Jason Rimbaud

See, I totally DIS-agree with both Pecman and Camy. Which is ironic considering I hold both of these authors in great esteem. Savage Moon starts out being a very promising story about werewolves and the struggle between religion and free-will. And for the first three chapters, it is very compelling. The characters are richly drawn and the world is very colorful. But from the forth chapter on, it quickly becomes bogged down with over-descriptive paragraphs and a meandering narrative that fails to give a payoff while dangling hope in front of the reader. I wanted to like this story, werewolves and such is a subject I find fascinating. But by the tenth chapter, I wanted to find out where the author lived, fly there, knock on his door, and punch him right in the face for making me read such pretentious drivel. I'm not sure if the author believes this style of writing is compelling or provocative, but I found Savage Moon to be a bit further out than boring. The characters begin rather engaging, in the first three chapters that is, but soon afterwards, they slip into the realm of one dimensional status, a few steps lower down the food chain than characters that exist in third rate porn movies from Canada. After the third chapter, the plot falls head first into stroke city. The lead character, I"m sorry I can't even remember his name, evolves into such a clich? of being a queer, not only tolerates but embraces situations where he is constantly manipulated into fucking other boys even though once the deed is finished, he is guilty about his sexual behavior. And where I understand this type of story has it's place, I wonder if this is something we should be heralding as the Best of Nifty. Because to me, if this is the best Nifty has to offer, why should we even bother with constructing a list? Jason R.

Jesus, Des, you make my head hurt. And I'm not saying anything about the collective intelligence of Funtails, The Pecman, or Graeme, because readng the very eye-opening posts you have made in just this forum, I know you are far smarter than I. But Des is the master of debate, no pun intended. Who would've thought someone on the bottom of the world would somehow manage to rise to the top, just like a bad yeast infection. Just kidding Des! Anyway, I love this topic. Being a huge Sci-Fi fan and time travel in particular, I have my thoughts on time travel and have made a outline for a pretty fantastical story I hope to one day write. But since this thread is really about clich?s in time travel stories, I'll offer one up. I just watched a movie called A Sound of Thunder, I believe it was a Ray Bradbury short story written years ago. Matter of fact, the only person probably alive when it was written is poor Des. (wow, what is this, pick on poor Des day?) To sum up a horrible movie, someone invented a way to go back in time, instead of using this technique to study the past, instead it was only used for taking rich men back in time to hunt pre-historic animals. On one particular mission, a man accidentally steps on a butterfly, that's it, a single butterfly, changing the entire future of the world. Humans never evolved, instead the predominate species seemed to be a cross between apes and lizards. Really big fucking lizards. But the future didn't change immediately, no, otherwise you wouldn't have a movie at all. Instead, it would change every twenty hours or so in what they called time ripples. With each ripple, more changes were made. They predicted that with the last ripple, humanity would be gone forever. To me, this is the worst clich?, I will never believe that killing one butterfly, 50 million years ago, would really ever affect anything. The world is too big for that to be more than a hypothesis. Going back in time and introducing a virus that we brought with us, thus changing the future, I can see that more the killing of a single butterfly. Jason R. PS: I love Des down under.

So I'm off on a romantic weekend getaway. Three days and two nights of pure bliss. I rented a beach house in Santa Cruz, and I'm bringing my laptop, a few bottles of wine, and a cooler filled with food. I plan on doing nothing for three days, and hopefully, I won't even see another living human. For some of you, this might sound very un-romantic. But for me, being completely alone for a few days is my little slice of heaven. I always seem to be able to recharge myself after taking a few days off. So, maybe this will give me the chance to finish a new short story I've been working on the last few months. After all, it's about a beach, a boy....well, you'll have to wait and read all about it later. Hope everyone has a good weekend, I'm off. Jason R.

BESIDES TRAB, YOU ARE THE QWEETEST PERSON I EVER MET!!!!!!!

Now, now, Trab. I don't think I ever said "HOT GUY" equals "COOL GUY". I know lots of hot guys who are assholes, and I know a lot of Cool Guys who aren't that good looking. My ex-roommate, Daniel, is one of the nerdiest looking guys in the world, but I think he's one of the coolest people I ever met. I wouldn't lose my job over you, but I'd definately talk to you, just because it doesn't matter what you look like, Cool people are above that shit. And by the way, I ALWAYS talk to anyone in the family. Jason R.

Unfortunately Rad, getting his number, if my manager ever would find out, would be disastrous. It's never a good idea to shit where you eat. And he has strict rules about maintaining a professional work ethic at all times. I was pushing the limits even with the harmless flirting I was doing with the couple.And if you don't recognize the term, shit where you eat, it basically means you don't jeopardize your job for a cute guy. The same principle applies that you should never date a co-worker, because if the relationship doesn't work out, you are now stuck with working and seeing your ex every day. Bad for business let me tell you.And Trab, if you ever came to my restaurant, I'd make you feel like a king. I always talk to the cool people, especially if their in the family. Des, I can see it now, qweet will be popping up all over the web. And the straights will be confused, but they'll repeat it anyway because it's a good word and they'll want to be cool. They'll start calling their friends qweet, and before you know it, the INTERNET will be full of sweet queers and the Republicans will try to curb the practice saying how the word qweet is destroying the fabric of America. Hmm, I like the sound of that.Jason R.

So I had a single GAY man and his mother come in to the restaurant today. When I saw him walk in the door, I actually paused in mid-step. He was gorgeous. One of the female servers was near me and she made the remark that he was dreamy. I smiled at her and replied, "Don't bother, he plays for my team." She asked, "How do you know?" I smiled mysteriously at her and said, "Trust me." As luck would have it, the man and his mother sat in my section and I ended up serving them. Throughout the dinner, the man and I would do some chit and some chat. Nothing really bad, just some harmless flirting, much to the amusement of the man's mother. Once dinner was over, they ordered a dessert and declared that they would share it. What I wanted to say was, "Aw, that's sweet." But what actually came out of my mouth was, "Aw, that's qweet." The man looked at me and flashed a smile, saying, "Did you just say that's qweet?" I blushed and nodded my head. His mother spoke up, "Qweet, that's sounds like a mix of queer and sweet. What exactly are you accusing my son of being, a sweet queer?" Needless to say, I blushed even more and they had a good laugh at my expense. I walked away and got the check ready. I placed it on the table after they paid and wished them a good night. I just happened to be standing at the door talking to my manager as they were leaving. My manager, as he inquires of every guest, asked, "How was everything this evening?" The mother looked at me and with a big grin, said, "The dinner was wonderful. And the service was lovely." My manager, completely unaware of the earlier conversation, looked at me and said, "Jason's one of our best servers." The mother replied without missing a beat, "He deserves a raise, not only did he take care of us but he invented a new word for my son." They walked out the door as my manager looked at me, a confused look on his face. I shook my head and just walked away. So today, I invented a new word. What did you do? Jason R.

Hey Gabe, I've read this over and over and I must say, I like it better now than I did when you let me read it the first time. It's hard to put into words, but this piece is amazing. I love it. Jason R.

I second that motion. Hmmmm I'll make a deal with you Camy. If you put this piece to music and let us all hear it. *Takes a deep breath* I"ll do a reading of The Finale. There, I said. And everyone is a witness. The ball's in your court now Emu. Jason R.

I don't know. Shower at 10:17 followed by movies at 11:00.This made me fall on the floor laughing. Seriously, no self-respecting queer would ever finish a group shower in under three hours. I know you're a bit older, but really, it should read Shower at 10:17Followed by movies at 3:34 Snacks and such served intermittently (spelling ???)Jason R.

Wow Camy, This is one time I'll gladly take credit for inspiring you. This piece is brilliant, tied together by such simple questions. My god, but what powerful questions they are. I only wish we, as American's, would've asked some of those questions before our last election. A remarkable piece. Hands down, brilliant. Jason R.

Somewhere in Between As many of you know, life has been more than a bit chaotic for me lately. And where I appreciate all the advice and private messages I received from those of you that care about me, even the someone, that will remain nameless, that persuaded someone else to check up on me, which I thought went so far beyond simple moderator duties and into the realm of a truly caring person. This site is not named Awesome Dude for nothing and I don't think I could ever find a better on line home anywhere. Enuff said about that. When I first decided to begin this blog, I named it My Chaotic Life, my life in narrative. The purpose of this blog was twofold. First, I had written many things that really had no place on Awesome Dude (they weren't stories per say and I never thought they fit in Awesome Dudes drawn from life category) and I thought they would make for interesting reading. When you can't find a place to post your work, you create a place. So My Chaotic Life was born, after all, just because something I posted happened several years ago, doesn't make it any less important or funny. So the first few entries were pieces I had written over the years about some of the juicier bits of my life. I didn't find this wrong nor did I think I was deceiving anyone. Truly, I never imagined that people would read it anyway, and never in a million years did I think for one moment that these entries would be something others found interesting. This blog WAS and still IS a place for me to vent my frustrations, share some of my funnier experiences, and come to terms with the darker parts of my personality with no apologies and no censorship. I guess you could say that I imagined this blog as a safe zone. A place where I could write about my depression, analyze my addictions, and try and comprehend why I fuck my life up over and over again, and NEVER be judged for the things I say. I know its a bit naive to think I won't be judged, this is a public forum after all, but...that's how I view it. And my second reason.... I didn't fully understand this at the beginning, but over a year and some fifty-eight entries later, I started this blog because I hated being sober. I had just begun seeing my therapist and we were really getting into my past and my addictions. Re-living some of those experiences helped me to cope with the sudden intimacy I had with a perfect stranger. I've never let a lover inside my head and here I was telling a therapist that I once tried to drink myself to death by chugging two bottles of Vodka one night because someone said I didn't have the guts to kill myself. Of course he ruined it by taking me to the emergency room. But as I began talking to Susan, I started looking back fondly on my life. It's funny how an addict can look back at the train wreck of his past and only remember the good times. I chose to ignore the bits when I was strung out and sucking dick in alleys hoping I'd get AIDS so I could die. Letting anyone fuck me bareback because sex is always better when there is a bit of danger involved. How I made it through without so much as a harmless case of crabs I'll never know. I've watched too many people die for lesser offenses. I had been sober for three months, and in a matter of a few weeks talking to Susan, I was back to popping pills and snorting lines. What a pathetic liar I had become, for an hour a week, I was a normal human while in her office. But I didn't even wait to leave the building before getting a bump or swallowing a few pills. This went on for a few weeks until she asked why I was losing weight. And that's the other thing I hate about sobriety, without pills and lines, you gain weight. I freaked out in her office, she wasn't stupid, and she had called me on my bullshit. Like an addict, I ran. I couldn't face her, not fucked up. So I stopped, and quickly fell back into my normal patterns. I started drinking again, partying, and fucking anything. But as all addicts do, they hit a place, a few miles down from bottom, and they realize their faced with a crossroads. Down one path, parties and living stupid, and down the other path, sobriety. Every addict knows this crossroads. And usually the addict figures out a way to bypass this crossroads a few times, but sooner or later, the addict must decide which path he will walk down. My crossroad came a few weeks ago. I'd been up for three or four days, doing coke and drifting in and out of bars looking for sex. It was late Saturday night or early Sunday morning, I sat down at my computer and wrote ??????. For the first time, in quite a while, I was honest and wrote the words as they poured from my sick mind. I knew that the right person would read those words, the right person that wouldn't let me go this way, the right person that would fight the hordes of hell over my addict soul. Two days later, the right person did read it. And the duality of myself wouldn't let it end like this. I am an addict, have always been and will always be. But I can't let addiction keep dragging me down, pulling me away from the only thing I truly love doing. I called Susan and begged her to see me. It seems that I'll only ever measure my sobriety by days instead of how it should be....by years. But I'm working on it, I truly am. Friday I spoke the words I never thought I'd have the balls to say out loud. I told Susan that I would never do coke again. When she asked about pills, I shrugged. After all, it's not healthy to quit everything at once. But I'm working on it. So over the last few weeks, I've come to realize just how negative this blog has become for me. I trapped myself right from the beginning, I named it My Chaotic Life. I talked it over with Susan and she, amazingly agrees with me, that I should stop writing My Chaotic Life. Focusing on those parts of my life are self-destructing and really have no positive affect for anyone, myself included. I've always been a creature of extremes. I didn't just want to be happy, I had to be euphoric. If I was sad, then I was one step away from killing myself. But I'm sick of living like this. It's okay to just be happy, it's okay to be a bit sad, maybe living in the middle isn't that bad. A bit boring perhaps, a bit fat perhaps, but the alternative is something I'm not prepared to face just yet. Friday, during our session, I was silent and drawing in my diary. Susan asked what I was writing. I'll share it with all of you just as I shared it with her. So from here on out, my blog will be re-named, Somewhere in Between. I'm sure my more chaotic parts will show up here and there, but now I'll have something else to focus on. Life doesn't have to be chaotic, not even for me. Jason R.

Hey Des,You just say the word, and I'm on a plane. I've got muscles, and compared to you I'm young, But then most folks around here are young compared to you. But then if you look at it in animal years, Wibby might be older than all the rest of us combined. I don't know how long the average raccoon lives, and as for Emu's, anyone figured out how old Camy is? Now that is out of my system, I wonder.....When someone is being physically abused by their significant other, don't they usually make up silly stories like falling in the shower, running into a door, etc etc...Just a thought, maybe I should fly on down to Des and check it out anyway. Anyone want to come with me?Jason R.BTW, glad you didn't break your head and stuff. Feel better.

I'm not saying I'm thinking about recording myself reading a poem. But if I would want to record myself reading my poem, how would I go about doing that? Not that I would ever want to do that. Well, maybe for the crazy emu. Perhaps. Jason R.

The Finale By: Jason R. Written October 1st, 2007 Its five o?clock and I arrive home This house is empty I feel so alone I wonder if you?re working late There?s a message saying you?ll be home by eight I place my coat on the chair in the den Go to the kitchen and get a bottle of Zin The one you bought that time at the fair The liquid tastes bitter without you there By six o?clock the shadows fall I stare at memories lining the walls There was a time when the sun would set You?d be right beside me and the day we?d forget There?s something special about the dining room We?d light candles and romance would bloom We?d laugh and talk with nothing to say Building up for the climax on the way Holding hands start the passion there At times we never made it up the stairs Making love in the fading light Inside of you my life felt right But something happened along the way Divided by things we forgot how to say It?s bittersweet as I drink my wine Realizing that your life?s no longer mine But we still live in my fantasy In my dreams it?s still you and me Can we get back to how it used to be Here in my memory Seven o?clock and I?ve got a plan Tonight?s the night I make my last stand Maybe there in that dining room We can cut through the silence and the gloom I made a fish the kind you like A bucket and ice chilling the white The tables set and I wait for you I?m a bit nervous but play it cool At eight o?clock you walk through the door I?m standing there with a glass and I pour Hoping to see some encouraging sign I walk into the kitchen as you drink your wine You sit down and the dinner begins The talk is small like estranged friends I can?t believe the silence is there Where once our lives always shared At nine o?clock your cell phone rings And to your face a smile it brings You walk out and I wonder why I guess it?s easier than telling a lie You hang up and head off to bed I stay back realizing love is dead In my head I know I can?t fight anymore You?re just as gone as if you left out the door So here I am finally facing reality There?s nothing left of you and me We?re just another used to be Existing only in my memory

Rainbow Warrior By: Jason R. Written May 27th, 2006 and on September 30th, 2007 You dropped the words on me today Duty it seems will soon take you away I think a part of me died tonight I feel nothing on my insides Fighting a war I can?t begin to understand Being Army strong won?t make you a man Can you hide who you?re fighting for Being on the front lines in the wrong fucking war We spoke until the words were yells I?ll never understand you I can tell Brandon, I really feel like hell But I?ll throw a few pennies in the wishing well You stood up and drew a line in the sand And you knew you could be excluded for loving a man If this secret was to escape and be found out by all Your disgrace would be terrific and down you?d fall I know it?s your belief and a desire to serve You love this country despite being labeled a perv Their policy is don?t ask and never say They?ll let you die but you can?t die gay I received the news from them today It seems duty finally did take you away I know a part of me died tonight And I feel nothing on my insides You fought a war I?ll never understand But being Army strong made you a man You no longer have to hide who you?re fighting for Dead on some front line in this wrong fucking war I cried until the screams turned to yells I?ll never understand your sacrifice I can tell Brandon, I really feel like hell A rose on your grave replaces pennies in the wishing well

Thanks Trab, I fixed the your/you're problem. I didn't really go over it after I wrote it last night. Goes to show you that writers should always go over their work before offering it to the world. This was exactly my point. I'm kind of seeing someone at the moment, someone I met through my job. And we were having a conversation about my writing and he asked if he could see some of it. This caused a panic, because most of my poetry isn't something I think a potential boyfriend should be reading. At least, not at the beginning stages of a relationship. If you've read any of my work, then you understand that it deals with addiction, slutty behavior, and general mayhem. He knows that I've been depressed lately, not the reason thank god, but as we start in this getting to know one another stage, I'd rather he see the good parts of me first. Which is why I wrote this piece, Why can't you only seeThe best things in meThat's my point, the dark places I sometimes go could ruin this before it even starts. Acceptance of who I am is what I want, but I don't want to throw it out all on the table all at once. I would rather he slowly get to know me, let the good, which is a lot sometimes, outweigh the bad, which is a lot sometimes. This piece is my way of coping with my fear. Just my way of dealing with a situation that is slowly taking over my life. I meant what I said when I wrote,Happiness isn't that farWherever you are.That's scary and yet I'm almost giddy at the prospect. Wish me luck.Jason R.

Aspirant By: Jason R. I must have died For now you're inside And I'm unprepared To bring in the light And admit that your right That I'm fucking scared To say all the words To show I'm disturbed Though in recovery So I embrace you with hope To cope With dope So you won't know And then let go Why can't you only see The best things in me And not these broken dreams All my broken dreams There is this darkness in me Broken bits that you'll see And you'll start to run I'll push you away While wanting to stay I'm the deranged one I can't fall in love Decreed from above At least thus far So I put these words to the page To cage My rage So you won't know And then let go Why can't you only see The best things in me And not these broken things All my broken things Late at night I'm all alone in the dark I look deep inside my heart And suddenly happiness isn't far It's wherever you...ARE

Camy, Wibby, Trab I don't know how to explain it, this thought process on writing the above entry. But I'll try, because I think there are those that do give a fuck.It was riddled with metaphors that only I understand. And reading it back, I understand why it came across so depressing.THE NAME THINGIt's never about telling the world my last name. No, it's more along the lines of telling the world my "real" name. Or me. The me inside that I hide from the world. The drug addict, the twisted little slut that doesn't know how to show love or give love. The boy who uses sex as a tool to further my own self destruction.For over a year I've tried, so desperately hard to mold myself into a person I know I should become. To become sober and something like a human. To push my real personality into a dark place inside my self. To hide behind indifference and humor so no one could get close enough to see the train wreck that steadily approaches.I work with twenty or so people now for over a year. And I can honestly say I don't have a single one of them as a friend. At work I see them laugh, I see them hang out after work, and I see myself going home, alone. I wonder why I can't give a fuck enough to even try and make friends. They seem so happy and filled with life. And then I look at myself and see a depressed boy existing life. Existing life in a quest to try and maintain my sobriety and my sanity. Because life is boring, life is tedious and unfulfilling without drugs.SOBRIETY SUCKSAddicts, even those that no longer use, think about getting high almost daily. It doesn't go away over time and the allure never lessens. Each night I come home to an empty apartment and clean it, just for something to do to keep me busy. I write, things I hope no one ever will see, just to take my mind off the "thing" I've become. And when it gets too bad, I go on the prowl and find something/anything to fuck. Just to take my mind off the sober mindless drone I've become.I'm not built to exist life in this fashion. I'm not programed to be a functioning human steadily marching to a death in my eighties. My nature is to experience the third eye, a state of mind that only altered living can provide. To live life for only this moment.Writing helps, but after awhile I want to experience what I'm writing. Love, relationships, someone to have. The only time I ever fell in love, the only time I allowed myself to fall in love, was when I was an addict. Sometimes I think LOVE=ADDICTION. And addicts need something to be addicted too.Jason R.PS: Des, my friend from down under. I read, I understand, and I thank you.

I wonder, at this moment in my life, if I should care about anything. I have this feeling, a feeling that rips me up inside, if I should even bother with trying to be a human. The only thing I can say, at this present moment, is I don't care about anything. Anyone? Life is too hard sometimes. Too the point where I wonder why I bother trying to make it fluffy white bunny clouds. Life sucks, existing sucks. I don't want to end it, but why should I bother to give a fuck? Pretending that it's okay is pointless. At the end of the day, there is only one being in bed with me. And right now, "ME" thinks life sucks. Fuck it, it's almost been a year, maybe it should all go away. Jason R. should go the way of the dodo. Maybe I should end it with a whimper? Or maybe I should grow a pair of balls and let everyone know my name. Admit the truth, let the world know the one behind it all. I hate feeling this way, I hate being ashamed. I hate everything. Fuck it. It's been a year, the charade should stop.

Okay, lets see. One hundred dollars a pop, carry the one, times the four. Damn, I'm no good at math. Seeing as your an Emu, I'll take a one dollar bill and photo copy it 40,000 times. And since your English, you'll never know the difference. Jason R. PS: If you can give me your address, I'll send it right out to you along with the bronze statue. Of course you might have a shipping fee to pay, just take it out of your winnings.

Wow, Camy, way too much free time on your hands. You actually went out and searched for pictures. This is probably the funniest thread I've ever read. So for the first time ever, I am handing you a Crazy-Ass Emu award. Not to be confused with a grammy or oscar, the Crazy-Ass Emu award is a step above. Seriously, you should be quite flattered and even go as far as writing a speech to accept such an award. And don't forget to tell your relatives and co-workers about said award. And because its you, I'll throw in twenty-thousand pounds of my own money to go along with the bronze statue. Jason R. PS: How much exactly is twenty-thousand pounds in American dollars? Should I start selling my body now to make up the difference?

Umm, Des, why would I want my new lover/boyfriend/sex slave/ one night stand, whatever you would like to call him, why the hell would I want a poet as a boyfriend?I'm a poet, a hack but a poet nevertheless, and I'm so fucked up in the head, why would I ever want a boyfriend of mine to be a poet? I'm not saying all poets are fucked in the head, but poets are fucked in the head. With all my emotional baggage, the last thing I need is a poet for a boyfriend. After all, the bed is only so big and between my demons and his, there would never be enough room to fuck.Jason R.PS: Poetry readings are pretty cool. Too bad I never read my own work, because maybe I could meet my next boyfriend at a poetry reading.

I've heard that you have taken offense by this blog and the entries it contains. Never think for one moment that just because I no longer live in Pennsylvania doesn't mean I still don't stay in touch with my friends. Unlike you, I don't forget about my friends. I don't walk away from my friends every time I get into a relationship. Did you think she wouldn't tell me about the conversation between the two of you? Did you forget that she was my friend first? Did you think I forget about her because I moved away over two years ago? My fragile friend, I talk to Ann every few days, which is more than I can say about you. Whenever you call her its for a favor or you need her help for something. You live twenty minutes away and I know I've seen her more recently than you. That's my Jason, always the leave me alone until I need you kind of friend. So your angry with me. And yet your anger is without logic or rational thought. Truly no reason you can imagine that could back up your claims of broken promises and rose colored lies. I didn't break my promise to you, I haven't told anyone about you or about us. I write under an assumed last name and never even mentioned yours. I did write all about Jason Squared but in all honesty, you can't think that your friends would ever read this blog on this site. Not your self-righteous little pew warmers that populate your life now, they would never be caught dead on a gay site. Though if you look at the statistics, one male in every ten is gay. Maybe one of your Republican friends is reading this blog, but on the bright side, they'd never have the balls to confront you about anything they'd read inside these pages. That would lead to way to many questions about why they were browsing on Awesome Dude. So you can't be angry with me for relaying stories about Jason Squared. So why are you angry? Your anger confuses me I must admit. After all you are the one who went searching online for ME. You are the one who found MY poem at Awesome Dude. You are the one who found MY blog. You are the one who started reading it. And your angry with me,WHY? You twisted little closet dweller, how dare you try and put this back on me. This blog has never been about you, you egocentric little fuck. I write this blog for me, to help me understand why I put up with your shit for as long as I did. I write to better understand myself. Your angry because you found yourself in these entries. And your angry because you didn't like what you read. Does it bring up too many memories? Does it force you to remember the time you spent with me? It's kind of hard to deny that part of yourself when you read it in black and white, isn't it? You claimed that I am telling lies about you, altering the events to make you look like the villain in this little play. Well, I read back all the entries that include you and I must say, I don't see any lies. But then I haven't been lying to myself for years either. So I say if I've been telling tales, why don't you log in and set the story straight. You should be good at "straight", you've been pretending to be it for years. Come on Jason, grow a pair of balls and reply to this post. I know you're reading it. I'll approve any comment you have the guts to make. I don't live in fear of what others say because unlike you, I actually know who the fuck I am. And before I wrote this to you, I called you. But like the scared little rabbit you always were, you didn't answer my call. So if you don't have the balls to talk to me over the phone, register here at Awesome Dude. I'm here, you could be here, lets talk. Jason R.

Firstly, let me say that it was never my intention to leave this tale unfinished for this long. When I first started writing this adventure, I could not complete it due to the fact I had to rush off to work. I swear I fully intended to finish it later that night once I left work. But due to some unforeseen circumstances, mainly a cracked tooth that needed some attention from my dentist, and then extra shifts at work due to some personal problems a co-worker experienced with the passing of his great aunt, time just seemed to slip away from me.Because now, it's some three days later and I have yet completed this tale. So I'll make a deal with all of you. If I can't find time between now, Friday afternoon, and my next day off, Monday, to finish this story, I promise it will be posted on Monday. This I swear by all things holy.Jason R.And to address those that might doubt the voracity of my words, I swear every thing I type is the complete truth as I see it. Of course that does not go as far as to say that I did not embellish the story to make it a more enjoyable read. Believe me, Wonder Boy is a real bartender that works at Applebee's, and all this happened about three weeks ago. Well, except the parts I made up.