The whore of Second Street was good when you needed her and bad when you didn’t. The whore of Second Street didn’t cost too much, but somehow it always seemed like you’d spend all your money on her. She didn’t do much, lay there and take it I guess. She also didn’t say much whenever you came to visit, but then again what is there really to say? The whore of Second Street became everything though she was nothing. The whore is but a whore the wise men outside the door would say. That is what she is and nothing more. The whore of Second Street lived just up the block from a bar called the Bullfrog. Her customers would stumble as they walked down the block. You could follow the trails of piss straight to her door if you didn’t already know where to go. The whore of Second Street didn’t ask much, just take your shoes off please and leave them by the door. Just because she is a whore doesn’t mean she don’t have class. All the men would stand in the hall with their money in hand for their turn with the whore of Second Street. Hours and days it didn’t matter she was always open in more ways than one. The whore of Second Street has no cloths she sees no point in spending money on things with such little use. The whore of Second Street was smarter than we all knew. She lived in an apartment without a view. Go to the top of the stairs and wait your turn. Directions we all followed. Directions we all knew. The whore of Second Street may not have been elegant, but she knew how to use you. Anything you want can be bought for a price and everything was in demand. It wasn’t long before the whore of Second Street raised a small fortune made of stacks of one’s, five’s, ten’s, or whatever her clients could get their hand on. The whore of Second Street let us use her body and it was all part of her plan. The whore of Second Street just somehow knew it was time, and one day she was gone. Her customers all wait her return. The whore of Second Street is worshiped as if she was a god. They pay her rent even though the apartment is never used except for mass. The whore of Second Street was all there was and now she is gone. The whore is but a whore the dumb men say as they pass each other in the hall. That is what she is and everything more.
When you look back over a life time you realize just how much time you’ve wasted. You see how minutes are not hours, hours not as days or weeks or life times. You see however that years become seconds and decades minutes. Time slips right by without even a second look. The twenty-five year old me would say I live without regrets and the fifty year old me would tell you how much I live with only regrets. He’d tell you all about how much time I wished I could get back. Time is wasted on the young and stupid. Not that we truly get any smarter with age. I mean I am sitting here writing to any empty audience and wasting the very time I wish to get back. Age is a trip. God damn is it ever. If I could go back in time I’d tell the twenty-five year old me to quit working and go have some fun.
I’d tell him money is worthless and all the shit wasted on it is just that shit. I’d tell him so many things I already tell myself every day. I’d say live for today and not the week. If only I could go back and warn him of the old man he would become. That’s what I would do if I could go back in time. I’d be selfish for the first time in my life. Never look back, because all you will find is regrets for all the time wasted. A lifetime of waiting for something better is really nothing more than a waste of life.
There’s never going to be a better time than now. When you’re young, when you still have life not at the end of it. Not when there’s nothing left because that is all that is left after a life time of saving and waiting, a whole lot of nothing. You could say that I’m bitter, but I’m just being honest. If you can take one thing from this I hope it is the message to live, to have fun, to have a life worth looking back on. Because in the end this is all that matters, having something to look back on. If only I had listened to myself.
Oh and she cheats on you with your best friend, and the kids all hate you because they think it’s your fault the family fell apart. It took a life time to learn that so use the information well. Good luck and maybe when it’s all said and done. I won’t be seeing you in the end.
I can feel them the pins and needles of the world stabbing me from every side, every inch digging into my skin. It is as though I didn’t matter and we all know that I don’t. Nothing really matters yet we can’t leave it alone. Constantly pushing for more for less. We want everything even if there is nothing left to give. My mind regurgitates every thought I have heard. Churning out word after word as if I say it again this time it will matter. Writing is for the weak, simple-minded fucks who think they are better because they are. They aren’t scared to play God because they are Gods across a desperate landscapes. Every thought an action chosen because they choose it. Your life and mine is nothing but a back drop to a thought unfinished, a glimpse into a world not yet written.
“I’m pretty sure I have a brain tumor.”
“Oh and how is that?”
“My brain hurts in unusual places, but it’s all the same places.
“Places?” she asks skeptical
“Maybe I’ve got more than one?”
“American obesity at it’s finest,” I crack the closer we get. “You wait for it,” he says back. “This here is the greatest club in the city. I.D.’s boys lets see’em,” the bouncer stretches out his hand. We each put our licences in the palm of his hand. I’m skeptical of all of this. “Trust me,” my buddy Steven says nudging me. “This place is worth it.” “You bet your sweet ass it is boys. Welcome to the Big and Nasty. Don’t forget to come up for air,” the door swings open.
“Were you abused as a child?”
“As a matter of fact I was.”
“That explains a lot then.”
“Really does it explain a lot? I’d love for you to explain how being struck repeatedly as a child explains so much about me.”
“Are we fucking or what?”
“You got the money?”
This is how it all ends
Feels good to finally get these little pieces out somewhere. I have a lot of false starts as I’m sure a lot of us do… Brain tumor is an actual conversation I had with my wife… The Big and Nasty was actually based on a cheese burger at some fast food chain. Though the story wouldn’t have had too much to do with this. The idea was to write a story about some fellas going to a plus sized strip club. Besides the overall idea not having a plot it didn’t go beyond an intro. The plan was for one character to be a dick about the whole thing, another to be obsessed with the place, and a third discovering himself. I guess it kind of had a plot….
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“I sacrifice myself every day. No one seems to notice or care that I am doing this because I have to do this. Cutting a little piece of myself little by little every day. Years of my life not lived yet slowly being given away. I’ve been told you can lose up to seven years off your life if you don’t sleep eight hours a day. What if you only sleep four hours, do some shit for hour after hour, sleep four more hours, and then do some more meaningless shit? How much of my life am I losing then? We all sacrifice ourselves in some way. So my sacrifice seems as meaning less as everyone else’s. All of us have to do whatever it is that we have to do for whatever reason we have to do it.
Even when we know that it is for nothing. I don’t have to do what it is that I have to do. I could go back to school and do something with my life. We all could. The world needs more lawyers, doctors, and assholes with degrees that can tell everyone else what to do. It is a fallacy to believe that we don’t need a society of people to tell everyone what to do. Could you imagine a store with only managers working there? It would be a magical place where everything gets done and no one bitches that they have more than somebody else to do. Best of all no one would have to answer to anyone above them. We could call it socialism and we all know how that would work out.
Someone from another store would say something about how our store was different from their store. At first they would pretend that it was okay and then once they saw that it was working out for us they would want to join. So we’d let them, willingly let them infect our store with their old ideas, and then we could watch it all burn down from the sidelines. No one likes new idea and no one on the planet likes ideas that are considered fair. They however love ideas that look great on paper. The paper full of ideas that if we were all robots and did this, this, and this at this speed and this amount of time. Then yes we could all be done at this mathematically chosen time. It is a science the human body. We can in some way turn into to machines for eight hours and then be done with whatever it is that we are supposed to be done with.
It was proven during the battery of test performed by the Nazis during World War Two. They found that if you write it on paper and show it to the worker then yes it can be done. As we all know that this can’t happen, didn’t happen, and won’t happen. So we move to the next logical step in this evolutionary exchange of ideas, robots. Literal robots, no more flesh and bone, but harden plastic and wires. Only one major flaw in this plan. What do we do with all the people who use to work the jobs that the robots will take? An army of robot workers was an amazing fantasy fifty, maybe a hundred years ago, but there are too many of us now. There are too many people on this planet to replace any of them with robots. No one’s really going to stop fucking to only be replaced by a robot in the end, but sadly this idea looks fucking fantastic on paper.
We fucking love paper and we hate you. You are unreliable with your feelings and concerns. Not to mention we need cheap and cheaper. That is why what took four people twenty years ago only takes one now. We call it progression, but let’s be serious why pay four when we can force one to do it for less. Don’t believe? Well there’s the door? Good luck feeding your wife and child while you look for a new job you welfarerian piece of shit. You disability sucking leech. Never mind that we pushed you until you broken. Never mind the fact that we jokingly held it over your head that you won’t find a better job and that you need these hours, so go ahead and drag that heavy ass pallet with the broken pallet jacks that we provide. What can I tell you? Things cost money. The paper says spend no money. No one wants to see anyone do better or get along. No one except Christians and even then it is only because it says so on paper. Face it if everyone was equal who would beg for your spare change?
Everything has its place in our society. Somewhere there is a paper with all of our rules that we need to follow and like anything else written on paper we only follow the parts that we want to follow at that time. Love the fuck out of some structure, but follow it? Go fuck yourself. So in conclusion suck a dirty dick you replaceable waste of a human life. By the way we all matter. People matter.” Smiles for everyone, but most of all for the cameras.
Break Over-Welcome to Hell
Why did I even come here? It surely wasn’t for the great fucking scenery that’s for sure. I really can’t answer the question I am faced with every morning I look out the window of my house. This town is a dying community of people still trying to hold on to a time that was better than this. And I am here to say that there is no such thing. I think it is easier for this town to not believe in reality. Too just spread the lies as each generation keeps dropping out. The town is broke, hell the whole region is, we carry a city on our backs, and float in shit waiting to hear how the state government will fuck us over again. This town is caught between fucked and truly fucked. What’s left of the jobs not sent to China are actually being run by people who aren’t even from this area. The people with all the money, the rich, are all from other parts of America, and they don’t stay long after realizing just how decrepit this town has become. The rest of America is under the impression that when you live in New York you live in the city with all the bright lights and all of the future at your feet. When in truth the city is only five hours away, but it feels more like it is on the other side of the world. Jamestown is worlds apart from what other people think of New York and some days it feels light years away from where I am anymore. Why am I here? Why is anyone here? I pick at a scab on my hand and it starts to bleed. It starts to bleed a little bit and then it begins to bleed a little bit more and then a little bit more. The blood dripping, flowing down my finger and finding its way into the palm of my hand. The scab was once a blister that I tore. The blister is from the last time I played drums. It had been a while since I played drums and the calluses that once proved I was good at something have long disappeared. Why did I move here? Better yet why did she move us here? That’s right she wanted to come here it was all her choice after I told her what my mom said. It was her suggestion that we come and then she was gone. She threw me aside like a piece of rotten meat. Why did I move here? Why did I move anywhere? The cigarette I have been smoking is slowly making its way to my fingers and I know I should put it out, but I just stare at it. I can feel the warmth of the fire burning within the cigarette, proof that I can at least feel something. The drug store bandage that once covered the scab I just can’t stop picking lies on the dirty floor next to last night’s attempt to forget just what is wrong with me. My floor is littered with dirty cloths and trash, I realize yet again I have let myself go. Tomorrow classes start back up at the local community college and I must return to further prove nothing is really wrong. If there is one thing I hate it is that fucking school. Why did I move back here? So I could complete college after dropping out of the last one due to a lack of interest. Now the only way I can make it through a single class is to numb myself into a coma. At least the drugs are good for something. The blood is nearly dry in the palm of my hand and I begin to pick at the trail of dried blood. The blood falls off my skin like little red snowflakes. It’s four a.m. and I have my first class in less than six hours. I move myself from the chair in the dining room to my bed that I moved into the living room. My pillow smells like months of sweat and there are white mucus trails all over it. I flip my pillow over to the other side and realize I’ve already done that before. The breaks over and now I must return to hell. Tomorrow will be the same as the last.
My fist pounds. His blood splatters. My fist pounds. His cheek bone gives out. My fist pounds. His skin starts to detach. His face is nothing more than a broken mess. “What did I tell you,” I scream. My vocal cords crack from the sheer force of my scream. He mumbles inconsistent words of skin, blood, bone, and broken teeth. “I said shut the fuck up.” I lay one more bloody fist across his disgusting face. My knuckles are bloody, scraped apart by his teeth among other things. I stare at the monster I have created before getting off of him.
The room is silent though a crowd surrounds us. Camera’s pointing down upon his body before panning over to me. I break the silence as I start answering my emails once again. The click of the mouse and the clicking of my keyboard. Block them out I tell myself. I warned him before he set me off. Everyone is staring me down. “Should have done what I told him to do,” I say to the silent room. “He did this to himself. Who wants to ignore me next?” I ask and they scatter like rats. I’m not normally like this, but I’ve had a fucking enough of these dumb assholes. Someone needed to teach that fucker a lesson.
The cops show up and I don’t resist. “I just need to send this email,” I tell them. Puzzled the two of them don’t know what to say. I click the send button and get up from my chair. One of the officers handcuffs me as the other reads me my rights. They brought the paramedics with them. Silent, but not dead they load his ass onto the stretcher. In time he should be fine and maybe he will have learned his lesson. When someone says not today maybe you should back off. Of course his dumb ass probably missed the whole point. “That was one hell of an ass whooping you put on that man,” the tall officer says to me. “I think you got in the wrong profession,” the other jokes. They put me into the car. With a bloody knuckle I write a message on the glass in front of me.
Blood and Bone
Now All Alone
I Could Tell
You a Story
But Then You
I’m constantly bombarded with these notions and ideas that I should be doing this or I could be doing that. It is as though everyone has an idea of what I should be doing except for me. The shitty part is that it is never what I am already doing. It is always something that takes a commitment that I just don’t have right now. This is what I want to do. Whatever the fuck this is, is what I want to do.
I may not be the best at it but surely I am not the worst. Of course that’s not what anyone wants to hear. I don’t make shit doing this, but is that the only reason to do something? Some days it feels like the only reason I can’t lie about that even to myself. Though I know that it is not true. Life is a struggle this career is a slow march through hell.
It takes a toll on you. Hacking one piece of you away at a time until all that is left is a bloody stump that won’t shut the fuck up. I’m nothing more than a tortured soul tortured by my own thoughts and views. A constant pain that no matter how much I say I’ll keep having more to say. Even if no one is going to listen. But that is the point is it not? To find someone to listen to what I have to say. A never-ending struggle without no real sense of a goal. Here’s to another long night saying the same old useless shit to myself.