

I looked at the girl next to me; she was clutching another slip of paper in her hands like ours. Instead of a letter, she had the Greek symbol for delta on hers. Across from me was a guy with the symbol for Mu on his. I started to worry that I was in the wrong waiting room. I hoped that when we reached the counter they wouldn't just exchange our slip for another one with a symbol on it. All these tokens of chronology, a number for an hour, a letter for a day, a Greek symbol for a lifetime.

Anna stared down at the girl next to me.

"Don't look at him, I'm dying."

“Theta, come to the front desk please."

"Jesus Anna we may never get out of here. We will just end up shifting ceaselessly through these innumerable offices, exchanging our numbers for letters for symbols for pictures, it may never stop."

“I need to mail this letter Will, I’m dying."

"In this place I think everyone is dying a little by the minute."

"Yea they've got our number," Anna said to me.

Even the signs around us were strangely morbid, claiming to offer incredible discounts of on post mortem delivery confirmation. Dissolving stamps that disappear in embalming fluid, stationary that disintegrates in rain or funeral tears. I began to wonder what kind of post office this was. At the front desk they seemed to be exchanging the symbols on the paper for slips marked with some strange hybrid of the Phoecian alphabet, perhaps even Egyptian hieroglyphs. The proper denotation for waiting on the paper appeared to be going backwards in liturgical time. I flashed that eventually they would just a hand us a stone wheel or flint rocks to wait with.

"Loin cloth, please come to the front counter."

Anna looked down at her envelope, "I wish I could just drop it in the limbo drop box and be done with it. I hate waiting in lines."

I peered down an open doorway to my left; it was littered with more people than I could count with numbers or symbols. There were mirrors or something in there, the offices and waiting rooms seemed to go on forever. With each additional waiting room, the people waiting seemed to be more and more translucent. They went on exponentially, each one more prismatic than the previous, waiting in enumerated shifts with their little reusable slips, severed limbs in a sealed luminous plastic wrapping.



imaginary girlfriends [May. 5th, 2010|02:40 pm]
     We argue about imaginary people, the ones I write about. She finds the stories written down on the back of sales sheets from my job. It really puts June in a rage to see that I have written anything about another woman, regardless of whether or not she’s imaginary.
     "I don't know why you have to keep doing the same tired old routines about the same tired old stereotypes. You always write women into being these beautiful crazy demons, or absolute angels, there is middle ground you know, and real women don’t live at these extremes that you think are so funny and true. Your ancient archetypes are old hat."
     She finds the stories though, usually in my binder of sales sheets, and she holds them up as though it’s some other womans clothes she has found in my bedroom.
     "Who the fuck is this? WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU WORD FUCKING IN THIS STORY? If I ever find another woman on paper in here, it’s going to be a hell storm of rage on your life. I will felonize on your body."
     Occasionally, June will prove my theories extremely right. I think its got something to do with the fact that you should never date a woman who has a month for a name. It gives them unnatural powers, maybe from nature, perhaps that would make them natural, I’m not sure.
     I had to start hiding the stories, hiding the fact that I was writing, hiding the fact that I was cheating with imaginary women in stories. I put the stories everywhere, in my pillow, in my sock drawers, folded up into my wallet next to my bus pass. One hot afternoon, I was riding the bus back from Boca in Florida, and I saw a section of my story on the bus floor, next to the thrown away bus passes. A week later I was doing laundry when I found a washed out page folded into four creases in the dryer, barely readable, dried up like a jellyfish in the sun.
     June started coming by less and less. I had been hiding a decent set of writing, hidden in the tape slot of my V.C.R, pressed up against the Sony logo. I felt this story was certainly worth reading. I bundled up it all up and sent it with little editing to a literary magazine here in Florida called “Closer”, that I was fairly certain no one read. I was actually glad to be rid of it. I kept fearing that for some reason, June would reach into my VCR and pull it out, scissor it in the air like a flying blender and burn the pieces with the venom in her fingers. There are few things more dangerous than a woman justified in her anger, even its malice against people that aren’t real, that makes it more dangerous, imaginary girlfriends tend to side against you too.
     June called me three weeks later to tell me that she had something incredible to tell me. For a girl who lived in angelic fits of joy and misery, excitement was the one thing that scared me the most. It could mean anything. I could be fending against a verbal onslaught or painting roses on ceramic bowls with her. Excitement in June was unpredictable, I usually kept band aids and paint brushes in the same drawer, in case of one or the other, or maybe both.
     She flew into my room twenty minutes later; speaking in jagged tears, shaking a few pages of loosely bounded pages together, her yelling was incomprehensible. But the embers in her eyes were scalding with disbelief.
     "It’s really something, Will. The raw deal, this is how you should be doing it. This guy makes no phony delays like your writing; you could learn a real angle if you wrote like this Dixie Alexander guy."
    Maybe I didn't tell you how careful I had been. I sent in the story with a pen name, to hide my identity in case she somehow read it, if it was somehow published, to protect myself. The pen name I used was Dixie Alexander.
     June was still winding through how much she liked this short story she had found in the "Closer" literary magazine.
     "... he approaches it in a such a fresh angle will, you could really learn from this writer", she started pointing out the lines I had written only three weeks ago.
     The lines of the story seemed a little different to me then, but I knew I had written them.
     "Will, you should try this style, or at least talk to this guy; he could maybe give you the secret.”
     “Yea”, I said, “I can't wait to meet him"
     My VCR stopped working two days later. When June came over again, she told me that "Closer" was publishing her new favorite author, Dixie Alexander, in a series. The same story scanned out across the next three issues. I was glad to hear that my story was going to make it somewhere, even if it meant hiding the fact that I wrote it. It was all becoming part of the routine, imaginary girlfriends, imaginary writers, writing about the arguments he has with his dame, April, that’s the name I gave her in the story, and publishing them in some magazine he thought only pretend people would read.
     I did myself a favor, and picked up the next issue of "Closer” when it came out the next day. I found a free copy on the floor at the laundromat; it looked like it had been through at least one spin cycle.
     I took out my red pen, and started marking the lines that I thought could have been written better. I felt a little tense post editing my own story with a red pen, but I started seeing literary holes in my writing. I was red deep in editing the already published story when June came through my door again. She had the same story in her hands, the same troubling excitement, and the same unpredictable inertia.
     "So has the full on jealousy settled in you yet? If it has I understand, it used to be you Will, but this guy has the edge I want. I’m going to go to incredible lengths to meet him. It’s so strange he’s writing this character April, I feel like he knows me, I’m just like that character! I wonder what he will think when he discovers that there is a girl like that around. He doesn’t just have to write about her, when he could meet her face to face, he will probably fall in love with me."
     "He will probably be sucked into some kind of logical paradox and vanish like steam after a shower. June, I think you would do better to leave him alone. This Dixie guy, sounds like he already has a full plate with whatever he has going on. Most guys write about women, as a way to distance them from their lives, to trap them there, on the page, to put a bright finish on the little spurts of sanity and beauty they see in them. For some, it’s the safest way to be around women, real and imaginary, even though I usually get defeated by both. It's control, June, it’s the only way he can control anything. Do you understand?"
     "I understand that you wish you could write like him."
     "Please! I could care less, this guy has no style, and he thinks he’s so great. But all his words and stupid descriptions don’t amount to the writing on the back of my bus pass in quality. I’ve read through this story a few times, and it gets a little more tiring with every read. This is just some lonely emo kid in a terrifying beach city, who probably got burned out posting his stories on the internet and took a lucky swing on this magazine. He doesn’t know what I do; writers usually take a swing and butt it for an easy out. What the hell do you see in this writing anyways?"
     June arches her back a couple more degrees, stretching out her fingers, dressed in bi color clothes all calico, and says, "I don’t know Will, it’s the feeling, its the motion, the energy, its just there in a way, that I almost always got with you, but it’s just here, in an easier way to grasp at. You can't always explain why one man is better than another; sometimes these facts are simply true on principle."
     Sometimes, when women really dig on a guys’ writing style, they like the wrong things in my opinion. They love the lie, not the line.
     I punched my fist into my open hand, "I bet I could take him June." And I meant it; this Dixie was not going to take June from me,
     "You'd probably just knock yourself out, Will."
     I was going to have to change it up if I was going to keep her, what she said about principles really clawed at me, she doesn’t even know this guy. I kept trying to visualize him in my mind, and I dreamt that night of beating up my imaginary foe. I woke up with a headache.
     When June brought over the last issue in the series, I had just become too tired to fight it. I just decided that this man, this Dixie Alexander, was a better writer than me. I was insanely jealous that a person I didn’t even know could write like this. I really admired his style. But I never told this to June. His stories, about his make believe girlfriends, how they fought with his real girlfriend, I really felt for the guy, I think I understood what he was going through. But my pride would not let me really like his work.
     The more and more June brought over the issues, watching her eyes flutter with that naive summer style dream stare, I hated him more and more. I pointed out the phrases to her that struck me as half assed, lazily written, and clearly misogynistic. I told June that this guy probably just wrote like this to attract women. He did this stuff on purpose. I told her, don’t try to meet him. If she did she might become a successful writer.
     I had this theory, girls who like writers; they are usually painters or actresses. They read this kind of writing, like Dixie’s’, and they build up this idea in their head of what he is like. (She didn’t believe anything of what I said) They build up this idea, and then they meet him, he turns out to be ok at first , but over time he goes more and more crazy, gets drunk on his success as a writer, starts keeping little notes he thinks are golden gems of writing, hidden everywhere in his house. He starts to fade away.
     His new girlfriend gets really bent out about his new way, his new way of thinking; this is not the guy she thought she was going to end up dating. This girlfriend, I told her, usually goes on to write a best selling novel about character disintegration, half the time about the writer she decided to date. June didn’t really take any of this to be real or valid. I decided not to point out Sylvia Plath.
     "Will, every time I bring over another one of Dixie’s new stories, you always have so many theories, about how you’re a better writer, a better man, it’s always the same. You and your theories and how great a writer you are, a woman gets tired of your shit. Filled with hot air, but your bullshit is a balloon that doesn’t want to fly. You’re fading into something bad. If you could take a tip from his style, you’d see a little clearer. His writing reminds me of those weird optical illusion paintings, all the vertical lines that convey the illusion of depth."
     “I definitely need that.”
     It's hard for me to admit defeat, but it’s happened before. This Dixie was just a flash in my head. I couldn’t even make out his features in my mind, but I was convinced that if we ever met, I would talk to him. He might an all right guy to smoke a cig with. We‘d probably fight over the same girl, beat each other into blue bruises, then be lifelong friends after, sharing old stories of make believe girlfriends that we had known in the months of June and April. He would tell me his theory about women with months as names.
     I knew what June saw in him. I think she liked his intent, I think she felt that he was trying to change. These kinds of women, tend to a like a guy in some kind of turmoil. They liken themselves to a man on the hinges of a crowded disaster. A crowd of fake people will maul you just as quickly as a runaway lawnmower.
     I had to respect it too. She liked him because he was trying, really. She fell for him in full eventually. She told me she was going to the publishers’ office to find out who he was. We hugged and she left. I sat staring at my broken VCR. June chose him because I think he was trying to do something right, even if he couldn’t remember what it was.


well there [Apr. 25th, 2010|09:59 am]
despite the recent insane long distance attacks on me by an ex girlfriend who told me that i am more involved in self stroking whore around promotions, i still have to put a few bits of info out there.
first, i liked the "saving lives" story, maybe it lost some steam when it went on into "credit system suicide", but i am ok with that, i infer that it was not as, well , rifled with slicy one liners that curl like purple embers, but i am also ok with that.

second, i am still trying to tie together a manuscript of a very long story written so long ago that I am not even certain that I wrote it. it is my hope, that this is the short novel that gets accepted.

if you, and yes you, want to help will out a little, theres a few things that would help


go there and write anything in the vote field at the bottom, anything you say, should count as a vote for me to get a book deal with open heart publishing, even if you write, that i am a slouch jawed yokel, if you are feeling extra frisky, buy the book im in from there, who knows, maybe it will be worth, less than zero at one point in time far off.

and trust me i disagree with my x, she brings up points, but the tone of an angry x girlfriend over seven states of copper telephone wire is enough to make anyone doubt their own existence.

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