I mean it from the bottom of my [HEART].

1. Walk your dog! 2. Run a mile! 3. Make 7 sandwiches. Eat them! 4. Prank call all the friends you know are sleeping! 5. Make a bookshelf naked! 6. Solve P versus NP ! 7. Bass fishing! 8. Grease a pig. Catch it! 9. Sing an opera in front of your neighbors home at the top of your lungs! 10. Go to Wal-Mart. Steal all the food you can carry. Donate it to the homeless. Eat it in front of them!

1. Buy a new toothbrush as the one that I currently own  has the slight scent of aged cheese, as well as a bit of the color. 2. Get a haircut. To say that my hair is merely 'uneven' would be a gross understatement resulting in an entire flock of angels falling down dead as a result of my untruths. I will never be accepted into heaven, as God shall never forgive me. 3. Buy some cat food, for underneath all of that fur lies a feline of pure skin and bone. She will die soon from starvation. As it stands I feed her bits of my Cinnamon Toast Crunch from the bowl in between bites. We are currently team eaters. 4. Invest in a few pairs of long socks. The winter months are soon to set in and without adequate warmth for my legs whilst wearing unseasonably short skirts, I will fall ill and die. Also, because of the set of angels I had slain previously, I will be sent directly to hell, where although it will be warm enough for my unseasonably short skirt, will be rather vexing as it

Happy. He asked me once if I was ever happy. I had to think for a long time in order to answer his question. If what I perceived as happiness with him was really happiness. Or if it were what I forced myself to believe was happiness. After a long moment of silence, I finally opened my mouth to speak. "No, I don't suppose I ever was."

A few nights ago, I was left at the imaginary altar. My bedroom, the church filled with all of our imaginary family and friends joined together as imaginary guests. My imaginary groom long gone, bags packed as you ran out the door with only the excuse of 'this just isn't working out anymore,' to tide me over. My not-so-imaginary tears did nothing to make you stay. All that you left behind was me standing alone to explain to everyone just why you weren't going to make it to the imaginary wedding.

Excluding the unfortunate soul I lost my virginity to in the first place, I can honestly say that I have never had sex with any one person more than once. I suppose to some that would make it seem like I am promiscuous. The phrase 'tantric whore' is the one my cousin used to describe me once, actually. It could be assumed that I just have sex with a bunch of people. Only once. Numbers start stacking after a while, I would imagine. Maybe someone who only has sex with a person once, but has somehow had sex upwards of fifty times in a year would be given the title of whore. I'm certain that if a girl has sex with four men in a month people go around whispering behind her back. That's at least a man per week. But truth be told, this could also mean that I don't have that much sex. What happens if I don't have sex with everyone with a warm body that I come across? Once doesn't seem so bad if it's only something that comes around every time the moon turns g

I still consider myself to be a bit of a child. It all boils down to the fact that I have yet to learn from my mistakes. Not to say, that I do not learn from the mistakes I make, however. I just believe that I have many mistakes left to make. And therefore many things that I have yet to learn. Only then can I think of myself as an adult.

"Does it bother you that I have sex with other women?" he asks. The question catches me a little bit off guard. We were laying naked together in bed. It just didn't seem like an appropriate time or place to ask that kind of thing. Or to answer it. A noncommittal grunt is my only response. What could I possibly have to say in response to that? Yes, I am bothered by the fact that you sleep with other women. The thought alone makes me feel sick to my stomach . "Because, if it's a problem for you, we'll probably have to stop doing this kind of thing." "You already have a girlfriend," I remind him. "I knew you were having sex with her when this whole thing started. Why would I start getting mad about it now?" It becomes apparent to me then that I'm not the one who this question should be directed toward. There is a whole other person someone out there who doesn't know that she's a part of a sex triangle. Plus, she didn't

In another life, known as the age of 14, I had a big crush on a boy. Before I get started recalling any type of detail about the nature of our relationship - no relationship whatsoever, actually - I feel compelled to describe our differences in outward appearance. Jason, last name Whothehellknows, was a rather attractive specimen of boy. Tall, slender, rather nice hair, amazing glasses. He was probably the boy that got me started on my love of guys that wear glasses, actually. I liked them so much that I even renamed him. Pretty Glasses Boy he was dubbed, PGB for short and I was completely infatuate. So was the rest of the female student body, to be honest. He delivered letters and memos to other classrooms for the office and you could hear the murmur down the hall from the girls after he left a room. I, on the other hand, was on the other side of aesthetically pleasing. I was short, too skinny, and my hair was wrong. Come to think of it, when isn't my hair wrong? I digress. He

8:00 pm “All you have to do is throw her some dollars,” Ken says. Apparently it’s all in the wrist and I’m tossing the money wrong. I never knew there was a way to do it wrong, but I have found a way. It’s 8 pm and I’m at Strokers. For my birthday. Two weeks late. I’m not complaining. 9:47 pm “Do you want anything else to drink? Another shot of Patron good?” Ned and Ken have been pumping me full of alcohol for the past hour and change. I wish I knew what they were trying to achieve. “So, how many more shots do we need to get you before you start taking off your top?” 9:53 pm Her name is Alex. She’s a rather nice girl considering that I met her from staring at the inside of her vagina. Which, I must say, is a really great way to start a conversation. “Hey, I love your necklace!” Hit a split. “The one with the rainbows, I mean.” Cheeks spread… Man, it’s really pink in there. 10:51 pm I’m at The Hideout now. I managed to drive to Anabelle’s house and not crash the car, so I feel rather

I yawned a few minutes ago and for a moment I couldn’t move. My neck was stuck in an awkward way and I had tears in my eyes from what I imagine was pain. It was only about 10 seconds, but it seemed like 10 years instead. I took the time to think about things I was opposed to. Like dying with my head stuck to the left mid-yawn face. Or fat girls in booty shorts. Or wasps. I’m greatly opposed to wasps.

I just want to know why it is that men keep looking at me with all those eyes? Eyes, alone, sexy as all hell. I want nothing more than for a boy to stare at me with his so I can stare at him with mine. Kind of like a contest that I'm always hopeful no one ever has to win. Victory only means that we need to stop staring at each other. And why would I ever want to do that. Add some extra eyes to the already awesome pair, and you've got yourself a weak-kneed girl. Does it make me kinky to find glasses so insanely attractive? Am I a freak nasty for wanting to kiss a boy senseless for being blind? I mean, I'm really sorry if you're near-eyed, far-eyed or just plain fucked in the cornea, but I feel like it should be okay for me to benefit from your problem. If I could find a way to get a boy to keep their glasses on twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, I'd probably stay hot every day for the rest of my life. I understand that sex with a pair of lenses held by a pie

I cheat on my wife. Quite regularly, I might add. It's not even one of those situations where I 'm doing it behind her back, however. She knows; the extent of how much a mystery to even me. In my day, I was never known as the man who dated stupid women, and I definitely didn't marry her because she had less than a 4.2 GPA in high school. She was the valedictorian to my salutatorian and nothing makes my pants a little tighter than a smart woman, but that wasn't even the reason I married her. I married her because she didn't judge me for my faults and blindly loved me beyond all reason. I've loved her since the day we met and I'll continue to love her for as long as she'll allow and I suppose that's the reason that I feel even the slightest bit guilty about what it is that I do. The acts that I commit that go against the sanctity of our marriage. I love my wife. I just don't love her enough to not want to have sex with other women. Two years ago, I

I spend a great deal of my time worrying about what to say. What would be the best way to phrase words and sentences without sounding like a complete loser dork asshole? It never really works out that well, considering all that time I spend thinking would be better used just talking. By the time I have thought of something adequately satisfying, the moment has passed and so has the topic of conversation. Thus the vicious cycle starts itself all over again.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit, fuckgodamn. Flip the script every once in a while... otherwise, you're just fucking boring, aren't you? -------------------------- The train is dirty. The lights flicker slightly with the unreliability of florescence. On. Off. On. Off. Buzz. Its kind of dazzling in a way. One of those types of lights that can put a person in a trance if stared at for long enough periods of time. I wasn't completely there, but I was just on the verge of losing myself in the lights when I heard a sniffling. A quiet sobbing. Muttered words from the girl sitting across from me. And then my trance was gone. Now I just wanted to tell the sniveling bitch to shut the fuck up. What the hell are you complaining about? Is life that fucking hard for you? Does your daddy touch you at night? Does your mommy watch and provide the video? Is it being sold for $19.99 an episode on the internet? If not, then you really need to stop your bitching and move the fuck on with life. Lets thi

Summer Summer romance is a whirlwind that passes just as fast as it comes. On a hot summer day on the way to buy a jug of milk I met a boy outside the supermarket. He became my first boyfriend and he was perfect. He put up with me when I was angry. He gave me hugs when I was sad. He kissed my face when I felt lonely. That summer I was blind to anyone and everyone outside of what was us. Those who vied for my attention no longer existed. Everyday people on the street ceased to be seen. My world was him and he was my world and that is exactly what made it so devastating when my world exploded and everything that I ever had and ever loved was viciously ripped away from me. In the blink of an eye. Never to be seen again. Halfway through the summer I told him I loved him. “I love you,” I said. “I’ll love you today, I’ll love you tomorrow, I’ll love you for as long as I possibly can.” That’s what I told him. I said it so I meant it. He touched my face with his hands, those hands that I loved

Words are the canvas for which the story is painted. The hues and colors your feelings. The reds. The greens. The blues. Smoldering. Tranquil. Melancholic. With a gentle brushstroke, the world is changed.

I'm only supposed to be using this as a creative outlet for myself, but the juices don't seem to be flowing very well recently. I'll write something and then I'll leave it for a few days and by the time I come back it looks like complete and utter rubbish. I know I'm just whining right now, but something must be done. About 10 minutes ago, I decided that I was going to go for a run on the tredmil. You know, get the blood pumping, get in some exercise, work that cardio and all that good stuff. I prepare to put my foot into my running shoe, and all of a sudden a big ass roach just flies out of it. I'm getting a bit tired of these roaches in all honesty. Fuck them. They need to stay away from my shoes. But yeah, runnie run run and all that jazz. Where my music at?

I just want to spin. In that kind of way that makes you dizzy. Dizzy in a way that makes you crazy. Crazy in a way that makes you happy. Happy in a way that makes you love. Love in a way that makes everything okay. Everything okay. Everything. Okay?

September 4 th She’s beautiful. Look at her. Are you looking at her? Well, why the fuck not Larry? That bitch is going to be my future ex-wife. She’s perfect for the job, don’t you think? The face, the body, the way that every time she notices me staring at her she quickly looks the other way. Imagine the possibilities. September 13 th Larry, stop spouting bullshit. Of course she knows who I am. We have 3 classes together. She has no choice. She’s just playing that good ol’ hard-to-get. That’s okay, though. Because I’m going to walk right up to her at the end of class and give her my phone number. Sometimes you just have to man up on these hoes to let them know what’s what. September 14 th Okay, so I chickened out. Don’t laugh, Larry! I’m just trying to give her some time to get ready for all this greatness. Plus, I have to figure out exactly what I want to say to her. I can’t mess it up by saying something weird and having her never want to speak to me again. September 17 th Ay, yo

In the movies you kiss someone and its always magic. And it's all bombs. And fireworks. And stars that light up the sky. And babies are born. In real life you kiss someone and its rarely magic. And its bad breath. And saliva. And groping. And all you want to do is run away. All I want to do in this moment is run far, far away. This is horrible. This is more than horrible. This is everything NOT good in the world. I.e.: Dead animals, roast beef, Slipknot. This is.... bad breath, saliva, groping plus all of the aforementioned rolled all up into one package of boy lips and oral cavities. How does one person even manage to get all of that in there? It's been about 2 minutes of me looking at the bar scenery and him going 'Mmm, baby you taste so good bla bla bla,' and I'm really hoping that he's planning on coming up for air soon. Or maybe to rehydrate, seeing as all of his body's moisture has left him through his mouth and onto my face. Luckily for me, he does ne

I was eleven when the hospital called to tell us that Momma had died. Eleven and a half when Papa started drinking. Twelve when I realized that I could no longer sleep. Thirteen when Papa found out that he loved me too much. Fourteen when I found out that his love was, indeed, too much. Seventeen when I finally ran away. One night Papa came home from a long night at work with his partners Jack Daniels and Jameson Irish in the bar around the corner and he came into my room and he held me close and crawled into my sheets and I blocked out everything because I had gotten so good at blocking it out and then he was done and he told me he loved me and it would all be better in the morning and I heard him go downstairs and start snoring from the couch and I thought about what he said and and and It would all be better in the morning. I got out the suitcase that Momma had gotten me for Christmas that one year that we decided to go caroling in the streets and bring our neighbors Christmas cook

He rode in from the darkness, on his glorious steed. He kisses me so fast that I don’t even know it was there. He calls me mean names, pulls my hair, pushes me to the ground. .i’m in love.