And Other Things From This Time Preview


I often wonder what it feels to die
Does it feel like I do now
All alone with no one to talk too
I do this to myself
Yet I don’t know the answers to my own questions
I often wonder how soon
Will all this prove to be meaningless
They say you pave your own way
But what if it’s not true
What if this is nothing more than a collection
Of me and you
I often wonder about God
Am I him or is it you
All reason would lead to nothing at all
I feel like I know what I’m saying
But in the end it all seems to come out the same
Blood in blood out and all that shit
Maybe life is nothing more than a brotherhood
Of bull shit
I do this to myself
Get all upset for no good reason
I often wonder what it feels to die
And I know it has to feel like this

Into the Wild

I was a drifter
I was a wanderer
I was everything
You could ever want to be
I was a vagrant
I was a tramp
I was everything
You could ever want of me
I can’t die
Into the wild
I can’t die
Into the wild
My soul is my sacrifice
I can’t die
Into the wild

Knows When to Turn it Off

She said it mattered but it didn’t
She’s a good enough actor to portray Bruce Campbell
More of a dig, unless you enjoy that kind of shit
Be honest with yourself
There’s more in life than not giving a shit
She said she loved me but she didn’t
She’s as truthful as advertising
More of a reality, unless you believe that kind of shit
Be honest with yourself
Nothing ever ends like the movies
She said it was over but only after she dragged it on
She’s as demented as Clark W. Griswold
More of a lie, unless you believe it was an accident
Be honest with yourself
You would have noticed the blood trail at some point
She said it mattered
She said she loved me
She said it was over
Now I’m just sitting here watching
Shitty movies, of our past in my head
Wondering when I became the villain

Three poems from my poem collection And Other Lost Things From This Time now available on Kindle.  The last two previews have been on the sad side so I thought why not show you a bit of my pop culture obsessed side. Into the Wild was written and based on the same thought and idea as the movie/book. I really enjoyed Chris’s story even though it was very tragic what happened.  I was really hoping it was going to end the way a lot of us dream it would. Well worth the read if you haven’t already. The movie is also good, but there is a book so yeah you already know. Check out both if you have the time.

Knows When to Turn it Off is not the greatest example of my work, but some of those lines are pretty good. It was more of a dead idea where the theme was much better than the outcome. However how often do you see a poem with a reference to Clark W. Griswold? Exactly. For the record I enjoy Bruce Campbell films, but the lines “worked” the way they did.

To Become King Part 2


The elevator door opens to the 20th floor. A man and a woman are standing there discussing stock trades. The woman asks, “Going up or down?” The stranger turns to Mr. Orr who responds with, “Up.” “Oh well we are going down,” the door closes before she can say anything else. The stranger presses the button to reopen the door, but nothing happens. The stranger asks, “Are you sure that wasn’t the floor you needed?” “Yes, I’m sure that wasn’t the floor.” “We didn’t even get a good enough look. You know that’s what I hate about these office buildings. Everything is just too fast. Get on get off. You know?” Mr. Orr puts his hand on his loaded revolver as the stranger looks away, “I agree.” He’s not going to shoot the stranger in the elevator, but he is going to need a way to convince him to do exactly as he says. The stranger grows even more impatient. He bought time by checking in at the desk, but if he doesn’t get to the meeting soon the deal is off the table. The elevator stops on the 25th floor and the doors open to reveal an empty floor.

The stranger looks puzzled at the site of nothing but the skeleton of a former office space. “Yep this is the floor,” Mr. Orr takes his gun and places it to the stranger’s back. “I think it is best if you join me.” Confused the stranger doesn’t know what to do. “What the hell is going on here?” He asks. Mr. Orr pushes him through the open elevator doors. The elevator doors just miss the back of Mr. Orr’s suit as they close, “No questions at least not yet.” Mr. Orr walks the man around the empty floor. There really is nothing on this floor but windows and frames of future walls. Convinced that they are alone on the floor he marches the stranger over to something he can see in the corner. Laying in the corner is a left behind office chair. “Pick up the chair,” he orders the stranger. Mr. Orr takes some rope out of his brief case as the man stands there shaking, “Sit in the chair.” Reluctant the man hesitates before Mr. Orr touches his back once again with the gun. “I had other plans for this rope, but sometimes things don’t go as planned.” Mr. Orr ties the man to the chair and positions himself behind him.

“Why, why are you doing this to me?” The stranger asks. Mr. Orr calmly takes his jacket and places it gently into his brief case, “Because I meet a man who looked like you once. And I killed him. Or as it may have turned out I didn’t. The thing of it is you can never be too damn sure. Yet that is my job. My place in this world. To make sure people stay dead. So you can understand why this isn’t personal. It’s just part of the job.” The silence of the room is taken over by the sound of the revolver blowing out the back of the man’s head. Mr. Orr wipes the stranger’s blood off of his face. He reaches into the back pocket of the stranger’s pants taking out the stranger’s wallet and opening it up. His name was Marvin Johnson and he was not the man Mr. Orr thought he was. “This has to end today. I can’t keep living like this. Marvin I am sorry,” he says to the corpse.

He opens his brief case and puts his jacket back on. The stranger is now another face that will haunt Mr. Orr. One more of the innocents he never wanted anything to do with. The years haven’t been kind to him. Bending him and shaping him into something he never wanted to be. Mr. Orr walks back to the elevators. Mr. Orr looks at his watch and presses the up button on the elevator panel. Before the elevator arrives he screws his silence on to his pistol.  Placing it back into the holster inside his jacket. He places a small blade into his right jacket sleeve just out of view. Finally the elevator has arrived. Three business men look confused as he steps in and presses the 30th floor button without saying a word.

Years Earlier

“I specifically had you brought in. I heard you’ve done a lot of work out of Chicago. Good work. So, I called you in,” Mr. Green says before taking a drink of his whiskey. Mr. Orr eyes him intently, “Thank you for your call.” He looks at the giant painting of Mr. Green sitting just behind its subject. He must really think highly of himself. “As I understand there’s a little bit of trouble happening on this side of the border.” Mr. Orr tries to fight back a smile. If it wasn’t for the money I wouldn’t even be here he thinks. “Right to businesses I see. Yes there is a little bit of trouble. Some people don’t understand who is really in charge around here,” Mr. Green is offended by Mr. Orr’s mocking of him, but he is the best there is. “A rival family has decided to move into my town. They’ve made it clear that they want this city, and now I need you to send a message that this is my town and will always be my town.” Mr. Orr nodes his head. I guess they’re all the same no matter where I go he thinks. Mr. Green starts up again, “There’s an illegal gambling casino owned by the son of the rival family.” “What’s the family’s name?” Mr. Orr asks. “What?” Mr. Green looks puzzled at the question. Mr. Orr restates his question, “What is the name of the rival family?” “Oh, oh the rival family’s name is Barr. Some Irish fucks who couldn’t make it in the states.” Mr. Orr again nodes his head, he pretends to not hear the difference in Mr. Green’s voice, but he did. Hard to believe some Irish mob would decide to give up and move up north. The Irish are not ones to just to give up like that, but I guess anything is possible. “The place is called Paddy’s Place and it’s on the south side of the city. I know that you are an expert at killing, but I am paying you extra however for you to not kill their son. I just want you to leave a message not start a war. Ruff him up a little, but don’t kill him.” Mr. Orr stares at Mr. Green, he thinks that all of this keeps getting stranger and stranger. Who hires a trained killer to just rough up some young punk ass kid? Why pay so much for only a message? More than one thing doesn’t seem right about all of this. Mr. Orr begins to open his mouth but is cut off. “His name is Ezekiel Barr.”


Mr. Orr steps into the crowded office floor of the 30th floor. Passing cubical after cubical he tries to appear calm through the sea of them. Moving through a maze of busy businessmen and women typing away at their computers or running to the copier. He walks to the secretary of the man he is there to kill. She is busy talking on the phone. Anyone walking on this floor would never think that the man in charge here is dirtier than a pig in shit he thinks. Mr. Orr asks, “Is the boss in?” The secretary waves her hand at him to hold on a second, “I’m going to have to call you back George. Ok sounds good.” Mr. Orr moves close to her desk in order to block her from the view of the rest of the room. She hangs up the phone and looks at her daily planner, “There’s no scheduled appointments for two o’clock, but I guess I can see if he can take you anyways. Just a moment.” Before she has time to pick up the phone Mr. Orr has taken the small blade and pierced it through her neck destroying her vocal cords. The secretary is still fighting to breathe making a gargling sucking noise. She is only making things worse for herself. The sound of her struggling isn’t loud enough to cause any alarm amongst her busy co-workers. Mr. Orr ends the secretaries suffering by stabbing the blade in the back of her neck severing the spinal cord. He lays her motionless body face first on her desk. Hopefully no one will notice the pool of blood building under her desk long enough for me to do what I need to do and get out he thinks. He quickly makes his way to the office door. Looking around before taking his pistol out of its holster inside his jacket. Mr. Orr turns the handle of the door and enters the office.

“Well hello Mr. Orr it’s a pleasure to see you again,” says the man behind the desk. “Hello Mr. Green, I don’t know if pleasure is the word I’d use for this occasion just yet.” Mr. Green stands up and gestures to a chair in front of his desk never flinching, “I assumed you were dead, at least that’s what I heard. There were rumors.” Gun still pointed directly at Mr. Green, “Maybe because you tried to have me killed in New York City. Even got pretty close to making it happen that time. Sadly there is not enough time to show you the scares.” Mr. Green grimaces before giving off a deep hearty laugh, “I’m afraid compare scares would be pointless at this point. He all have a few now don’t we?” Slowly making his way into the room Mr. Orr tries to keep him talking, “Why are you trying to have me killed?” Smiling, “As if you don’t really know deep down why. But what’s done is done so why not take a seat we have lots to talk about.” Mr. Orr takes two more steps into the room with the gun still pointed at Mr. Green, “I have nothing left to say to you Mr. Green. What’s been done has been done. For years now you’ve tried to set me up and destroy me. Every time you have failed, but now it’s my turn to succeed where you have failed.” The door slowly closes behind Mr. Orr as he cocks his pistol ready to fire. A whistling sound comes from behind Mr. Orr. It enters through the back of his head sending him to his knees and eventually to the floor.

“What a shame. He was the best assassin I’ve ever seen. What a pathetic way to go,” Mr. Green says to the killer that was waiting behind the door. “I told you I saw him standing in the elevator on the 20th floor with some guy in a navy suit dad,” the gunman with a huge scar on the left side of his face says. “And he was right about one thing, you did fail.” Ezekiel picks up Mr. Orr’s gun and points it at Mr. Green. “And what do you plan on doing with that gun Ezekiel? How do you expect this to end?” Mr. Green asks. Ezekiel pulls the trigger plunging two rounds into Mr. Green’s chest, “The way it should have ended years ago. The son becomes the king.”

This One Is For Mel and Clever…

Or anyone who wants to listen…

This beat is infectious… The soundtrack to my life… Also, If you are interested in seeing this movie you should, but it is weird as fuck… David Lynch weird… The music is on point all day though…



This is a separate song… Much slower, but it puts me in a good trance…


If you want to go further down the rabbit hole… Die Antwoord… ZEF… ZEF all day…


Okay, I am done… Anyone who hasn’t been to Mel or Clever’s Blogs… You should check them out… They love music… writing… and all things really…



Why do none of my links ever work… Please copy and paste… if they didn’t work… Okay, I’m off to sleep or my version of it… Which is reading until I pass out before work…

To Become King Part 1

“Because I meet a man who looked like you once. And I killed him. Or as it may have turned out I didn’t. The thing of it is you can never be too damn sure. Yet that is my job. My place in this world. To make sure people stay dead. So you can understand why this isn’t personal. It’s just part of the job.” The silence of the room is taken over by the sound of the revolver blowing out the back of the man’s head.

Years Earlier

A man dressed in an all-black suit sits at a table outside of a café in Quebec, Ontario. The man sips his espresso and he waits. The man doesn’t have to wait long before another man dressed in a black suit and red tie takes the seat across from him. It’s too cold for most people to be sitting outside in that time before the end of winter and the beginning of spring. Even with the snow cling to the sides of the buildings around them it is a nice day and they are not most people. Before the man has any chance of delivering a greeting the man in all black asks, “Is the job done Mr. Orr?” Mr. Orr’s deep voice answers back swiftly, “Would I be here if it wasn’t Mr. Green?” “No I guess you wouldn’t be. So it’s safe to say the man got the message then?” “Well nothing is ever safe to say, but yes the man has gotten the message.” Mr. Orr looks Mr. Green in the eye and says, “Did you want some kind of guarantee?” Mr. Green tenses up to the question, “Well as a matter of fact I would like some kind of guarantee. In fact to tell you the truth Mr. Orr I would have preferred proof. You weren’t on an errand. You weren’t being paid to pick up my fucking dry cleaning. You were being paid to deliver a message to someone. Someone I might add that hasn’t been seen or found since an unknown assailant raided his club last night. Not the cops, not his whore of a wife, and surely not anyone in my organization. I’ll admit that this in most cases would be a good thing. I’d clap my fucking hands and say good job. Way to fucking go.” Mr. Orr straightens up in his seat. “But,” Mr. Green continues, “But I didn’t pay you to kill this asshole. I paid you to scare him. That was it.” The café becomes quite as the two men stare each other down. “You should try to stay calm Mr. Green. You’re starting to make a scene.” Mr. Green slams his fist hard into the table knocking over what is left of his espresso. Mr. Orr pulls something out of his left coat pocket and hands it to Mr. Green. The crowd in the café slowly return to their conversations and drinks. “The man is dead and the job is more than done. I can’t help it if the cops in this town can’t find a dead body, but the man you sent me to scare. That man is dead.” Mr. Green takes the article that Mr. Orr handed him. Mr. Green folds the paper and places it into his suit pocket, “Yes, Yes it appears that he is, but you were sent to send a message.”  Mr. Green again clenches his fist, “And since there’s no body to speak of, would you ever so kindly like to tell me why?” Mr. Orr sighs, “Well there were complications.”


Mr. Orr stands at the curb in the arrival area of Toronto’s Pearson International Airport as a taxi pulls up next to him. He enters the taxi, “First Canadian Place.” The cab driver begins to talk, “Ah buddy what you here for? Business? Pleasure?” Mr. Orr pulls some money out of his pocket and slips it to the driver. “No talking. Just drive,” he says in his deep voice. The taxi driver takes the money, “Anything you want buddy.” The driver looks at the money. “Anything you want.” The cab driver pulls out on to the road and heads for down town Toronto.

The taxi pulls to the curb of west Kings Street to deliver the man known only as Mr. Orr to his destination. He picks up his brief case, hands the driver some more money, and exits the cab. The taxi pulls away to join the sea of cars on King Street.  Straightening his suit Mr. Orr looks around him. The noise of the city flips a switch in his head. The noise reminds him why he likes the peacefulness of the country. The seclusion from people and society has provided a sanctuary from all the evil he has done throughout his life. No people means no reminders. He begins the slow walk towards the entrance of the First Canadian Place passing businesses men on their lunch break, a crowd of female tourist visiting from the states, and more people than he can count within a few glances. His focus is on one thing. His focus doesn’t waver. As he pulls the door open an attractive woman cuts him off on her way into the lobby. Mr. Orr is forced to stop and he is bumped hard from behind. He turns around quick, too quick for someone who is pretending to be a normal business man and not a trained killer. As he spins around ready for anything, what he sees is not what he had expected to see. The man who ran into him quickly apologizes to Mr. Orr without the slightest notice as to who he is. Mr. Orr however is now transfixed on the face of the stranger. He nods to the stranger and watches his eyes for the slightest sense of hesitation. The man apologies again and heads off. Staring him down all the way to the security desk Mr. Orr can’t help but to think, to know that he has unfinished business with this man.

Mr. Orr joins the man at the security desk making sure to stand two people behind him in the line that has formed. He never takes his eyes of the stranger. The stranger has a face he remembers like all the other he has killed. He looks to his watch. I still have time before I’m expected upstairs he thinks to himself. Mr. Orr over hears that the man is headed for the 35th floor as he looks at the floor legend posted by the security desk. Apparently the stranger has a meeting that he mustn’t be late for. The man might be late for that meeting he thinks because we have a thing or two to work out. Mr. Orr follows the stranger once again.

Years Earlier

“You don’t fucking get it do you motherfucker,” the stranger screams at Mr. Orr. “You’re dying here today one way or another.” Mr. Orr screams back, “Oh and how do you see that happening?” “You’ve made one too many mistakes here tonight asshole. I don’t know how you managed to get your weapons past security, but it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to realize you don’t have enough bullets left to finish this. How many you got stranger?” The mark asks Orr. Pulling out the clip to his gun Mr. Orr begins to count, “One, two, three.” Mr. Orr stares at a mirror adjacent from his position behind a desk, from what he can see the man isn’t being very smart, it’s hard to figure out his exact position, as the mirror is slightly blurry from the water of the fire sprinklers, but he can see enough to make the shot he needs. “Four, five, looks like six. I’ve got six shots. Good news is that I only need one. Now it’s your turn how many you got? How many are you going to need?” The stranger begins to laugh and shake his head in a fit of rage. Beads of water fling off of his head, “You’ve got balls. Big hairy balls.”

Mr. Orr is starting to feel the chill of the water on his face and hands. Each falling drop landing in pain on his body. Canadian winters can be bitter and harsh much like the man with the gun in his hand. The mark keeps talking, “What you got nothing to say now? How about I make you fucking talk?” The man fires three bullets throughout the room. The three shots don’t hit anything remotely near Mr. Orr. The mark has no idea where Mr. Orr is or the colds getting to him as well or both. “How about you just tell me who sent you and we can go have a laugh and a drink?” The stranger fires another round from his gun. “Who fucking sent you?” Mr. Orr rises up from behind the desk he has been taking cover under and fires one shot, “As far as you’re concerned God sent me.” The shot grazes the stranger on the left side of the head and forces the man back into the cracked window behind him. The mark falls two stories into the night as the window gives out.

No telling if the shot was fatal, too much water blurring his view, but if the shot didn’t get him the fall must have. Mr. Orr keeps his gun raised and walks to the window. Ready for anything this has been one fucked up night. The shattered window has traces of blood on the shards of glass still left in the frame. He looks out the window into the dark night, “Fuck.” Mr. Orr stares at the icy river below him, “If the bullet didn’t kill him the cold, the cold water should have finished him off. Fuck.” After a moment Mr. Orr turns to the mark’s desk. He takes an envelope from the top drawer and slips it into his pocket. He eyes the picture frame on the desk, Green.


Mr. Orr stands next to the man he believes he has seen once before. The man wears a navy blue suit with a white tie. The suit isn’t expensive like Mr. Orr’s, but the man is still dressed up all the same. They enter the elevator together. With just the two of them the man gives a weak smile and presses the button for the 35th floor. The stranger asks Mr. Orr, “What floor do you need buddy?” Mr. Orr is shocked that the stranger still hasn’t shown any familiarity with him. He smiles, “You know it’s the craziest thing I really can’t remember.” He gives a slight hint of laughter, “It’s either the 20th floor or the 25th floor. I’m not too sure though.” Annoyed the stranger presses the buttons for the 20th floor and the 25th floor and turns to look at Mr. Orr, “Well I guess we will just have to find out than.” The stranger turns away from Mr. Orr. The stranger checks his watch and grips his brief case tighter.

Mr. Orr hasn’t taken his eyes off the back of the man’s head. He knows this has to be the mark from his past, but the man has no recollection of him. The stranger has no signs of a scar on his face where the bullets should have passed. Maybe he never hit him at all. Mr. Orr begins to question his memory of the events. Can this be the man he thinks it is? He decides he can’t take the chance or risk. All things have led to this very day.

Years Earlier

“No weapons beyond this point. Have you been checked for a weapon yet?” The rather large door guard asks. “You know, you’ll think that this funny,” the noise admitted from the gun was more of a whisper than a bang. “I didn’t,” the door man falls face first on to his desk admitting a heavy thud.

Mr. Orr waits a moment with two silenced pistols stretched out aimed directly at the back stair well door. Nothing comes out and nothing lies on the other side of the door except the stairs. He moves at a fast steady pace up the stairs. He has no way of knowing what lies ahead at the top of the stairs. He was lucky enough to find a disgruntled employee willing to tell him the best way to get in after a few drinks. Mr. Orr place one gun into its holster and knocks on the door at the top of the stairs. “Who the fuck is it?” Answers back. “You weren’t buzzed by Smith.” “By Smith do you mean the rather large fellow watching the door? Cause he seemed rather busy with what looked like a nice piece of ass and just told me to go right on up.” The door opens, “That lazy piece of shit can’t ever get anything right.” The skinny man behind the door drops to his knees, yet another victim of Mr. Orr’s pistol. “Timmy who the fuck was it?” A second man asks. The man reaches for his pistol as Mr. Orr takes him out. The man squeeze one round off into the floor on his way down. The sound echoes through the tiny hall way giving away any surprise entrance to the party in the next room.  The shot not only interrupt his plan, but those beneath them as well. He can hear the screams of panic, the sudden rushing of footsteps, and the overall chaos begin below him. It’s seems that the illegal gambling hall will be closing early tonight. Whether it was the second man’s poor attempt to kill Mr. Orr or a scared patron from down stairs the ceiling’s fire sprinklers begin to release water all over the room. The sound of the fire alarm is nearly deafening coming from the stair well, but somehow Mr. Orr is still able to hear the sound of the door opening at the other end of the hall. “Whoever the mother fucker is make sure they’re dead,” comes from the room at the end of the hall. Mr. Orr’s mark is more than aware of his presence even if he has no idea who he is. Mr. Orr takes out the first man with a clean shot. The second man manages to fire two whole shots before he too drops to the ground. The third man however manages to get off a whole clip. Missing with every shot as Mr. Orr takes cover behind Timmy’s old desk. The third man rushes towards the desk unaware that he is only pulling the trigger on an empty gun. With all the time in the world Mr. Orr shoots the charging man square in the chest stopping him dead in his tracks. A man at the stair well door barely misses Mr. Orr’s head before taking two of his own bullets to the chest and falling down the stairs. The door slamming behind him. “Close, real fucking close,” Mr. Orr says to himself. Mr. Orr reloads both weapons before proceeding any further. “No one dies am I understood,” he says in a mocking tone. “No one dies.”


Part 2 coming tomorrow… 

Paco Called In Sick Today

Feel as if I’ve adopted insomnia though it is more as if insomnia adopted me. Awake or asleep doesn’t matter my mind is always running. A constant over saturation of ideas that are very much independent of one another. One after the other over and over with no resolve. Who have I become and what must I do to get rid of all these wasted thoughts? Are these things really important to me anymore?

Judge each other on the idea that we know anyone. Peace in the idea that we understand something we have no idea about. Ignorance is tolerated because we are all ignorant. There is no solution to any of this. Constantly asking ourselves, myself what is it that I know to be true?

We evolve in time within our minds. Not the same person I was before I died yet I feel the same as I ever have. Chasing a shadow in the dark. Searching for whatever it is that I have become. Monster or man what is the difference this far along?

At this point in time they have become one. Not sure I’m okay, but I’ll survive. Not sure I even have or had a choice in all this time. They say we do, but they also say there is a God that makes every decision for us. Conflicting conflict right there if you ask me. The world is evolve or die. God or man the laws are the same. Simple and complex all at the same time.

Something Different


I can feel it
I can feel the spirit
Being sucked right out of me
Keep on going it whispers in my ear
Don’t grow up unless you have to
As if that was ever a choice
It cries, it won’t shut up
And it is now, right here
That I know at least
What is it that I really know
Don’t remember
Doesn’t matter
What’s the difference if you
Don’t remember at all
A past idea, a past reflection
Into nothing that makes sense
I’m choking and it hurts
I’m dying and it hurts
I’m living and it hurts
It all hurts



The loneliness is isolating
When you stop to think about it
Your coldness though isn’t much different
When you’ve got nothing to say
Think about this every day
When I’m lost and on display
Each passing moment
Each everlasting gaze
Makes me realize nothings the same
Sometimes I wish it could all go away
Disappear without a trace
We could start over
But I know somehow, some way
It would only be the same


Because Asking Would Be Too Off Putting

Diving right into the subject on this one. I’m sure I’ll dip in and out of anything I have to say. Thought about all of this six hours ago. My favorite book of all time is Post Office by Charles Bukowski. If you haven’t read it well. Well you should have by now. Bukowski is something else. Amazon has labels, the library has a section, but to me Bukowski is life. With that said is Post Office the greatest book ever written? Probably not. Could careless if anyone or no one else likes it.

The thing about Post Office that I love so much is this feeling. This feeling that life will never get better. This feeling that life is a trap. This feeling that you will always be stuck doing the same thing forever. I struggle with these issues on a daily basis as I’m sure most of us do. This doesn’t go away as we get older. But in a sense you have to settle. I hate to use that word and by definition what I’m about to say would go against that word. You get a fucking Treasures I’m writing here.

Point is that in life not everything is perfect all the time. Not every aspect of your life is what you dreamed it would be. One realizes with time that the only power they have is to choose which aspects of their lives to focus on. You can only spin so many fucking plates until it all comes crashing down.

I work hard at my job. Ask any of them and I’m awesome or whatever, but that place could burn down tomorrow. I’d be more pissed that I now have to find another job I don’t care about then anything to do with that place.  I settled for my job. Oh well could give a fuck. I need money for things I actually care about.

I didn’t settle on my family or the time that I spend with them. I don’t settle on my writing. Maybe after draft eighteen, but most of the time I don’t. These are things that I can make perfect. Things that I can care about. Things that make me happy. Yes I have that emotion somewhere deep down in there. Things I won’t settle for.

Post Office didn’t teach me any of this. What Post Office did was made me realize I was trapped. That I was lost. That I was going to get stuck. Post Office made me think and that is why books are important. I saw the parallels that I was living to the main character, and I knew that, that was not what I wanted. I knew I didn’t want to just get by in this life. I had a goal and I needed to do more than hope. I needed to do more than let the waves drag me under. Fuck what happens. That is what Post Office left me with. This feeling that what was going to happen was going to happen anyways. Might as well fuck with it until it does. We get one life. Take a chance.

“In the morning it was morning and I was still alive. Maybe I’ll write a novel, I thought. And then I did.”

Charles Bukowski, Post Office