Jump to content
Registering As A Forum User? Read This Important Message!
Help Keep AwesomeDude Online! Donate Here.

Jason Rimbaud

AD Author
 View Profile  See their activity

  • Posts

    830

  • Joined

  • Last visited

  • Days Won

    3

 Content Type 

Blog Entries posted by Jason Rimbaud

  1. Jason Rimbaud

    Aspirant

    By Jason Rimbaud,

    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
  2. Jason Rimbaud

    Tyler's Dilemma: Sneak Peak

    By Jason Rimbaud,


    Sneak Peak New Story
    Graham Greene once said “a story has no beginning or end: arbitrarily one chooses that moment of experience from which to look back or from which to look ahead”. In Glacier Bay, there are thirty thousand such stories. Here is but one of those stories. 
     
    Tyler’s Dilemma: Questioning Everything 
    A Glacier Bay Story
    By: Jason Rimbaud
    The parking lot was dark with only the faint light from the stars twinkling off the surface of the water. The water broke against the shore in gentle waves and there wasn’t a breath of air stirring the treetops. One could draw comparisons of an eerie fall night one would see in a horror movie. 
    A lone car parked in a deserted lot next to a scenic location. A moonless night with just the faint glow of the city lights in the distance. Two people fogging up the windows in a red Jeep oblivious to their surroundings. There would be soft music playing on the radio. A perfect invitation for a mad killer to attack them. 
    But that would only be in the movies. Glacier Bay had no mad killers. The rather small town of thirty thousand hadn’t had a murder in over ten years that wasn’t related to some kind of domestic disturbance. Any mad killer that found their way to this sleepy town would have been overcome by the vista and settle down to live a normal adjusted life in a seaside town. 
    Though Glacier Bay could suck the life right out of you by the sheer normalcy of everyday living. It was a town of mostly laid back conservative christians that worried more about getting to church each Sunday and making sure their kids got a great education than anything else. On the surface, Glacier Bay was a utopia for anyone weary of big city life and all the problems that stem from millions of people living together. 
    Yet it was quickly becoming quite cosmopolitan as more families moved to Glacier Bay to escape the claustrophobia of the big city. They preferred to commute the two hour drive to the office each day before retreating back to the safety of the mountains. 
    Each morning lines of cars disappeared over the horizon leaving a town filled with kids, bored housewives, and retirees that could afford to live in the exclusive coastal properties. The wives gathered in restaurants after going to the gym with their thousand dollar strollers, yoga pants, and bottomless Mimosas. The kids all dressed the same as they tried to mimic big city fashion and spent their time doing Tik Tok challenges and drinking white claws on the weekend. If you were to ask any of them, they would claim to be bored most of the time. 
    And that was exactly how Tyler Randolph Scott felt. Trapped by the ocean on one side and the mountains on the other side. In his seventeen years, thirteen of them had been spent in Glacier Bay. He felt cut off from the real world and all the stimuli that would save him from the brain numbing routine of small town life. 
    That was the driving force that led him to this mostly empty parking lot on a Friday night. It was three days before the start of his senior year and he was sitting in his brand new Jeep Compass with his best friend, Devin Jenkins, staring hesitantly at the door to the rest stop bathroom some twenty yards away. 
    “This is so fucked,” Tyler blurted after a few moments of staring at the closed door. He looked over at Devin and declared, “I’m not gonna do it.”
    “You’re the one who lost the bet,” Devin said with a wicked grin. “Now it’s time to pay up.”
    “I don’t even know what I’m supposed to do,” Tyler complained with a frown on his face.
    “You go inside, pick an empty stall. Then you wait until someone comes in the next stall. It’s easy.”
    “Oh really?” Tyler asked incredulously. “That’s your plan. Just wait in the stall until someone comes in. Then I just shove my dick in the hole.”
    Devin nodded as he said, “Pretty much.”
    “And what if the man that comes in shoves his dick through the hole instead?”
    “I’m not going to tell you how to live your life,” Devin said as he shrugged. 
    Tyler sat in silence for a moment. Why did he let Devin force him into these stupid bets? He blurted out, “This isn’t right.”
    “Coming from the guy that made me shove a marker up my ass and parade around MIndy’s house on the Fourth of July.”
    “That was just good ole clean fun,” Tyler said with a wave of his hand. “But you’re making me do something gay.”
    “Shoving a marker up your ass is pretty gay,” Devin countered. “Plus, I had to do it in front of a house full of my friends. You should thank your ass I’m not making you do that in front of them.”
    “Fine,” Tyler said as he unbuckled his seatbelt. “But I think after this, we should lay off the bets for a while.”
    “Agreed,” Devin said as he unbuckled his seatbelt. 
    “Where do you think you’re going ?” Tyler demanded as he turned to look at the boy intently. 
    “Inside with you,” Devin said casually. Like it was an everyday occurrence to watch his buddy get a blowjob in a bathroom rest stop.
    “Bullshit,” Tyler said quickly, a look of panic on his face. “No way you’re going inside with me.”
    “I need proof,” Devin said flatly. “No way I’m going to let you get out of this by only pretending you cleared your bet.”
    “I’m not letting you watch me get a blowjob from some dude in a public restroom,” Tyler argued as he shook his head violently. “It’s not gonna happen.”
    “What do you suggest then?” Devin asked as he crossed his arms stubbornly. There was no way he was going to let Tyler weasel out. Not after he had to have that marker in his ass. 
    “I’ll take a video,” Tyler offered quickly. 
    Devin thought about it for a moment and then nodded slowly. He said, “But once in the stall, I want a video of your face and without pausing, I want to see you shove your dick in the hole.”
    “Fine,” Tyler said as he opened the door and took a deep breath before he walked across the parking and into the bathroom.
  3. Jason Rimbaud

    Untitled Stories

    By Jason Rimbaud,


    Life In Glasses
    In the last eight months, I somehow managed to write about two hundred ninety-five thousand words over six stories. And out of those six, four are first draft complete. 
    Untitled Story Number One: Set in Hershey Pennsylvania and revolves around a plot to assassinate a sitting US Senator on the road to a presidential nomination and the contract killer who decides to stop it. The first draft is 96,345 words.
    Untitled Story Number Two: The story takes place in the US Virgin Islands as our protagonist deals with the loss of his parents after a sudden illness. He meets a boy at a house party and quickly falls in love. But everything isn’t as it seems and when the press catches wind of his budding romance, choices must be made by both boys that will alter their lives forever. A short story with 22,889 words.
    Untitled Story Collection Number Three: This chronicles the affair between two singers, one at the height of his career and the other climbing his way to the top. The idea of this story began with my short story already posted online at Gay Authors many years ago entitled Fractured. Told over a span of five years and through four short stories, this is a tale of addiction and the struggle to find one’s identity amongst the lens of fame. Total word count is 89,545.
    Untitled Story Number Four: What happens when a closeted boy gets a pride themed thong as a secret santa gift? Who gave it to him and why? Based on a writing prompt at Gay Authors and was my entry for last year's Christmas story. Sadly it was not finished in time as it was a complete mess even with help from two of our Awesome Dude writers who tried to edit it. Hopefully it will be retooled for this year's entry for Christmas. Word count 14,289
    Untitled Story Number Five: In 2023, Tyler was forced into questioning his sexuality for the first time in his life. After reconnecting with an old friend he quickly falls in love. Now a senior in high school, he is pressured into raising his GPA from 3.5 to 3.7 from his father who has grand plans for his only son. As midterms approach, his barely passing grade in Calculus forces him to take drastic action on the very eve his entire world comes crashing down. Can his boyfriend save him from himself or will Tyler have to face things alone? In progress, current word count is 48,584
    Untitled Story Number Six: In 1995, Daniel steals a car and runs away to the big city to escape his homophobic parents. He is caught after crashing the car and sent to a boarding school that specializes in gay conversion therapy. He returns at the start of summer and has to navigate the court ordered restitution to pay off the stolen car, his overly religious ex boyfriend who is trapped in denial that the only way he can survive is to lash out in violence. Can Daniel survive the summer before he turns eighteen or will he be trapped in a town he hates. In Progress, 22,923
    Earlier this year, I made an end of year goal that I will have at least one story completed and readying for posting online. Thus far, I am well on my way to achieving this amazing feat seeing as I opened a restaurant last year and have just finished signing a Letter of Intent (LOI) on our first brick & mortar restaurant in downtown San Francisco. We have moved on to the financing stages and if all goes well, by mid August our very first restaurant will be opened and ready for customers. 
    With a new restaurant opening looming above my head, I don’t know how much time I will have to focus on my writing. So to achieve this goal, I will choose one of the above stories to complete before the end of the year. If anyone has a particular one that interests them into reading more, I am taking suggestions. 
    On a completely different note, in the mid-eighties, I read a book of short stories called Thieves World, a shared world fantasy series created by Robert Asprin and featuring some of the most well known writers of the seventies and eighties. My memory is that authors could use any characters already created or introduce new ones set in the city of Sanctuary. 
    As the series continued, I became fascinated by multiple stories taking place in the same location independently of the other stories. Twenty years ago I tried, and failed, to mimic this by writing multiple stories set in the same small town of my youth. This would be a semi-autobiographical tale told through a fictional lens.
    For several reasons, this concept failed. I was not a good writer and the story quickly got away from me due to lack of plot and/or planning. Recently I revisited this concept and two of the above stories are set in the same location. 
    I guess my hope, after I finish playing in this setting, is that maybe another author might want to jump in and play around in my world. Either by continuing any of the stories I post or creating new ones. But first I have to actually finish something.
    Wish me luck on signing my lease, I’m so excited to actually be able to see people enjoy my food in a restaurant setting instead of just doing take-out.
  4. Jason Rimbaud
    So I went to a place to buy contacts, I won't tell you the name but it rhymes with BenRafters. After ringing in my 3 month supply of contacts, the lady said pleasantly, please look on the screen and make sure everything is correct, then please press a button to accept the payment. So far, pretty standard practices. But this is when they get sneaky. Because on the screen isn't a list of the items I purchased. Instead, on a white screen, with green boxes, and inside the boxes are bold black letters that says, $5, $10, $15, $20. Across the top is a banner that says something about donating money for something eye related.
    But I couldn't see a way out of the screen unless I pressed one of the boxes marked with a donation. So I look at the lady and ask, how do I get off this screen without donating to whichever charity you are shilling for. She smiles and says, just hit the button that says no thank you. I looked at the screen again, and finally I saw it, a white box on a white screen with white lettering that read, no thanks.
    How much money do you think they got out of people that just hit a button because they couldn't easily find the no thanks button. I looked at her and said, "this is a great scam you got going on here". And she had the nerve to look at me blankly like I was the asshole that didn't want to donate to eyes for the homeless.
    Do you think its right that companies prey on people in scams like these? This isn't the first time that companies purposely hold back information when it comes to your money. She could have said there is a screen that will ask for a donation for seeing eye dogs, but she didn't, she said plainly, please make sure everything is correct and then press a button to accept payment. 
    And while I'm here, in California anyway, my local grocery store always ask me if I would purchase a meal for the homeless. If I do, I get a free shopping bag. My answer is, why don't this multi-billion dollar a year company donate meals for the homeless. I can barely afford to purchase my after work beer to help forget that I live in the most expensive city in America and I can't walk down the street without stepping in shit or tripping over a crazy person shooting up heroin on my way to my overpriced condo that has amazing views of the alley and the building over neighbors hanging their undies over their balcony.
     
    Jason
  5. Jason Rimbaud
    I was perusing the Blogs over at GayAuthors.org when I happened to read a new Blog called Marty's Musing. I don't know Marty but the title caught my attention and I urge everyone to go there and read it as it is definitely the "muse" that started me down this long rambling entry of my mine.
    https://gayauthors.org/blogs/entry/17900-o-muse-where-art-thou/
    To briefly give everyone an overview, Marty once upon a time use to write a fair amount but for the last ten years or so has focused on other things in his probably amazing life. And a few months ago, he started getting the urge to dip his toe back into the writing pond and was having some difficulty finishing a story he began all those years ago. He also had a few new ideas but after writing a page or so he would find himself getting discouraged and abandon the words on the paper. At the end of his post, he posed these three questions.
    1. What is the cause of writers block?
    2. How does an author overcome writers block?
    3. O muse, where art thou?
    After reading Marty's post, and it's only about five paragraphs long and I have included the link above so I urge you to read it. As of this writing, there are about five comments and they are perfectly nice, encouraging words that I have come to expect from the members of GA.
    Things like don't force it, let it come naturally, just take some time and wait for good ole "muse" to return. Things like, go to the story prompts and see if anything gets your mojo flowing again. And for some reason, these positive answers who's sole intent was offer encouragement to someone that was feeling a bit down got me a bit fired up and I starting to respond to what had been said before me.
    And then much like I always do, my reply got to be pretty long with some colorful language, some blunt honesty, and childish musings about a subject I might not know anything about. So after a moment, I decided to post my reply in my Blog to keep from hijacking someone else's entry and to ensure I don't hurt anyone's feelings.
    I don't believe in the traditional idea of "muse" and its whoring reputation it carries around the world. You know the one I mean; you first meet "muse" at a coffee shop. You have a double shot of espresso with almond milk and you tell everyone you're sick of everyone raping the cows for their joy juice but secretly wish you could enjoy real milk in your beverage but don't want the judgmental guy behind the counter to give you a disappointed stare when you order. So you sit there, sipping your dairy free beverage and suddenly, "muse" walks in the cafe.
    "Muse" skips past the guy with the ironic mustache trying to construct the perfect sentence in his essay about the dangers of drinking milk. Pirouette's around the housewife peering intently at her Hawaii Five-0 fan fiction crossover with Magnum P.I.. Frowns at the out of work screen writer who is steadfast in his belief that he alone has the script that will finally show the amazing talent that is Nicolas Cage before sliding into the seat across from you and give you that dirty little smile as if to say, 'how you doing'.
    "Muse" seems to be very impressed that you are drinking a dairy free beverage and starts to gently rub your instrument under the table, discreetly at first. Suddenly your fingers are flying over the keys, your writing so fast you can't help but look around to make sure everyone can see that you are writing so fast and that the elusive "muse" has settled on you to employ its magic.
    Ironic mustache guy leaves in huff, his hopes of stopping the consumption of milk dashed forever as "muse" continues to do dirty things to your instrument. Housewife leaves, her face a little flushed but completely stumped how to finish the scene where Chin Ho Kelly and Magnum finally consummate thirty-seven chapters of longing on the hood of the iconic red Ferrari. While the out of work screen writer continues to struggle with the perfect script for Nicolas Cage. And sadly, this screen writer never stops at this attempt, never.
    Because now "muse" is no longer content to discreetly stroke your instrument. Now "muse" has progressed to doing something so dirty I can't even describe it with human words. But that doesn't matter, because your fingers are flying over the keys. You have a look of ecstasy on your face and everything is right in the world and you owe it all to "muse".
    This behavior continues for hours, days, maybe weeks that turn into months, and sometimes it could even last for years. You and "muse" seem to have an understanding, you'll keep writing in public spaces and "muse" will continue to rub your instrument.
    Once upon a time, I use to produce a fuck-ton of content. I have nine complete novels posted on Nifty and seventeen short stories that I uploaded over a span of about four years. I'm talking a hundred thousand words plus novels. I also wrote dozens of poems that some might have read once upon a time. 
    And trust me, I'm not claiming that these stories and poems were great or even good, I'm just saying that I use to produce a lot of content when I was younger.
    I will also say that I am rather proud that save for one sequel, every story I ever posted online is complete.
    When I was younger, I wrote a story that attracted some reader attention and garnered me hundreds of encouraging emails that stroked my fragile ego. And when that story finally came to an end after 32 chapters, the encouraging emails stopped arriving in my inbox. And I missed those glorious words.
    So to keep those emails pouring in, for the first time I started writing and posting chapters immediately after finishing them. I skimmed over them barely but really didn't have an idea on where I was going. But I was confident that I knew these characters and didn't think I needed to worry about the end. I knew I would get there.
    The first chapter was posted, and again, dozens of emails. The next chapter, I only received half the amount as before. And with each chapter after, the emails all but dried up. So by the time I got to chapter five, I was completely lost and the story fizzled away and I abandon it to the internet.
    The fans who loved the first story lost interest in the sequel because truthfully I didn't really have an idea I was just winging it and it showed in the writing.
    I didn't know then but I was scared. I wrote about some characters people liked and hoped to capitalize on my earlier success by offering up a shitty premise. Not even my sub-conscious mind could work out a plot that was so paper thin before I even put words to screen.
    I think a lot of people believe "muse" to be a fragile creature, one that is meant to roam free, to traverse where it will without any guidance or structure. As if any attempt will stifle the creativity it brings you. Many writers treat "muse" in this manner, with kid gloves, hoping not to anger the delicate flower that could leave you at a moments notice to rub some other instrument.
    Like one day you'll be at a party, you and "muse", and you turn your back to get a tuna poke on a piece of kale appetizer and when you turn back around, "muse" is off in the corner giving someone else a hand-job. And the frustrating thing, you've seen this other person's instrument, and its not as impressive as yours, but "muse" is going to town and suddenly you feel taken advantage of and then your instrument shrivels up until its barely a tip and no amount of writing in a public space can bring "muse" back to stroking your instrument.
    You continue to go to that same coffee shop, order the same boring milk free beverage, you sit in the same spot, hoping to attract "muse" again to your instrument. But "muse", that fickle so and so, rubs everyone else's instrument but yours. You get depressed, eventually you start ordering espresso with real milk cause you just don't give a fuck anymore and one day you wake up and you aren't even writing, you just surf FaceBook and comment on cat photos.
    I think writers tend to create blocks as they try and appease this thing called "muse". Whether its sitting in the same spot every day, listening to the same piece of music, having the room at the correct temperature, complete silence or even chaos. All these rules and structures they somehow believe will get "muse" back to where it belongs, under the table stroking your instrument. And in the end, writers allow these things to rule their creative life.
    Merriam-Webster defines muse: to become absorbed in thought, especially to think about something carefully and thoroughly.
    You don't get to the more popular definition of muse until definition number three, a person or source of inspiration. And that definition is the second one if the word is used as a noun.
    So why do most people believe that "muse" is more the third definition over the first. The definition where it clearly defines what "muse" is, to think about something carefully and thoroughly.
    So to answer Marty's first question, what is the cause of writers block. Maybe you didn't carefully think through the story in the first place.
    I'll add a question of my own, how can you hope to finish something if you have no idea where you want to go?
    I know there are writers out there who post chapters online as soon as they are written with little or no thought of where they are heading. And those same authors will argue they allow the characters to take them on the journey and they as well as the reader will find out together how the story ends.
    But how many of those stories are ever finished? Maybe 2%, if we the audience are lucky.
    Or the other side of the same coin, the never ending saga. You know the one where the author keeps rambling on for dozens of chapters chronicling in great boring detail events that never seem to progress the plot forward. Seriously, every story has to have an ending; its the nature of what we do. Overly long stories are nothing but a glaring sign screaming 'I don't have a clue where I am going but please take this journey with me and hopefully there will be a resolution sometime if "muse" allows it'.
    And let's be brutally honest here, most of these type of stories are complete shit. And the ones that aren't complete shit would never have a chance at professional publishing.
    Much like Marty, I too left writing some ten years ago to focus on a career that I ended up hating. I am currently trying to change my life path and have gotten back into writing almost every day.
    And like Marty, I went back to an old unfinished story and struggled for about three months to complete it. I already had seventeen chapters finished with a dozen more that had half-baked ideas but I could never get it moving in the right direction.
    The frustration was there mixed with a lot of fear that maybe because I stopped writing all those years ago, I somehow lost the ability to put words on the screen. And for a moment, I faltered. 
    I went over my past writings, hoping that "muse" would again grant me the inspiration to start writing again. I found an old outline I wrote on June 25th, 2002 on a yellow legal pad during a slow day at work.
    As I read the twelve page outline, a few things stood out among the shit. Some really cool characters, a few great scenes, a ton of out dated technology and some really stilted dialogue. Even without a strong idea, I was convinced this was my next project, my grand return to online writing.
    It was a constant daily struggle to accomplish anything. For every good scene I wrote, I would delete entire pages of shit that just didn't make any sense. It was the most difficult time I've ever faced attempting to do something that gave me so much pleasure in my younger days.
    After one particularly rough day, I took a break and went outside to empty the trash and then it hit me. The reason it wasn't going well was because it was shit. If its only a collection of cool ideas with some half-drawn characters but no plot to speak of, was it any wonder I wasn't moving.
    I was trapped at a certain point and no matter what little trick I did, I couldn't gather the "muse" long enough to do anything except stare at that dreaded blinking cursor. I hadn't thought about it carefully and thoroughly.
    Which leads to Marty's second question, how does an author overcome writers block?
    Merriam-Webster defines writers block: a psychological inhibition preventing a writer from proceeding with a piece.
    Makes perfect sense to me, most of the things we encounter in our life begins in the mind anyway. Why would a block be any different?
    What are some of the reasons one might get writers block besides the things I already covered above. 
    Fear is one that comes to mind first. Fear of letting other people read what we wrote, to voice our opinions, our viewpoint, or whatever it is we are trying to convey.
    Perfection is another. I can't write until its perfect. We fall into this trap of not even attempting until we think its perfect. 
    I hate to bust your bubble, but perfection takes time, and re-writes, and editing, followed by more re-writes. Perfection will come, but it will take time.
    Timing is another block. You start writing something like I did, but you really didn't have more than the seeds of an idea and quickly you lose focus and the story dies on the page. Ideas need time to be nurture, water the seedling and then shape it until you have a usable idea that will be turned into a realized story.
    So back to Marty's question, how do you overcome this dreaded affliction? Before I give you the definite and only answer, and I do have the answer. I'll give a few ideas on how to get some movement on your thought process.
    Lets pretend we are back in our favorite coffee shop with our diary free beverage and "muse" isn't stroking our instrument. Get up and go for a walk. Change your environment and ruminate on the idea at hand. Maybe change your music selection, read a few pages of your favorite book, play video games. Sometimes getting your conscious mind off the problem will allow for your subconscious to tackle the issue without you banging your head on the table in front of everyone.
    There a thousands of ways to alter your frame of mind, and all of them have one thing in common.
    There is a famous saying, 'the only way out is through'. Sometimes you have progressed so far that it is easier to continue the path ahead then to turn around and go back.
    Whether you change your environment, or your music selection, or the task you are accomplishing, all of these are paths of movement. You have to move from the place you are currently to somewhere else. Sometimes that movement might be forward, sometimes that movement might be sideways, or sometimes that movement is backward. And like in my case, sometime that movement is starting over from scratch. Standing still will never defeat the block in your life.
    J Michael Straczynski is a well respected writer of television, movies, comic books, books and any other medium that involves creating. He created Babylon 5, Sense 8, reimagined Thor, transformed how people write Wonder Woman and is hired often to re-write screen plays and polish them. 
    He is also famous for writing every single day. No breaks, no vacations, no holidays, no time off. Just like Steven King, who once stated that he wrote at lease five thousand words every day, JMS continues to write on a daily basis.
    That is the answer to Marty's question. You can only overcome writers block by writing. Writers get blocks, authors do not. Somehow authors have learned that writing is not a gift from the "muse" of legends. It's a skill that is honed by doing your ten thousand hours. It's getting up every day and writing before work, or after work, or on the train commute, or however you do it but all authors do the very same thing, they write every day.
    After I gave up on my old work, I saw a prompt as I was going through some Blog posts on GA.
    Prompt 706-Creative
    Tag-Sleep
    The patient has been in the hospital for longer than you have been alive. They barely look eighteen and doctors keep running all sorts of tests. You were hired to exercise the patients muscles, keep them groomed, and clean. While bathing them today, the patient woke up, what happens?
    I didn't happen overnight. I thought about this prompt for the rest of the day. When I cooked breakfast the next morning I thought about this prompt. A few days later when I was doing laundry, I thought about this prompt. The next week while playing video games I thought about this prompt. This idea consumed me for a few weeks before I sat down and wrote this paragraph...
    "Nuresh Rajendran whistled happily as he pushed the cart down the brightly lit hallway. He had just celebrated his 65th birthday the week prior and had been awarded a small gold watch. That watch signified thirty years of service, and though he moved a bit slower than he once, he still hadn't lost his love of the job."
    So to answer Marty's third question, oh muse, where art thou? It's where it's always been. In the idea that is carefully and thoroughly thought out before attempting to write it down.
    J
  6. Jason Rimbaud
    Four months ago, at least from the outside, most would say that I was on top of the world. I have a good job, a great apartment, and an amazing boyfriend. I had a good start on a saving account, a brand new car with all the bells and whistles. If I was a normal person, I would have been content at the success I enjoyed. Yet for all those possessions, something was lacking in my life.
    I first started working in hospitality the year I turned 21. I really didn't have the opportunity to go to college, and didn't really have any other avenues to traverse. What else could a cute gay boy do for work besides shake his ass as a bartender.
    And though I moved from working in gay bars, then stopped bar-tending completely, only to move into serving before landing a job as a manager a few years later. Truthfully, at least professionally, it was the only thing I was ever good at. And I can say with complete modesty, I am very good at my job.
    From the time I was a young boy, my only dream was to be a writer. And until I turned thirty, I followed that dream. But then I got sidetracked, I started listening to others telling me that I had to secure a future. So I guess you could say, I fell into the hospitality business. I built a career out of the one thing I was good at and for a time, I was content to do so.
    But content is not happy. The future was starting to cement, I started growing my savings account. And I had built up quite an impressive resume with some of the most successful people in San Francisco. 
    I calculated each move, every time I left and took a new position, it was for a better future for me. I sacrificed a five year relationship and more friends then I would care to admit in my single minded ambition to secure a future. 
    For a time, I told myself that when I reached success, when I finally made it, then I would focus on my personal life. But truth be told, the more successful you become, the more time and energy it takes to maintain that success. I started to wonder when enough would be enough. 
    Then I met "N" two years ago. Three hours after meeting him, I told my friend that I was going to spend the rest of my life with him. I just knew it. Two months later, I had gave up my condo in Daly City and moved into San Francisco with him. Again, from the outside, most people would say that I had it all. 
    But I wasn't happy. And yes, I could mask it at work, I am a professional after all. But the years of 14 hour days, six to seven days a week, working every single weekend. Sometimes not getting home until 1am only to get up at 4am and then head back to work for another 14 hour day. 
    "N" understood the long hours, after all, he is in the same business as me. The difference, the owner he works for truly believes in work life balance, and he rarely works more than 40 hours a week and always gets two days off a week in a row. I am not so fortunate. 
    In the dark parts of the night, snuggled in bed with "N", I told him about my long forgotten dream of becoming a writer. Of course he was interested in reading my work as any good "N" would be, I showed him my past writings. And he started to encourage me to take up the words again. And over the last two years, I have slowly dipped my toes in the water of creativity again. Though it had only been occasionally and in brief spurts only. And much like the discovery of an old friend, I started to realize how much I enjoyed sitting down at my laptop and spewing forth nonsense onto the screen.
    The dedication it takes to operate at the level I had managed to achieve is total commitment. It's working 14 hours in the restaurant, then spending another three hours at home answering emails from the department managers and various vendors that need my attention it seems daily.
    I will admit, I probably worked more than I needed too but the restaurant brought in 12 million a year and I was responsible for every dollar of it. So yes, my focus was on the bottom line for more than just my quarterly bonus.
    It had been brewing for a while, my unhappiness at work. And I can't blame the owner for wanting to make the most money he possibly could. But I started to wonder how much money was enough. I knew the numbers, I knew the magic number. Once the restaurant makes this magic number, anything over that amount is profit for the owner. And he was a single owner, he had no partners. So when he set the budget for this year 25% more than last year, I had to wonder what he was thinking. 
    He's the owner, he can set whatever budget he wants, its his right. And as a professional, it was my job to try and hit that budget. I"m not so naive that I don't understand business. He is only in it for the money. And its his money and his right.
    Any of you that understand budgets and how the restaurant business works, it is highly unlikely that any restaurant, unless something out of the ordinary happens, to grow a business by 25% over the previous year.  Especially when 35% of your business is tied up with the Moscone Center and their convention business.
    I'll give him the unreachable budget. When it was written the year before, he did not know Moscone Center was going to be in construction and all the conventions we enjoyed in 2017 would not be there in 2018.
    Nor did he realize that international tourism is down due to our current political climate. Add that to our out of control homeless problem and several large conventions citing homeless issues as the reason they are no longer booking in San Francisco, and its no wonder all restaurants in the city are down fifteen percent city wide.
    After talking with friends in the accounting world, he should be happy he's only down 10%. He is actually doing better than most currently in San Francisco. I have lost count of the high end restaurant closures and the celebrity chefs that are struggling to keep the doors open.
    I know the main reason he raised my budget so high, was to help cover the cost of his new restaurant that was opened in 2017 and was struggling, to put it mildly, in the current climate.
    For full disclosure, I started losing my happiness at work the moment I met "N" and realized he was something outside of work that was more important than anything. It had been brewing for months. So when the culture of the restaurant started to change and the owner started to show his stress more and more.
    So during the monthly meeting when he demanded what I was going to do to attain this budget, I brought out the numbers, a bit more in detail than what I describe above, and he looked at me and responded that it was only excuses and he didn't pay me to give him excuses. And he is right. He didn't pay me to give him excuses.
    So I said the first thing that came to me. And trust me, I had given better speeches over my career. And it might have been a mistake, but every fiber in my being said it was the right thing to do. I can't say what I told him, I don't really remember. But I resigned that day. For the first time in my life, I walked away with no notice and no prospects.
    San Francisco is a small town, every owner knows all the rest. And leaving like I did was not the smartest thing I could have done, but that was the day my happiness returned.
    And I will be honest, it wasn't just because my owner is an asshole, he is. But I don't think my life has room for something that is so demanding that takes me away from being happy in my life. 
    So for two months I've sat in my great apartment with my amazing boyfriend and made time for myself. For the first time in ten years, I have nothing to do. Everyday I spend time with "N" before he goes to work. Then I clean the house, I do laundry, sometimes I play video games, sometimes I get hammered in the middle of the day for no reason, but most of the time, after I do my house chores, I sit down at my laptop and write. 
    I write like I did in my twenties when the desire was strong and I didn't know what the future held but I was excited to face it. 
    My vacation payout alone was two months salary and I figured I was going to enjoy every moment. We aren't rich and my little diversion from work won't last much longer. After all, this is the most expensive city in the country to live and he won't let me be a bum much longer.
    I think my time in hospitality has come to a close. I think my next job will be something that will allow me to pay my bills yet leave me time to focus on what really matters in this life.
    The night I left my job, I went out and bought my amazing boyfriend a ring, we are planning on getting married next June and life could not be happier for me.
     
  7. Jason Rimbaud

    Blech

    By Jason Rimbaud,

    So waking up at 3am to go to work to complete inventory and payroll before working a ten hour day.   Can life get any better I ask you?
    Seriously...please tell me life can be better....
    TELL ME!!!!!
    Oh darn, I burned the muffins.
  8. Jason Rimbaud
    The other day I was walking to the B.A.R.T. (Bay Area Rapid Transit), which is another name for the local Subway system, it was late, sometime around 11:PM, when I was approached by three youths, they couldn't have been older than twenty. Even though I was listening to my I-Pod, I am aware of my surrounding, and when they stopped in front of me, barring my way to walk, I took out one of the ear buds, and looked at them blankly.
    The tallest one, which still didn't come up to my shoulder, told me in his broken accent, "This is my block, if you want to continue then we have to do a pocket check."
    Now I'm not completely hip with all the new lingo that is floating around the world, but being as I have spent some time on the streets in my youth, I immediately knew that this young youth was basically saying that since I was on his block, then he was going to take everything that was in my pockets.
    On Saturday, I was witnessed to another crime. This time it was a crack-head looking dude that was hanging around my restaurant's patio. Being that I am rather cynical, the moment I laid eyes on this dirty man, I knew that he was up to no good.
    I watched him for a few minutes, I first thought that he was going to try and steal something off our patio, maybe drinks from a table, or cash after someone paid for their check. I guess if you've been in the restaurant business as long as I have, then over time you start to develop a keen instinct when something isn't quite right. I'm not sure what it is, but just from the body language, I can usually tell when a guest is going to try and skip out on his check, or when a skittish looking crack-head is going to try something shady.
    This time, instead of the crack-head fucking me over, he walked over to the bike-rack that is located right in front of my restaurant, and after producing a pair of chain-cutters, he cuts the bike lock and then quickly jumps on the bike and pedals away.
    Two moments later, the dude who's bicycles the crack-head just stolen, walked outside of my restaurant.
    Now I don't know why those people who have a love of bicycling insist on wearing spandex. It's like something inside them drives them to wear the tightest garments known to humans, a way to showcase the goods so to speak. I like nothing better than to see a guy's goods. But should I really be able to tell what religion a particular human adheres too? Because no one looks good in spandex...not even Lance Armstrong. There comes a time when the garments you wear outshine the sport you have taken up to pursue.
    Cycling is one of those sports. And while I'm speaking on the subject of spandex, why is it those of us humans that are weight challenged are most of the ones that abuse spandex.
    Not even when I was at my best, spandex was never an option. Fuck all, I love riding my bike, but I have never once in all my life, thought I would be a better cyclist by wearing those stupid outfits. Do I really need to see if a cyclist has hemorrhoids or not? I don't think so.
    So the dude that just had his bicycle stolen, who was abusing spandex by the way, took off running after the crack-head who was pedaling his stolen transportation as fast as his half-failed lungs could propel him.
    I would probably make a considerable wager that by the time that very hour had elapse, crack-head had sold that bike and was already high from the profits. But try explaining that concept to spandex wearing wacko, especially after getting the privilege of watching him run down Embarcadero. In a way, it was very entertaining.
    He was circumcised by the way...so maybe spandex might be good for something. At least I knew I shouldn't be shouting out Jewish slurs toward him.
    Not sure if any of you are familiar with Absinthe or the sordid history of this wonderful green liqueur. But my hero, Arthur Rimbaud, and his older French lover, drank this almost exclusively. And a few months ago, I found out that this once outlawed drink was now available in America. Apparently, the powers that be have decided that the terror campaign that was once waged against this wonderful drink was a boatload of shit, they have now agreed that it's a harmless spirit that is no worse than a bottle of Vodka.
    As I type this, I am now drinking this particular beverage, and I must say, I am quite addicted already.
    It's more than a homage to my favorite poet and mentor, though I must admit I was first intrigued by this drink because of my love of Arthur Rimbaud, but as I sampled this intoxicating adult beverage, I am now completely encapsulated under it's spell.
    It's 68% alcohol, and a wonderful green color. Which is why Arthur Rimbaud and his contemporaries called this magical drink, the green fairy. They even went as far as to name this drink the poet's third eye. Now I haven't written poetry in quite a while but I understand why it's nickname is the third eye.
    As I am now drinking this wonderful beverage, and have been for a few hours, I feel so inspired. Is this inspiration due to Absinthe, is it due to my connection to Arthur Rimbaud, or is it due to my own misgivings and a desperate need to have a connection with a poet that completely saved my life in my teens?
    It really doesn't matter, I have given up writing poetry in any way. Matter of fact, I haven't written a new poetry piece in quite some time. I have two pieces that I have written and re-written a dozen times trying to get it right, that one day I will post online and will be the last two pieces of poetry that I will ever write. Even two years ago when I first started these pieces, I knew that they would be the last two pieces of poetry I would ever write.
    Maybe I am scared, maybe that's why I haven't been "able" to complete these pieces even after two years. Or maybe the reason I started writing poetry is obsolete now and I can't let go of the past. Either way, I am two pieces away of being Jason Rimbaud, the poet.
    Not that Absinthe has any bearing on this decision. I am simply following this train of thought to it's bitter end. I am so close to never writing poetry again and in a way it scares the living shit out of me. For so many years, Jason Rimbaud had been mainly known for his poetry. Yeah I've written a Blog that a few people have found amusing over the years, but I can pretty much assure that when asked who the hell is Jason Rimbaud, most people, if they even heard of me, would say he's that poet that has written a lot of pieces a few years ago.
    What have I written lately?
    So I was in the middle of a block and three thugs were demanding that I give them a pocket check. Being that I am not a silly little fag and that I am pretty much a fag that is accused of being straight by even those that know me truly well, I did what was completely in my nature.
    I took out my ear-bud, looked them over one by one, and said in my most centered voice, "It's going to take more than the three of you."
    I then put the ear-bud back inside my ear and promptly ignored the three fuck-heads that were standing in front of me. After a few moments, they retreated to either bother someone else or make their way back to their home.
    It really doesn't matter what they did, because in the end, bullies are nothing more than beings that feed off of fear, if you show them no fear, then they have no power. Make of this what you will...I have already made of this situation what I will...the rest is up to you.
    Jason
  9. Jason Rimbaud

    My New Site

    By Jason Rimbaud,

    For any of those that are interested, my brand new site is up and running over at the Hub. It contains every piece of work that I've posted online. Designed by Rob Hawes, I couldn't be happier with the final outcome. So if you're interested, look over at the upper left hand corner of the screen and click on the link called, The Writings of Jason Rimbaud.
    Jason (proud poet)
  10. Jason Rimbaud
    want...want...want...want...want...want...
    I just want Camy to be happy...
    I just want Camy to be satisfied...
    I just want Camy to know he is loved...
    I just want Camy to be joyful...
    Fuck it...I just want Camy!
    Jason *feeling quite giddy and happy this night/morning*
    (written in response to Camy's latest blog entry)
  11. Jason Rimbaud
    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.
  12. Jason Rimbaud
    I can't sleep, or I'm afraid to sleep, to face the dreams that haunt me. It started last Friday night. My eyes are bloodshot, dark circles line my face, and I can't seem to find solace. Sunday morning I woke up, the light from my window burning my eyes and my head pounding. I don't work Sunday so I clean the house, I do laundry and veg out in front of the TV. Sunday night I wake up, my alarm clock is blinking, I had the same nightmare. I can't go back to sleep. I go through all day Monday feeling listless and tired. My boss tells me I look sick, I say I'm only tired.
    I go home, I have a beer. I pass out on the couch. Three hours later I wake up, the nightmare fresh in my mind. I can't go back to sleep, I can't seem to find solace. Not even in drugs, I bought Vicadin from a friend on Tuesday. I pop three pills, three thousand milligrams, I need to sleep. But now I'm trapped inside the nightmare, I couldn't wake up, and when I did, my sheets were soaked and I had claw marks on my face.
    I go to work Wednesday and drift around the restaurant, my mind unfocused. Customers complain that I forgot things, my boss calls me into the office to talk to me, I fell asleep. He sends me home after asking what's wrong with me. I can't tell him, I don't know. I manage to eat without throwing it up, I watch TV. I drink a pot of coffee, I don't want to sleep. I wake up on the couch, my pants are wet from the coffee I spilled. I go to the gym and climb on a treadmill, I start to run. Three hours later I pass out, I'm thirsty, I must've forgot to drink water.
    Thursday night after work, I buy an eightball of cocaine from a friend. I'm determined not to let this nightmare grip me again. I brew a pot of coffee, I do lines all night. I type feverishly at the computer, the words I write meaningless and intelligible. I do more lines, I drink another pot of coffee. I'm awake, but I feel like I've been kicked by a mule. I go to work Friday morning, my boss sends me home and suggests I seek help. He's worried about me, I understand but I still don't know why this nightmare is haunting me.
    I go and buy another eightball, I've been up for three days, I wonder if my mind is finally sick enough not to dream. My heart is sick, it's pounding so hard I feel like I have heartburn, my thoughts won't make sense anymore, words are mysteries that I can't comprehend. I smoke a cigarette but it made me sick to my stomach. I open a bottle of wine but it's tasteless, my throat is too numb. I try to lie down but the act of being prone causes my head to hurt again. I see dust on the TV and a sink full of dirty dishes. Someone must've thrown up in the sink, I see that too. Maybe I don't exist. Or maybe I'm in hell.
    I take a shower, but I can't recognize the figure staring back at me in the mirror. My ribs are sticking out, maybe I should eat. Though I'd probably throw it up anyway. I do a few more lines, the eightball is nearly gone. I cut my arm with the razor, I want to know if I can feel. I don't, but I am mesmerized by the blood streaming down and how it pools on the carpet. I laugh, I wonder just how big of a puddle I can make it. I reach for the razor again.
    And that's when I wake up screaming. I've had this dream three nights in a row. I usually don't analyze my dreams, but this one kind of frightened me. What is my mind trying to tell me? Is there a meaning or is this the product of my imagination? But what really worries me, like in the dream, tonight is the fourth night. If I dream it again, will I buy pills tomorrow? Did I just dream my own future, did I just witness my own...? Great, now I'm scared to fall asleep.
    Fuck, I miss Daniel right now.
    Jason R.
  13. Jason Rimbaud
    So I've been drinking a bit tonight, a very good Merlot, okay, truth be told, I'm working on my third bottle of Merlot, but who's counting. Either way, while I'm drinking, I've been channel surfing. And I came across an eposide of Everyone Love's Raymond. And for the first time in my life, I actually watched the entire eposide. And I've come to the conclusion that I really don't Love Raymond. Matter of fact, I think I might despise Raymond, so much that if i saw him walking on the side of the street, I would swerve just to hit him with my car. I've not had this instant hatred for anyone since I first watched Tom Hanks in The Man with One Red Shoe. And I'm a bit perplexed, since I thought no one would ever come along that I would hate as much as I hate Tom Hanks. But Raymond is way up there. I think that naming a show, Everyone Loves Raymond is a bit arrogant on the part of the writers/creators. Because I don't love Raymond at all. Matter of fact, I think I hate Raymond with a passion that should only be reserved for the bedroom. Fuck Raymond and his stupid show. Fuck him all the way to hell.
    Jason R.
    PS: Even though I'm drunk, I'll still hate that fucking horrible actor in the morning. Fuck Raymond. And fuck Tom Hanks.
  14. Jason Rimbaud
    A Good Reason To Spend 765 Dollars
    I wrote this as a comment in (Ele)Civil's Blog a few weeks ago. I really liked it, and while discussing it with my friends back in Pennsylvania, they wondered why I did not have it posted here. So to oblige them, I reposted it here. I changed a few things around and add a few things, so maybe, even if you've already read this, give it another shot. Pretty please, just for me.
    I know how scary purchasing a new suit can be to the first time buyer. Not only do you have to decide which color of suit you should buy, but then there's the shoes, the shirt, etc. etc. I wanted to create a "How to Guide" for all of you that have a desire to dress in a more mature or adult manner. To lay out the proper steps, one by one to help you achieve the satisfaction buying that first suit will bring.
    Number One: Upon first entering the store, preferably a men's clothing store, of course you may choose whichever one best fits your own personal tastes. But for this "How to Guide", let's pretend you picked a men's clothing store. Once inside the clothing store, find the cutest male employee.
    (DO NOT, and let me repeat, DO NOT, pick the employee that has the best taste in clothes. This will only lead to feelings of inadequacy and frustration of never living up to an impossible standard.)
    Once you find the cutest male employee, wait as long as necessary for that particular employee to "free up" from his other customers. If he is taking a long time, peruse the rack that is advertising a 50% off going out of style sale. This will ensure no other employee will approach you as they'll believe you have no money to spend and they will avoid you like the plague.
    Once the cutest employee is free, approach him and remember to smile a lot while repeating money is no object. This will cause the cute employee to see dollar signs and he will do almost anything to complete the sell. (while the above is not mandatory, it does help ensure the cute employee will go above and beyond the call of duty, even going as far as entering the dressing room with you to make sure the pants fit just right in all the right places.)
    Number Two: Make sure, while selecting which color of suit to purchase, that not only does it match the color of your eyes, but it will also look great crumpled on the floor of the cute employee's apartment in the morning. This is a must, do not cheap out.
    Number Three: You'll know when you've found the perfect suit when, all the gay men in the store stop shopping to watch you with one hand in their pants. Stop right there, buy that suit, no matter how much it costs. Believe when I say it will be worth the money in the long run. (at least I tell myself this to justify the purchase of a five hundred dollar suit I made recently.)
    Number Four: Now that you've picked out the suit, the real fun begins. The cute employee will take you to a stage, surrounded by mirrors on three sides with powerful spot lights shining directly on you. This is to lull you into believing that you really are the star of the store.
    (side note: If the cute employee entered the dressing room with you, wait at least ten minutes before stepping on the stage to allow certain things to shrink back to normal. A lesson I learned quite by accident the day I purchased my five hundred dollar suit.)
    The cute employee will now start to grope you as he draws on your new suit with white chalk. And though it's not necessary, he will measure your inseam, sometimes three or four times, just to make sure there is ample room in the front of your trousers for certain situations should they ever arise.
    Number Five: Once the fitting is over, he will strip you of your now chalked suit and begin showing you different shirt and tie combinations. This is very important, DO NOT settle for the first combination he shows you. Even if it is the one you end up buying. The object of this game is to spend as much time with the cute employee as possible. Choosing the first combination only brings the ending that much closer.
    Number Six: After deciding on the shirt and tie combination, it is now time for the belt. While I urge you to pick a belt that matches your shoes, it is not necessary as usually your jacket will be closed at all times. This makes the belt the least important item on the list. Though buying the belt gives the cute employee another reason to stick his fingers in the waist of your pants to make sure the fit is proper.
    Number Seven: Next is the socks and shoes. Socks should match the suit, while the shoes should accent the suit without overstating it. Always allow the cute employee to slip the shoes on your feet. (For those of you with a foot fetish, this is an easy and cheap thrill that will be shared, if your lucky, by the cute employee and yourself.
    (Side note: It has been my experience with these humans that sell men's clothing, they either secretly or openly enjoy the male figure. Fitting men into suits gives them the excuse to touch males without having to resort to the pretense of "sport allowed" situations. IE: smacking your teammate on the ass after a great touchdown, etc etc. Clothes fitting has replaced this "sport allowed contact" under the guise of concern that the wearer of the suit is happy and comfortable with his purchase.)
    And lastly,
    Number Eight: No matter how cute the employee is, no matter how excited you are to leave that suit in a crumpled mess on his floor, DO Not, again, Do Not purchase the shoe trees.
    For those of you who don't understand that phrase, I'll explain. Shoe tress are devices that fit into your shoe when you are not wearing them to maintain its shape.
    The reason behind me instructing you to NOT purchase the shoe trees is this, we can't all buy five hundred dollar suits every month. Yet shoes are way more affordable. This gives you the excuse to return to the clothing store each month to see the cute employee under the "guise" of maintaining nice shoes for your five hundred dollar suit. And though the cute employee knows the real reason you return each month, he'll pretend right along with you. It's a win win situation.
    I know some of you might be college students, so I'll breakdown the price list, item by item. This will give you an idea how long you might have to drink really cheap beer to afford this rather expensive flirting method.
    Suit that makes guys get hardon's: Five hundred dollars
    Shirt that matches your socks: Fifty-five dollars
    Tie to state just how powerful and sexy you really are: Thirty dollars
    Belt just to give the cute employee a reason to stick his hands in your pants: Fifty dollars
    Socks that will be hidden at all times until the cute employee checks your shoes: Twenty dollars(three pack)
    Shoes that accent the suit without overstating: One hundred and ten dollars
    Getting felt up in the dressing room by cute employee: Seven hundred and sixty-five dollars
    I hope this "How To Guide" has been some help to you. Good luck in your own purchasing adventures
    Jason R.
    PRICES MIGHT VARY STATE TO STATE: COUPONS AND EX-BOYFRIENDS NOT ACCEPTED AS PAYMENT
  15. Jason Rimbaud
    Little White Pill
    Life has been really good lately. The problems I've had with my eyes have healed up nicely. I've been eating healthier and not drinking so much. I've been getting seven to eight hours of sleep each night. And the dark circles under my eyes, which I thought would never go away, have cleared up as well.
    My job is moving along at the speed of light. Money is pouring in, enough to decorate my new apartment, I even have pictures hanging on the walls. And no, not a single one is a naked guy. It looks and feels like home. And believe me, it's been too many years since I have a place to call home. So life has been really good lately.
    Recently I had the opportunity to purchase a new computer, so for the last month or so I've been slowly going through all my old files, deciding which ones I want to continue working on, and those that should stay in computer purgatory. And a few days ago, I found this piece and it disturbed me on so many levels. So I figured I would post it on my blog.
    Little White Pill
    By: Jason R.
    Little white pills I wish I never found you
    Complete emptiness as the addiction grew
    No matter the cost I?d gladly pay
    It?s not up to you or what others say
    Consuming all of the trends
    Forcing me to pretend
    That I wasn?t in league
    Through lies and intrigue
    I pushed it down into places
    Only showing you painted faces
    And now the moment is here
    I?ll slide away all the fear
    I choose pills over the gun
    Maybe life isn?t for everyone
    Written Monday, July 24th, 2006
    7:25 PM
    I noticed that this piece was written almost a year ago, and for a moment I struggled to remember why I first wrote it. I mean, what could I have been feeling during this time? What broken emotion could I have been entertaining to have the "given up" attitude to write something like this? Upon first reading, I wondered, if at one time, Last year, could I have been suicidal? And if yes, Why?
    If you have ever read my blog, my poetry, then you might have an idea that drugs have always played a part in my life. There was a time when between the booze and the cocaine, I'd take ecstasy to level off. Believe me, there have been too many Sundays spent "rolling face" in bed with some random stranger after a weekend of vodka and coke. Sadly, this was my life for many years.
    And though I gave up the cocaine years ago, and my drinking is nothing like I once indulged, and though I only "roll" occasionally, I believed I was doing pretty good. After all, all the hard drugs were long forgotten. Yet I had another vice waiting in the wings. Vicadin. Wow, cocaine was nothing next to this pain killer.
    I guess I never really liked sobriety, and with Vicadin you get a feeling of numbness without the guilt you'd get from a drug like heroin or cocaine. Last year at this time, I was up to eating nine or ten Vicadin's a day. Sometimes more depending on my state of mind. And I had convinced myself that it was harmless, after all, it was only a pain killer. Right?
    So addicted I had become, that the days I ran out of pills, I would start shaking and vomiting. I won't even get into my mood swings. During this time, I dropped a lot of weight. (For all you chunky guys out there, want a sure fire way to lose weight, get yourself a drug habit. The pounds seem to melt off. Though the down side is you lose all your friends so no one is around to say how gaunt you look. Everything it seems has a trade off.)
    Believe it or not, Vicadin is not an easy drug to come by. And when my supply ran out, I slowly began looking around for other substances to achieve my altered state of reality, to stop feeling. This quest led me to Crystal Meth. And just like years ago, once again my life became ruled by rails of white. And somehow, this high wasn't enough, so when I could get Vicadin's, I would smashed them up, mix them with Crystal, and snorted the whole mess together. Quite surprisingly, this is the time I started cruising heavily in San Francisco. I mean, Meth kept me horny for days at a time. And when I went cruising, it was nothing for me to have fifteen or sixteen cocks in my mouth in a single night.
    And for a time, this behavior was standard operating procedure for me. The biggest problem with Meth, it makes you feel like you are in control. Take away the powder, and life seemed out of control. So when Daniel began cautioning me about this behavior, I denied it, I pushed him away and almost lost the best thing that ever happened to me.
    But even though my life was spiraling out of control, Meth made my creativity explode. And with drug induced clarity, I began writing poetry with a passion. Nothing was off limits, I delved into the darkest places in my soul, and wrote about it with an honesty that I never had before. And like a wounded soldier, I tore off the bandages and let the wounds bleed for the world to see. And if you go back, in the poetry section, you can see the mistakes of my past jump out in vivid script.
    In this out of control lifestyle, the drugs somehow caused me to examine my past through my poetry, and pushed me to realize what I was doing with my future. In the last great Vicadin/Meth binges, I wrote the above piece in complete despair. It wasn't long after this piece, that through Daniel I did achieve a measure of sobriety. He urged me to go to "Susan" and seek help. Shortly after that, I started writing this blog. I found sharing stories of my life with perfect strangers helped me close one chapter of my life while starting a new one.
    I really wanted to share this piece here, yet I wanted to make sure those of you who care, understand why i wrote this piece and know I do not feel this way anymore. So to those of you that read my blog, those of you that take the time to post a comment, thank you from the bottom of my heart. Until the next time.
    Jason R.
  16. Jason Rimbaud
    You might not be aware, and more than likely you probably don't give a shit either way, but Rimbaud is not my real last name. When I was sixteen years old, I discovered a thirty page poem called A Season in Hell, written by a seventeen/eighteen year old poet by the name of Arthur Rimbaud.
    I had just discovered my love of writing/prose/poetry and I was amazed that such a brilliant thought provoking piece was written by a boy, and not just any boy but a gay boy like myself, from that moment, I have wanted to write my own Season in Hell. And though I have yet written a thirty page poem or written a masterpiece for that matter, I Devise my Own Demise is my own way of honoring a visionary poet that through heartache and loneliness lost the will to write at such an early age. He wrote from the ages of sixteen to nineteen, in that short span of time, he not only changed French poetry but the face of modern poetry as well.
    So without any more digressing, I give you my attempt,
    I Devise my own Demise
    By: Jason R.
    Meeting
    I remember that first day we met
    I was sitting on the porch
    A cigarette dangling from my lips
    A Molson in my hand
    You were there with your friend
    An attractive female
    I remember thinking to myself
    If you were with her, what a waste
    You were silent as she spoke to me
    She inquired about the room
    The room for rent in my building
    But I only had eyes for you
    You made my pulse quicken
    My thoughts scattered like the wind
    Your gaze, intense, emerald and bold
    An instant connection we shared
    I sent her inside to speak to the landlord
    You remained outside, with me
    You asked for a cigarette
    Though you claimed you were trying to quit
    A small white wicker bench
    You sat down beside me
    Our legs touched
    ELECTRIC
    As we talked and smoked in the shade
    I became fascinated by your lips
    Or perhaps your entire mouth
    It didn't matter what you said
    And each time you laughed, which was often
    A sound so infectious, it drew me in
    You drew me in with fits of giggles
    It was instant between us
    For over an hour we sat on that porch
    Comfortable
    Like two old friends chatting
    Yet all too soon, it was time for you to go
    You lived in Pittsburg
    I lived in Harrisburg
    So we said a sad goodbye
    And I watched you walk away
    Such sadness from a random encounter
    How pathetic I was sitting there
    Staring as you walked away
    Hoping to see you look back
    I watched this amazing guy walk away
    Never asked for a phone number
    An email address, something, anything
    I only knew your name, John
    At the time, I had thought I'd never see you again
    I was wrong
    For better or worse
    You returned the following weekend
    Your friend never moved into that empty room
    You did
    And just as before
    It was electric
    Falling
    It's a rainy evening and I feel so fine
    Because you're in my heart and inside my mind
    I think I'm falling into love with you
    Kiss and flirt a little I know you feel it too
    In the moonlight as the rain it falls
    We can last forever tear down these walls
    Do not question it just go with the flow
    In my electric garden reap the things we sow
    Heartbeats pounding faster as we embrace
    Our bodies shift in motion I like the way you taste
    I know the way you feel much like getting high
    Painted orange and red into an unknown sky
    I've got this burning feeling this is no false alarm
    I'm content beside you wrapped up in your arms
    And when the sun is shining there is no more rain
    I'm a brand new person happiness instead of pain
    In my bed of roses rest your head awhile
    I'll kiss you so sweetly get lost in your smile
    Every waking moment is like a dream come true
    I want to spend my life getting off with you
    Sinking
    It's like I temporarily lost my mind
    It's true what they say infatuation is blind
    Truth never entered into our conversation
    Sex was the prize and intended manipulation
    As we flirted and talked late into the night
    Vodka and cigarettes under moonlight
    You were the beginning of love I can't escape
    Your eyes the anchor the pathway to hate
    Drama surrounds us as we chase the extremes
    Loving you was like loving a dream
    Even though inside your embrace I felt warm
    It was the eye of a hurricane stillness before the storm
    Drowning
    Maybe it was the madness that I let reign
    Maybe it was the innocence I lost when I came
    Maybe it was the feelings sucked through the drain
    Maybe it was the heartache of love quite insane
    Maybe it was the ocean that gave me these tears
    Maybe it was the moonlight so far yet so near
    Maybe it was the sunshine that stripped all the gears
    Maybe it was the lust that banished all fears
    Maybe it was the highs that together we achieve
    Maybe it was the mountains resting on your sleeve
    Maybe it was the promise that you'd never leave
    Maybe it was the connection we had as we grieve
    Maybe it was the motion of standing in this place
    Maybe it was the refusal to grant emotional space
    Maybe it was the past neither of us could erase
    Maybe it was the searching to let love replace
    Maybe it was the fear of us saying goodbye
    Maybe it was the self-destructing gleam in your eye
    Maybe it was the sameness I heard in your lies
    Maybe it was the tears that fell as you cry
    Ending
    Violently he grabbed my arms
    And twisted them tightly behind my back
    With a hellish look in his emerald eyes
    He clenched up his fist and attacked
    Fingers laced with rings he beat me hard
    From my shoulders to my feet
    The metal sliced right through my olive skin
    Just like razors through a sheet
    Countless times my blood splattered
    As each inhuman blow was given
    From the memory of lies I told
    He smiled as my nose was torn to ribbons
    Much to his surprise I lifted my chin
    Though the words I used were few
    His face turned brighter shades of red
    When I shouted out, fuck you
    Uncaringly he tossed me against the wall
    And kicked my weakened form
    As my blood pressure fell deathly low
    I could hear the sirens swarm
    With determination and rage inside
    My face he punched and smacked
    Forcing me to my knees
    I fell when he kicked me in the back
    Through lack of sleep and inebriation
    My eyes began to swell
    And weakened by my loss of blood
    This liar...addict fell
    And when I fell my blood splattered
    On the boy and on his shoe
    And as he bent to wipe it off
    I spat out, fuck you
    In his rage he took a knife from the sink
    And jabbed it deeply into my arm
    He opened the door and threw me out
    I knew in my heart this boy will cause me harm
    Lying there in agony and torment
    My body convulsed with pain
    I tilted my face towards the stars
    Slipping towards the insane
    In a moment of clarity I finally knew
    The price for the hate before that time or since
    I made a statement that to this day
    Caused the boy I still loved to wince
    I lifted my head and looked him in the eye
    Struggling to maintain a calm so my words were true
    I wanted him to remember what I said
    When I whispered, John, fuck you
  17. Jason Rimbaud
    For the last few months, I have been undergoing some disturbing eye problems. This condition has virtually stopped me from writing, for a time it stopped me even from driving, working, and such normal activities I had taken for granted for years. Let's not even mention the toll it took on my porn watching habits. For three weeks I sat in front of the television and guessed what I was watching/hearing by putting together the sounds I heard. The screen a blur I could not make out.
    For a while, it was unknown if I would ever regain my ability to see, even with glasses, contacts, ect ect. To say I have been more than a bit depressed wouldn't do justice to the feelings raging inside my small mind.
    For most of the month of January, I was locked inside my house, the blinds shut, the windows blacked out with tin foil to stop the light from coming in. Not because I hate the sun, but my eyes were so light sensitive the merest light caused intense headaches and nausea. For weeks, I could barely open my eyes much less see anything. As a writer, I thought my life was over. Dark thoughts jumbled around my head, I questioned if I wanted to live without sight. I don't know what I would do if not for "Susan". But that really isn't the reason for this post.
    The blurred vision is all but gone, the constant draining and nasty fluids no longer leak from my eyes, and though my eye glass perscripton has grown in strength, I am now classified as legally blind without corrective lenses of some kind, at least I can see clearly with glasses. Unfortantly due to the nature of my eye problems, I can no longer wear contacts. And let me tell you, my eye glasses, even with all the new technology offering thinner lenses, my glasses are still like coke bottles. I think they make me look ugly but on the bright side, I can at least see.
    Even now, i can only stand staring at the computer screen for about an hour before the light from the screen causes intense headaches. At least I can resume writing again. If only for a small amount of time. Watching TV in thirty minute clips is a bit strange, but it gives me something to do, as reading is out of the question for now.
    The doctors say I'm on the upswing and its only a matter of time before the damage done to my eyes is healed. They predict, if I follow their guidlines and suggestions, that I'll be back to "normal" sometime around summer. Though normal is now skewed, since I've done permenant damage to the cornea of my eyes.
    To all you contact wearers, be careful about wearing your contacts too long, sleeping with them in, and waiting too long to get new lenses, a leasson I'm learning very well at this point.
    I've got to get going, my eyes are starting to bother me and its time to rest them. which is basically me sitting with my eyes closed, remaining still and calm.
    Special thanks go out to my support system: Absolute Ruby Red Vodka, French wine, Vicadin, Valium, Pot, Molson Candian Lager, Daniel, Susan, and of course, my cock. Thank you all for keeping me somewhat sane the last few months.
  18. Jason Rimbaud
    Happy One Year Anniversary
    to me
    to me
    Happy One Year Anniversary
    to me
    to me
    So what if I'm four days late, it's my anniversary and I'll be late if I want too.
    Thanks for having a place such as Awesome Dude where A-holes like myself can find a home.
    And thanks to all the folks who have been so nice to me over this year.
    Jason R.
  19. Jason Rimbaud
    Current music selection: Blue October from the album History for Sale
    Current state: Pretty Drunk
    Current mood: Yeah...right
    Daniel, my forty-two year old roommate, his friend Fredricko (excuse me if this name is misspelled I never got the chance to ask him the correct way) and I spent last Tuesday night out drinking and having a good time with several of our friends. From the moment I met Fredricko I was mesmerized. He's gorgeous to say the least. About five foot five, one hundred twenty pounds, amazing brown eyes. Though he hides them behind thick glasses. Just this delicious little nerd.
    He was celebrating a promotion so he was generously buying shots. Rounds and rounds of jager bombs. Jesus, he wouldn't stop buying and after a few hours we were all quite hammered. During the night, Fredricko and I had been flirting pretty heavily. Even going as far as making out by the pool table to the dismay of several straight men. It was a straight bar after all. So I'm not really surprised they threw peanuts at us. Thank god I'm not allergic. Anyway, after hitting more than a few bars, some straight some gay, we were really heating up.
    After we called a cab and made it back home, Daniel declares he's retiring for the night. Fredricko and I decide the celebration was just beginning if you get my drift. So we head back to my room to finish getting to know one another better. It's going great, clothing are flying around the room, my favorite shirt was ripped off my body and I lost a contact. It was hot and heavy. Once my underwear joined the pile of clothes on the floor I was in heaven. And for a while, life was perfect.
    But life nevers stays perfect. If I would have only known the consequences, I would have never stopped him from his...exploration of my situation...nor would have I thrown him on his back and ripped off his underwear. But I didn't know the consequences and I did just that.
    Even in the dim glow of the moon, I saw it. And I wasn't prepared. I'm three times seven, I've been around the block more than a few times. And I'm not talking about these small San Francisco blocks either, I'm saying those big New York City blocks. I've walked in on my Aunt and Uncle doing things I've only read about, scarred yes, but I dealt. I've woken up in the middle of the night with my younger brother sitting on my bed stark naked, his hands moving so fast I was sure a fire would erupt at any moment. After I finished puking I dealt. But there was nothing in my bag of experience that could have prepared me for the horror I saw between Fredricko's legs.
    I've heard about boys like him but I never thought I would encounter such weirdness in my lifetime. Let me tell you, I freaked out, lost my mind and did some kind of dance that still leaves my puzzled. I mean, Tom Cruise jumping around on couches was nothing compared to the level of freaked out I achieved.
    The thing that freaked me out. Let's just say when I delivered to my parents, the doctor had made some adjustments to me. Adjustments that Fredricko's doctor skipped. I don't know, maybe he didn't have insurance. Either way, I saw this...thing...it looked similiar to mine but had some extra stuff that freaked me out. And since I was drunk, let's say I could've handled it better.
    Okay, I jumped off the bed and pointed at it and said in a very quiet voice, "What the fuck is that?" I warned you, I didn't handle it well. I thought he was going to cry, the look on his face was a look I hope I never see again. He called me an asshole and gathered up his things and left the room before I could do anything like apologize or explain why I was so freaked out.
    THe next morning, a very pissed off Daniel greeted me at the breakfast table. Fredricko was no where to be found and I felt like an ass. After Daniel finished yelling at me, I explained what happened and wouldn't you know that bastard started laughing. That just pissed me off. It had really freaked me out. It didn't help matters that Daniel dropped his pants and showed his "situation" to me. After a close examination of his situation, I now know the difference between Fredricko and I. Though I'm a bit tired now after seeing Daniel's junk I do feel I'm better prepared next time that happens to me. And being somewhat of a whore, I'm sure its only a matter of time.
    So I guess what I'm trying to say, gentlemen, if you're in the same boat as Fredricko and some weirdo freaks out when he sees the extra attachment, don't get mad. Maybe let him have a moment to get used to this oddity. Anyway, cheers everyone.
    Jason R.
  20. Jason Rimbaud

    Um, Hi!

    By Jason Rimbaud,

    So, how's it going? Naw, that's stupid. After all, I haven't done anything in this Blog for forever and that's the weakest opening ever.
    Over the last few days, I've been re-reading all these entries and I've come up with better sentences on all of them. So I must come up with something better than, how's it going? I had thought about explaining why I haven't posted anything in forever, but that seems like a cope out and probably no one cares. I also thought about doing some chit and some chat about my life the last few months. But for the life of me, nothing exciting stands out. I get up at 9am, I go to work. I get home around midnight and go to bed. Repeat forever. So that would be boring.
    Maybe I should start this Blog exactly where I left off all those forever moments ago. But then all you'd have to read about is what I wrote in the above sentence.
    Fuck it.
    I'm single, so I have no exciting stories to relate about dirty sheets and closet dwelling twinks.
    I'm a bit balder now, but really, it's not like I can hide it anymore.
    I'm still drug free, but really, did anyone ever truly doubt that?
    I lurk around at Awesome Dude, and can't find anything witty to say, not surprising.
    I read a few of the new flash fictions, commented when they struck a cord, but mostly I remained silent.
    Which is quite disturbing in a way, considering Awesome Dude was and still is my first home. It's where I started Blogging, it's where most of you got to know me through my rambling and continuous digressions. But for a long time, I felt like this Blog was part of the past. It chronicled things in my life that I didn't want to think about anymore. Things that I felt would only drag me down if I continued to let them fester. Hell, this is the place where I left Mark, and good riddance by the way.
    But lately, I felt like I had abandoned a part of me that could be used for my future self.
    I don't know, maybe I'm just lazy and have been focusing on myself and my offline life too much to offer up things here. But then I read something that Cole posted to one of my comments in Flash Fiction, and it got me thinking. A Blog isn't something that chronicles just the past, it's about the now, what's going on right now and who's playing a part in my continuous evolution as a human. I don't think it's fair of me to view these pages as a past I would rather forget. I think I should use these pages as a future I would like to share.
    I won't make promises that I'll do better in the future, I won't say that I'll never take a break from this Blog, because that would be just another bullshit statement to make everyone else feel better. And this Blog has never been about making other's feel better, though after reading some of the things I wrote, I think it made lots of people feel better, if nothing but to show that someone else is a bit dumber.
    So Hi Ho and away we go...again.
    Jason
  21. Jason Rimbaud

    I'm Sorry...

    By Jason Rimbaud,

    So the restaurant has been crazy the last few weeks...of course when is it not crazy. In a way, I'm glad people still have disposable income in these tough times and that they still come to my restaurant to spend this disposable income.
    But why the fuck do these people with these disposable incomes think they are so much better than the rest of us and insist on treating us like donkey shit eaters. Fine, we don't make as much money as they do, and we don't drive the same kind of cars or walk in the same circles as these elitists. But that doesn't make us the shit that hangs out on the bottom of your shoes that gets casually wiped away by one of your peeps.
    We work just as hard as they do, sometimes for long periods and without the lavish vacations. We live on shoe-string budgets that wouldn't pay for their yearly car insurance bills.
    I'm sorry you drove all the way down from San Francisco in your gas guzzling SUV and got stuck in traffic for three hours due to a car accident. I'm sorry that when you walked in the door ten minutes before we close and demanded a table for three I told you that we would be needing your order in five minutes as the kitchen will promptly close at 9:30 and all orders must be in before that. I'm sorry we ran out of the halibut ten minutes before we close the restaurant. I'm sorry that at five minutes after ten that you decided to order another entree because you were still hungry. I"m sorry that the kitchen staff had left to go home after working 13 hours to see their already asleep families. I'm sorry that we were so inconsiderate as to close before you were completely finished. I'm sorry that we are nothing but assholes who had forgotten that we only live to serve you.
    And we still don't have kill an asshole day yet in America?
    Jason
  22. Jason Rimbaud
    "I'll Never Wear Boxers Again"
    Wibby posted a rather funny story that prompted me to remember a similar incident involving one of my good friends. So I thought I?d share it with my loyal readers. (maybe I should?ve said loyal reader, I don?t want to become to ambitious)
    Anyway, during my late teens and early twenties, one of my best friends was also named Jason. We worked together and were known as the ?two Jason?s? or simply as ?Jason Squared?. After we both turned twenty-one, each Monday night we?d go out for our weekly pub crawl. This night was reserve for just the two of us, no friends, no girlfriends, and no problems.
    It was during these weekly binges that I first told him I was gay. True to his devil may care attitude and laid back demeanor, he took this declaration in stride. Though looking back, I kind of wished he would have been more upset. This would?ve saved me tons of heartache. But I digress?yet again.
    Jason and I were always comfortable around one another. It was common for us to sleep in the same bed, granted, we were passed out. But waking up snuggled together was something that happened often. Before I told him I was gay, we?d go double dating and the girls would often complain that we?d spend more time talking to each other than paying attention to them. Looking back, it was quite obvious that sooner or later we?d start fooling around.
    The first time something happened between was after one of these pub crawls. We had stopped at a gas station to get cigarettes and sodas on the way home from the bar. Jason had to go to the bathroom, so I paid for the grocery?s and waited for him in the truck. After he climbed inside the truck, I noticed he had this weird look on his face and for the rest of the way home; he acted strangely, nervous and giggly at the same time. I chalked it up to a long night of beer.
    Once back inside my apartment, he was flirtatious, in a way he had never been before. I was drunk and getting hornier the more he carried on. After about twenty minutes of this weird flirting, I informed him I was going to bed. It wasn?t that I was really that tired, but I really wanted to toss one off. He looked down at the floor and in this quiet voice, he asked if he could stay with me. He didn?t ask if he could crash, he didn?t ask if he could sleep over, he asked if he could stay with me. For a moment, because I really wanted to jack off, I almost said no. But I never could tell him no, even now, I can?t say no.
    Anyway, and no that was not a digress. So there.
    I took off my clothes, and slipped into a pair of shorts. He asked if he could borrow a pair of boxers to sleep in, something I thought was a really strange request. Jason did not then, nor does he now wear boxers, EVER. I gave him a pair and he went into the bathroom to change. Another thing that was strange.
    I climbed into bed and turned off the lights, and waited. After a few minutes, I heard the bathroom door open and heard footsteps down the hall. The door to my room opened and in walked this?glowing cock. While he was in the bathroom at the gas station, he had bought a glow in the dark condom from the machine on the wall.
    I was more than taken aback, yet intrigued at the same time. I said something along the line of ?nice cock?. To this, Jason laughed and flipped on the lights. It was not his cock that was in the condom, but three of his fingers. We laughed and once again he turned off the lights. I could see him slowly coming towards me, his pretend cock wagging before him leading the way to the bed. I admit I watched him walk towards me wishing that really was his cock.
    Once he reached the bed, he started giggling again, and I watched the hand that had the condom on it move to his side. I saw the condom disappear and realized his fingers were inside the boxers. I realized he was pulling down his boxers when another glow in the dark condom suddenly appeared. Being that he was two feet away from me, this time I could tell that this one really was his cock.
    He took another step, his crotch now inches from my face; I could smell him he was so close. The hand that hand the condom on it, moved from his side to grip his very hard cock. I heard him whisper, ?Do you like what you see?? I didn?t answer, I couldn?t. I didn?t want to risk destroying this moment. I reached out with my hand and touched his cock. He sighed loudly, my wish had come true. Needless to say, neither of us got much sleep that night.
    A few years later, in the after glow, he would admit that for months he was racking his brain, trying to conceive a plan of attack to seduce me. But he wanted to make sure I was interested in something sexual before trying anything. After his admission, it was clear how thought out and methodical he had been. From the constant touching, the sleeping together, suggesting naked hot tubing, everything had been done with the purpose to get me into bed. I asked, why didn?t you just ask me? He replied that I had said shortly after I met him, that I would never have sex with a friend.
    This caused me to laugh, because though he was in the room, it was the girl sitting next to him that I really wanted to hear me say that I would never have sex with my friends. She had been throwing herself at me and I had no desire to catch her. Lots of wasted time, I could?ve saved so much time if I would have just said, guys, I?m gay. Anyway, still not digressing.
    So Jason and I were friends with benefits. To be honest, I was completely head over heels in love with him. And no matter what he says, I know for a time, he loved me as well. Shortly after this incident, he moved in with me and for the next two years, we were almost inseparable. But being gay was/is something he denies being. He?s told me, and I believe him, that I was the only guy he was ever attracted too. I was the best man in his wedding, and the night before he promised to forsake all others, he asked me to fuck him one last time. Okay, this might be digressing. Jesus, be patient already.
    To get around to the point of this post, one night, during those two years that we lived together, we had gotten home after Monday?s pub crawl. Both of us were quite trashed. At the time, he was dating this chick that was away at college and I was trying really hard to catch this nerdy little boy I had been chatting up online. So once back from the bar, I immediately jumped on the computer to see if my boy was up for some dirty talk. He was, and for about an hour, I was content to do some chit and some chat.
    DIGRESSION ALERT! Ever since that first night, whenever I saw Jason in boxers, usually a pair of mine, I knew that he was looking to fool around. If he was wearing briefs, then I was going to be tossing one off alone.
    Like I said, I was chatting for about an hour, when I heard Jason open the door to his room. From where my desk was against the wall, I could turn my head and see Jason?s bed if the door was open. He walked out, wearing a pair of boxers, and headed into the kitchen where he got a drink. Walking back towards his room, he looked at me and smiled. I noticed right away he was rock hard.
    Yet on the computer, my nerdy boy was almost ready to finally meet me in person. We were so close, I could feel it. I looked at the screen, I looked back to Jason, he was now lying on his bed, naked, slowly stroking his cock. I didn?t know what to do, I was horny, ten feet away was a willing boy, yet I kind of liked this nerdy boy as well. But Jason, jacking off while saying my name only a few feet away, and honestly the love of my life, won.
    I walked into his room, he looked at me and smiled, his hand stopped. He pointed his cock in my direction, silently telling me to have my way with him. So I did.
    It was just starting to get fun when suddenly he begun puking his guts out. I was sober enough to get out of the way, but he puked all over his bed, all over himself. It was quite the mood wrecker. Once he finished, he headed into the bathroom and jumped into the shower. Being the neat freak that I am, I cleaned up the mess and threw the sheets in the washer.
    Figuring the night was over, I went back to the computer to see if nerdy boy was still online. He was, again we started chatting. A few minutes later, Jason comes out of the bathroom, freshly showered and still wet with a raging hard cock. He smiles at me, and heads into my room. Needless to say, I never did meet nerdy boy.
    Jason and I had this weird relationship for years. When we were alone, late at night, we would fuck for hours. But it was something we?d never talk about during the day. We had dozens of unspoken rules that we both followed, silently and in secret for years. Never speaking about or acknowledging our lust filled nights.
    Until the day I met his fianc? for the first time. We were talking over dinner, and Jason and I were reliving some of our wilder times. And he gets this smile on his face, and suddenly brings up the time he almost pukes on me. Of course she wants to know why we were in bed together in the first place. I was at a loss for words, but Jason smoothly told her a rated G version of the story.
    Later, when she had gone to the bathroom, he started laughing, saying something about the look on my face. I didn?t think it was funny, remember, I was still in love with him and more than a bit jealous. He leaned in close and whispered, ?You give the best head I?ve ever received. And I know I can?t love you the way you want me too, but sex with you is something I?ll never forget, no matter who I marry.?
    It was the first time he ever admitted to fucking me while sober. But it was the right thing to say, because that statement convinced me to agree to be his best man. Sadly, I?ve not seen him since the wedding. I hear he has a baby girl now, and I wish him the happiest of lives. And though our friendship has fallen away, I?ll always have the memories of that apartment and the time we spent together.
    Jason R.
    PS: During that night I met his fianc?, she brought up the fact that he refuses to wear boxers. Jason and I exchanged looks, and started laughing. He kissed her, then said, ?I love you, but I?ll never wear boxers. I used too for a time but I stopped.? The night before his wedding, he was wearing boxers.
  23. Jason Rimbaud
    Five Greatest Hitchcock Films of All Time
    Last Night my roommate, Daniel, and I, got into a loud fight about Hitchcock's greatest films. Three of the five we agreed upon but he feels like North by Northwest is Hitchcock's greatest. I'm not sure if anyone that reads this blog watches Hitchcock, but here is my top five. If you havent seen any of these films, you should do yourself a favor and rent them. Great flicks by a master storyteller with brilliant acting by both Cary Grant and James Stewart.
    Number One: Suspicion
    The best movie Hitchcock ever directed. The last scene with Cary Grant holding a glass of milk as he walks up that long circular staircase still sends chills up my spine. Brilliant.
    Number Two: Rear Window
    Jimmy Stewart's finest performance. Unleashing the voyeur in us all, Hitchcock shows us that nothing we do is really private.
    Number Three: Rope
    The first movie I ever watched with hints of gay love. Though the villains are the gay guys, brilliantly acted and shot beautifully in three continuous takes.
    Number Four: The Man who knew too Much
    Another Jimmy Stewart gem, playing a man who wants his son back no matter the cost. Love this movie.
    Number Five: To Catch a Thief
    Retired cat burgular Cary Grant, stops at nothing to prove his innocent with the beautiful Grace Kelly by his side. Very cool movie.
  24. Jason Rimbaud
    Scared Silly or (He pissed on himself)
    Current Music Selection: Elvis Presley?Live in Vegas
    Current State: California
    Current Mood: Hyper
    So next door to the hip up-scale restaurant where I work, is this little Japanese place that specializes in Sushi. Now I?ve never tried it, anything related to fish or sometimes takes on a fishy odor; I try my best to stay far away. Either way, this restaurant is ?rumored? to not only have the tendency to ?over-serve? its customers but allows underage kids to drink alcohol quite illegally.
    For the record, I?m not against underage drinking. I?ve made literally thousands of dollars hanging outside seedy gas stations on the weekends, waiting to be approached by underage youths wishing me to purchase beer for them. I?m okay with contributing to anyone?s delinquency, minors or adults.
    And since I?ve been known to reach the state of ?over-served? myself, I can?t really complain about such behavior. But since this is my blog and by now, you?re pretty sure I?m going to complain about something or make a fool of myself, you might be asking where is this going?
    Saturday night at work, I?m finishing up, waiting on that last table to pay the check and leave. I think to myself, this is a perfect time to go outside and burn a cancer stick. I worked hard all day and deserve to shorten my life by seven minutes.
    (why so caviler about smoking? Because though I?m shortening my life, it?s not the fun life, the first part, I?m shortening the last part, the miserable life. Judging by how miserable old people are, I?d rather not live)
    So I?m outside smoking. And out of the corner of my eye, I watch this guy leave this Japanese restaurant. Now the reason I notice him, he is not Japanese or Asian. Now before you accuse me of racism or stereotyping, I know white people enjoy some of that Asian cooking. I, myself, love the flavor of the Orient. (and the food isn?t that bad either) Yet, at this particular restaurant, I?ve never seen anyone other than Asian darken the doorway. So seeing this very drunk white guy stumble out of the building caused me to take a double look.
    The reason I continued to watch this drunk white guy was I thought he was kind of cute, in a dirty skate boarder kind of way. As he approached my hiding place (out back behind the restaurant in the shadows of the building, quite invisible unless you see the cherry of my cancer stick) I can hear that he is having a conversation. Unless he has an invisible friend I can?t see or a few pink elephants following him, I can only assume he?s arguing with himself.
    To stay hidden and continue my voyeuristic staring, I drop my cigarette to the ground and stand perfectly still in the shadows. Now that he?s even closer, I can him hear say things. I quickly deduce they have ?cut him off? from drinking anymore. And by the way he keeps mumbling over and over again, he didn?t agree with them, at all. Apparently he was the sort who wanted to keep drinking until his liver said, ?Fuck it, I quit. You win.?
    He stops about ten feet from my hiding spot, and looks around. Recognizing that he has to take a piss from the way he keeps pulling on himself and the way he looked around to make sure he was alone, I chuckle silently. I?ve had a rough day and I decide to have a little fun with this drunken white guy.
    Sure enough, he walks up next to the building and fumbles with his pants for a few moments. He leans his head against the wall and uses his left hand to balance, and a few seconds later, I hear the unmistakable sounds of someone pissing.
    I let him go long enough, just long enough where I know it will be tough or even impossible to stop the flow. Once I figure he reached this point, I clear my throat loudly and say, ?What are you doing pissing on my building??
    I was expecting him to jump a bit, maybe let out a few curse words, you know, something along those lines. Anything really would have made me smile. But oh boy, did I get so much more. I only wish I could describe this in a way where you could see exactly what I did.
    The moment I said, ?What are you doing pissing on my building?? He turned into something right out of a Marx Brothers Comedy or something. His head whipped around with a look of utter terror on his face, while his hand that he was using for balance dropped to his waist. This caused him to lose his balance and he started falling into the wall. He barely brings up both hands fast enough to catch himself. Now he?s pissing all over himself and his hands drop back to his waist. While he?s fumbling to stop pissing and put his cock away, he has to use his head, now pressed against the wall to keep him up-right.
    And just when I thought it was over, he lets out a scream. This scream was filled with such agony; I instantly knew he caught some part of his twig and berries in his zipper. He falls to his knees, right in the puddle of his own piss, and frantically tries to untangle his genitals from his zipper.
    I?m laughing because, well, because I?m an asshole. And I don?t think anyone should get so drunk, ALONE, that they find themselves unable to perform such simple tasks as urination. Plus, I?m totally against public urination, especially on my restaurant. That?s where I make my money for fucks sake.
    So I watch him for a few moments before walking back inside the restaurant, I now want to tell the other servers about this idiot that is outside in a puddle of piss. I rush in and tell everyone to come out and see the guy I scared so badly he pissed all over himself. But after going back outside, I was disappointed to find that he had already gathered himself and disappeared into the night to lick his wounds as it were.
    My juvenile antics probably scarred him for life, but hopefully in the future he?ll think twice about pissing in public. Well, at least on my restaurant.
  25. Jason Rimbaud
    Current Music Selection: Meat Loaf?Bat out of Hell II Back into Hell
    Current State: High
    Current Mood: Optimistic
    Okay I?ve had one of the worst days of my life. And not in, oh my god I just broke a nail and my favorite pair of jeans was ruined in the washer, kind of day. I?m talking about getting ass raped by a gorilla in a public setting with no lube and without the courtesy of the reach around. They have opposable thumbs, don?t they?
    It started out okay. I had made an appointment to see a head shrinker, let?s call her Susan, a few days ago and had been slowly going insane waiting for today to arrive. I mean, it?s different writing poetry about my past or posting my rants online in this blog for the Internet readers to peruse but now I was going to pay someone to listen to my deepest darkest secrets, face to face for fuck sake. I?ve been chain-smoking cigarettes for two days while trying to maintain my nerve to actually show up for the appointment.
    So this morning, Tuesday, I awoke at 7am, my eyes wide open and my heart pounding in my chest. I ran down the hall and into Daniel?s room, waking him out of a dead sleep. I jump into his bed and hid under the covers, declaring there was no way in hell I was going to go to a head shrinker.
    He held me like I was a child, whispering words in my ears, telling me that I should give her a chance before I make my mind up. In a matter of a few minutes he convinced me to go ahead and go.
    Whenever I feel nervous or scared, I have this habit of trying on every piece of clothing I own. If I was going to go to a head shrinker, I wanted to look my best. So for three hours I tried on a billion outfits before settling on a pair of Tommy jeans, a black turtleneck and my LA gear kicks. Spending another hour making damn sure my hair was carefully arranged in a ?I just got out of bed look?, I was ready to face this head shrinker.
    So much like a prisoner marching to the gallows, I climbed inside my car and headed into the city, San Francisco, for my date with destiny. I must?ve smoke half pack of Marlboro Lights on the forty-minute drive to her office.
    Side note, I have this piece of shit car with just an AM/FM radio with no CD player. Being a musical creature, I bought an adapter that plugs into my cigarette lighter, the other end plugs into my I-Pod, and with this adapter, I can listen to my I-Pod on my car speakers. The fifth greatest invention in the world, the I-Pod adapter. End side note.
    So while I?m smoking and driving, I?m listening to Orgy?s Candyass. Steeling my soul for this titanic confrontation between this head shrinker and one scared little boy. By the time I arrived, I was shaking from the nicotine and the three Red Bull?s I had sucked down in quick succession. I was ready, for anything.
    Susan was nothing like I expected. Not only did this petite woman calm me down just upon entering her presence but in no time I was not only comfortable but I realized I really needed someone to talk too. I made another appointment for next Tuesday and fully intend to complete my homework assignment.
    I rushed home and changed into my work uniform. By the time I arrived at the hip up-scale restaurant I serve at, I was feeling quite optimistic about my therapy. I parked my piece of shit car behind the restaurant like always, hid my I-Pod under my seat and walked across the street and bought another Red Bull. And then I went to work. Never conceiving what a difference six hours can make in your life.
    The hip up-scale restaurant where I work closes at ten PM. At nine-thirty, a party of six walked through the door. I had the most tables still consuming our award winning food so I was asked by my GM (general manager) if I would mind taking the table so the other servers, most of whom are in college, could call it an early night. Why the fuck not, a party of six could garnish me a sixty dollar tip.
    The party of six was heaven sent, all were friendly, polite, and very thirsty. Their tab jumped up to four hundred dollars in a matter of forty minutes. I was feeling indestructible. But then Loki decided to jump in and join the mess that is my life.
    It wasn?t the tables fault, I know they hung till midnight, enjoying their wine and our fabulous deserts. It wasn?t my GM?s fault, he was trying to relieve some of the pressure from the college students that work at this hip up-scale restaurant. And it wasn?t my fault, I like my co-workers and anything I can do to help, I would gladly do. Let me explain.
    After desert was served and my table was pleasantly letting the food digest, I snuck out back to grab a cigarette. Walking to my car, I noticed immediately something was wrong. I don?t know a lot about cars but I know a few things. Such as, once you shut your door and lock it, it?s not suppose to be open again until you return with the key. Apparently, I knew less about cars than I thought. Because when I walked out the back door my drivers door of my piece of shit car was wide open.
    Believe me, the fear I felt earlier that morning was nothing compared to the blood chilling feeling that shot through my nicotine crazed body. I ran over to my piece of shit car and looked inside. Shards of broken glass greeted me, shining in the glow of the streetlights. My half carton of cigarettes, missing, as well as my Sony Erickson phone, (the four hundred dollar video camera phone that I use only for answering the few people that call me but has my entire life inside its memory card) and the fifth greatest invention in the world, my I-Pod adapter. And then the fear sunk in, my baby, the one thing I love more than life, (except my laptop), my I-Pod Nano.
    The rage I?m feeling at this moment can not be put into words. The string of expletives that spewed forth from my lips would make a sailor blush. In one foul swoop, this low-life scum sucking yeast-infected cum bubble, effectively destroyed whatever progress I made during my session with the head shrinker. The things I plot to do to this low-life scum sucking yeast-infected cum bubble should the opportunity ever present itself, would land me in jail, no, under the jail.
    I ran back inside the hip up-scale restaurant, where I lamented loudly to my GM about this travesty that had befallen on me. Though he was sympathetic to my plight, there was nothing he could do about it. As many cameras as we have throughout our hip up-scale restaurant, not a single camera points out the back door.
    The good news, my party of six must?ve heard me bitching about this great injustice because once they finished, the party that paid for the bill, which totaled four-hundred and eleven dollars, handed the booklet containing the credit card receipt to me and said he was sorry about my loss. I smiled and thanked him and once they left the hip up-scale restaurant, I helped the 2nd servers clean up before heading into the office to turn in all the credit card slips I had accrued throughout the day. When I opened the booklet to see how much of a tip I received, I was shocked. There written in the space for the tip was a three, followed my two zero?s, a period, and then two more zero?s. This party left me a three hundred-dollar tip, with a hand written note to go out and purchase a new I-Pod.
    For a day that caused so much stress in my life, it ended pretty fucking cool. I met my head shrinker, Susan, and I think I?m really going to like talking to her. I get to buy a new I-Pod and though I still have to fix my driver side window, my life is looking up. I guess I?ll have something good to write about in my homework assignment.
    So what I?m trying, life sometimes gets fucked up. And sometimes a perfect stranger offers you kindness without expecting anything in return. And maybe, if you?re ever working in a hip up-scale restaurant, and your piece of shit car gets broken into and your I-Pod gets stolen, complain loudly. Maybe this stranger is eating dinner and you too, just like me, could get a new I-Pod. Cheers until next time.
    Jason R.
    PS: Is it okay to have a small crush on your head shrinker? Is it okay to be straight for a day?

PayPal

Help Keep

AwesomeDude Online

Scan to donate

QR code
×
×
  • Create New...