The Kids Are Not Alt Right (They’re Just Fucking Fascist)

Fed up of the circadian rhythm, I rebelled against my own innate patterns of routine. I would brace myself against the wheel or be crushed by the weight of its bloated inactivity. Home and safe, overworked and underpaid. Or half a bean in my bindle and walking on hungry socks. Either way, something would have to give.

Darting towards my undone I grabbed what I considered to be fundamentals-

Lighter, phone, Kools cigarettes and a bottle opener. Doubling back towards the kitchen sink cabinet, where I kept hidden a half pint of Jack Daniels, tucked behind two bottles of Advil and a handful of 5 Hour Energy drinks. A corner pocket of my apartment I only visited at 4AM, or when the hearts clock strikes a zero hour. Pregame mistakes and hangover essentials which may have well read “In Case Of Emergency- Break Glass (before yourself.)” 

Already I could taste the gunmetal of whiskey and poor decisions eating away at the edges of my insides, regret looming around the bend of another night I should have spent doing something else. A long list of life responsibilities and errands taking shape within my mind, obligations nagging me the cons of spending a night out in sharp and boldened bullet points I’d feel the exit wounds of come morning. 

I braced myself and took the shot, groaning loudly before I grabbed my coat and went limping out the door. 

I realized the dangers of going alone, but God forbid I went sober. 

The Sidney Sendoff

You were half sitting, half laying on your old futon sofa with your bodies mangled together like a newspaper in the rain. You remember your hand finding its way to hers, and when your fingers laced you felt a light squeeze. It was a silent admission: the only way she could ask ‘what took you so long’ without having to. Her hair was a frizzy and a mess, makeup faded and runny, nails uneven with the dull remnants of last weeks violet pink.

She was radiant. You felt your eyes linger, wanting to tell her all about the quiet storm brewing inside of you. You cleared your throat.

“That nose piercing looks ridiculous.” Was what you said, reaping your reward: a hard-ish slap across the face. But she was smiling, though. You always made her smile.

“Well I don’t care. I’ve always wanted one but I was afraid of how I’d look, or what people would think. I finally decided to get it just for me, just because I like it.”

You were never really a romantic, never saw the point in things like marriage or family, relationships or even friends. You figured them distractions, momentary lapses we make to forget one cold and lonely truth. Life never made much sense to somebody like you, but when you watched her name a falling leaf Al-fall-fa, or count the tiles on your bedroom floor, somehow it kind of did.

“In that case, I guess I like it too.” You said. She tilted her head and flashed a wide grin, one of her favorite movements. It was her special grin. Her ‘You-think-I’m-so-amazing-and-I-know-it’ grin.

“Because now it has personality?” she asked, and you nodded slightly. When you do, something makes her eyes go soft.

“Let’s kiss.” You start to say. “Let’s kiss, but not right now. Let’s kiss right at midnight. What? Stop laughing, it’s romantic. Isn’t this what romantic people do?” She’s half amused, with a wonder in her smile that has holds you like a fire, and you are Joan of Arc.

She shifts her gaze to the clock. It responds 11:58PM.

“Why wait so long?

There’s No Such Thing As Grown Up Goths or Hipsters (Only Adults Who Can’t Afford Nice Clothes)

Whenever a job begins to harp about how well they treat their employees, my first recommendation is to check and see if they’ve bolted shut the door. If not, then turn around immediately and run.

But if it is, because of some misplaced hope or your own financial obligations, then absolutely leap through the nearest open window as soon as you get the chance- regardless of what floor you were on. Any company that needs take the time and explain why it’s such a benefit to work there is because it isn’t, and you should be obvious to such a glaring and immediate red flag. Like a stranger you’ve only just met, who won’t shut up about what a good person they are. 

Although such a hyperbole should be taken with a grain of discount salt. I’ve never given that thought much weight and never follow it anyhow. To me a job is just a job- a place to go and waste some odd 10 or 11 hours if the traffic is good. Shoot the shit with Bill or Karen every time you pass by them to use the bathroom, cash a paycheck every other week and call it a day. And Who says something so immaterial as money has to be derived by what you think is meaningful or fulfilling? Maybe the reason they’re paying you is to do a thing nobody else wants to do? 

That kind of philosophy sounds more like a modern way of coping, a self-bargaining to not feel trapped by the lives we know we have to lead. It’s no coal mine or shoe shop in an unnamed third world country, but if you don’t justify it by the time you’re thirty, that nine-to-five will kill ya. 

And I’m no communist, so pour another spoon of salt if you have any left. Because a man’s got to make a living, the Dark Ages had God, and now Karen in accounting’s got a sense of accomplishment.

Please Guide Me Joe Exotic

Life is a series of constant nuisances for the type of person who only likes to do everything once.

The simplest habit, regiment or routine is a repeated agony and practice in self flagellation. A daily masochism where the tools of torture are by means of showers, dress, dinner and breakfast. Relentless punishments in exercise, texting to friends, grooming or washing hands. Having to talk to strangers on the subway is the new solitary confinement, and the very basic comforts of modern living, designed to ease the grim and harsher realities of life, become the guillotine by which the human spirit is executed every day.      

So it doesn’t bother me that I know my baby’s leaving me. She took me to her room where there were mason jars lined along her window sill and dresser, fig leaves and lean stems lovingly decorating each wide glass about the size of a basketball. A closer look and I saw petite cocoons and moths encased in every falsetto museum, sitting still as the hot Summer day. Or maybe they were just still like death. When I asked if it was true that they only lived for a few months she said yes, and suddenly hobbies were the most depressing thing in the world. I got to thinking about my own, how maybe everything was so short and fleeting, stuck in glass jars for the majority of the time and when you’re finally let free it’s all over before you know it. 

What is the difference between a hundred days or years anyway? Perspective, mostly. Mayfly’s are born, grow, mate and die in under forty-eight hours. A full life; bred, sewn, and unmade by Tuesday, before I can even get started on yesterday, or wrap my head around what to do with myself  for all the years yawning ahead of me.

Then I felt better about myself when the inevitable arrived. She said she wasn’t ready for something so serious, and that it wasn’t someone else when I didn’t ask, so I knew it was someone else. And I could tell she thought it through, what to say, because there was something rehearsed in how her tongue massaged the words out so flawlessly.  

I gave her a hug and the No-Hard-Feelings riff. Dropped off the birthday gift I was saving and wished her the best with a smile, and as I walked out the door I could tell she was bothered by how well I took it. It’s selfish, I suppose, to break a persons heart and expect the pieces to still be yours. But I can understand, loving it when people leave but hating to watch them walk away so casually.

And I would probably miss her more down the line, maybe, but at that moment I simply didn’t. The only feeling that I could register was autonomy, freedom. Not having to listen about her dads problems or pretending to be interested in political science ever-a-fucking-gain. No more death by routine, the suicide of increments. It was finally just me and my whims again. 

The prospect of being an individual again felt exciting but a corner of my heart would not succumb, a tiny portion of my soul winced and braced for impact. At the time this felt right, but a part of me knew that I always confuse what feels right with what feels familiar.

Keep The Lights Off In Chicago (aka I Ain’t Coming Home)

January brings out the optimist in me. As the trees ash and turn pale I always get a little giddy. The dead of Winter is a vibrant reminder of how beautiful the death of things can be, that life is only an episode in a cosmic comedy with an indifference to both. The syndication is a good one, but always on the brink of being cancelled. Its hard to think that now, someday, something could ever grow. But Spring is coming, like it or not.

Spring, when the air is thick and always wet, loaded as a sentence and on the verge of tears (or rain.) Where my nostalgia goes into overdrive and I’m overrun in moments that are bulging like clouds; thoughts that are full yet empty and easy to navigate. Standing near the bus stop the first day of school with an over-sized hoodie. Kissing Tiffany in Bryant Park while something under our feet crunched loudly and made the world smell like skin and an end to childhood.

The experience is a winter wonderland of wondering where all that time has gone, but I don’t want to come off as a nihilist. To be honest as I get older, I no longer look to the past as often. But when I do, I look back at it all much more fondly. I want to reach out and call someone I haven’t spoken to or of in years, just to remind Tiffany, Kevin, Jimmy, Corina, or hell, even my father, that at some point I loved them dearly, and I might still.