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Jason Rimbaud

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  1. 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.
  2. Jason Rimbaud
    Not to be out done by Camy and his forgotten hard-drive pieces that he selfishly dribbles out here and there as he "discovers them", I searched through my "hard-drive" and found a poem that "somehow" managed to evade getting posted. Not one of my better pieces, that's probably why I decided to bury it in the layers of shit that covers my computer. But seeing as I haven't posted a new poem in months...
    *shrugs*
    If you have a mind, check it out in the Poetry Forum, it's called Boy With Dancing Eyes. Or don't...because as Wibby is fond of saying...
    Jason
  3. Jason Rimbaud
    Daniel and I Part Ways(Finally)
    After almost three years, Daniel and I have decided to part as roommates. Okay, the truth, Daniel decided, and since it was his house, I agreed. So for the last three weeks I have been busy moving into a nice two bedroom apartment in Redwood City. Please don't make any jokes about finding a "NICE" apartment in Redwood City, it can happen. I swear.
    It's okay, I love the new apartment. But there is a fear that I'll go back to my old ways now that I am once again living by myself. Anyone that knows me, knows that a bored Jason is a dangerous Jason. It's not that I love getting into trouble, but when I don't have a stabilizing force to keep me in line, I tend to do the first thing that pops into my head. I'm sure in the coming months you'll hear all about it. But for now, luckily, I've been too involved with work and moving to do anything stupid. But I know it's only a matter of time before the boredom sets in.
    But that's not the reason I'm posting today/tonight. During the course of my move, I've realized that I've become somewhat of a clothes whore.
    I have:
    Eleven jackets (three black leather)
    Thirty-two pairs of shoes (two pairs of dress shoes, one black, one burgundy)
    Seventeen towels
    Forty-five pairs of jeans
    Twenty-one pairs of slacks
    Thirty something Hoodies
    Fifty or so T-shirt's with assorted sayings on the front
    Seventeen casual pull over shirts
    Thirteen Sweaters (all from the Gap)
    Well over a hundred pairs of socks
    Seventy-five pairs of underwear (boxers/briefs/boxer briefs/thongs/ect) with twenty pairs of just blue
    Thirty-seven button-up shirts
    Four suits
    Three blazers
    Two ties (i need to work on this)
    Three large jewerly boxes with assorted rings, necklaces, braclets, ear rings
    Nine wallets
    Two identical cigarette cases
    Thirteen Zippo lighters
    Four red Bic lighters
    Nine sets of cuff links
    And thirty-seven watches, of which fifteen are silver
    And sadly, I couldn't bare to throw any of the cothes away as I began packing. Not even the clothes that are so old it's almost like wearing nothing the fabric is so thin and worn. Yes, I know I might have a problem. Believe I know.
    It's even worse that all the clothes are color coordinated by type, and in alphabetical order. Though, because I'm left handed, the A's are on the right and the Z's are on the left. And the color is mixed up as well, a dark color, then a light color, then a dark color, so on and so on.
    I just realized, as I type this, that I could be the saddest person alive. Let me explain, before you hastily agree with me. The above list is no joke, I actually counted and catologed my clothes as and before I packed. The list is sitting right here next to me. I guess Daniel was right, I do have OCD.
    But on the bright side, my apartment is clean, I go even as far as making sure the vacuum cleaner lines are perfectly straight in each room. I know I'm going to end up yelling at my guests for using wire hangers instead of the nice wooden ones sometime in my future but I'm okay with that. I swear
    Jason R.
    By the way, Daniel and I still remain friends. With his new boyfriend moving in, I was feeling like a third wheel. And besides, it took him so long to find someone, I didn't want to be in the way. Okay, that's all a lie, I didn't want to come home late from work only to find them fucking in the living room. Not a sight I want to see twice in my lifetime.
  4. Jason Rimbaud
    I guess I'm in love with my I-Phone. There I've said it...publically and everything.
    With all the applications you can download, I'm surprised it's not listed as one of the worlds greatest something or other. Let's face it, it beats the shit out of the Grand Canyon. (Sorry Des)
    Though now that I think about it, the I-Phone should come with an ugly people spotting application for those of us that take a drink from time to time.
    It would've came in handy for me last night. I'm not saying the little twink that shared my bed was a two but he was definitely a two. *shudders*
    I was accused of not making sense the other day at work...to which I replied, "When I'm this dead sexy, I don't have to make fucking sense."
    There is a server at the restaurant I now call home, let's call him "D", who isn't really that good of a server. But the guests love him and he has a good heart so I keep him around. But after screwing up for the thousandth time the other night, I look over at the bartender and say, "Good thing "D" is attractive, because his smarts isn't going to take him anywhere."
    Why isn't Florida called, 'God's Waiting Room'?
    Since I got clean and sober, I'm finding it harder and harder to remain slim, I know, the drugs were killing me and my behavior was erratic at best. But at least I was thin. So what if I was bald, at least I was thin. Now, I'm still bald and at what my friends call a healthy weight...which is code for fat ass. And to make matters worse, the hair that I'm losing on top of my head is now showing up in the craziest places.
    Why would your ears ever need hair? For that matter, why would your back, blissfully free of hair for thirty-three years suddenly sprout what I can only describe as fur.
    And before you all freak out, I do a bit of manscaping to keep the Sasquatch on my back under control. But it's all a bother really.
    And yet instead of going to the gym, I'm sitting here typing this drivel while drinking a beer after I just ate half a pizza. Maybe I deserve this fat ass staring back at me from the mirror.
    I guess I really don't want to be perfect anymore. Damn-it all, I am quite happy. Maybe that's all I really need.
    Jason
  5. Jason Rimbaud
    The One Where I Throw Up on the Screen
    I feel sick, diseased and lifeless. I saw the darkest parts of myself today, struggled long after the hope of changing had faded. I'm dirty and need a shower. Have you fucked someone for the sole purpose of trying to feel alive?
    I washed the sheets today, they were stained and filled with memories I'd rather forget. His name was Alex. I met him at Nola's last night after work. He was a tall skinny brunet with a lopsided grin. In a bar filled with two-baggers, he was the only one I'd fuck with the lights on. It was pathetic, awkward, and un-fulfilling. A coupling where you really want to cum as fast as possible just so it would be over. Have you ever fucked someone for the sole purpose of trying to feel alive?
    His breath smelled of un-washed ass, even after I made him rinse out with Mouthwash. A putrid smell I swear I can still smell on my dick, hours after I bid him adieu. But I needed a dumpster, a stranger, someone I would never have to see again. Release is primal, and jerking off only takes you so far. Have you ever fucked someone for the sole purpose of trying to feel alive?
    I saw stains on my carpet, I wonder if Resolve will truly resolve them? Alex was cute, tall and gangly but with way to much body hair. I've seen less hair in 70's porno movies. What kind of homo lets his situation roam free and out of control? It's 2007 for christ sakes, trim up that bush people. Alex couldn't have weighed more than 140 pounds, and stood at least six foot three. I had fears of breaking him in half, though they faded as primal urge took over. When he stripped off his clothes, I admit I was a bit surprised. A monster cock fell out of his boxers, and though I know cocks look bigger on skinny guys, his dick was HUGE. I must admit I found his monster cock quite amusing, as he was a total bottom. This makes me kind of believe in god. Only the twisted god of the christians would have the sense of humor to give a total bottom like Alex such a monster cock. Have you ever fucked someone for the sole purpose of trying to feel alive?
    Fucking Alex was like fucking a box of ice, cold and slightly numbing. The noises he made were all wrong, and in the wrong places and time. I thought at first he was going through the motions, but his cock was hard the entire time. I don't think he came, though sex was never about him in the first place. Have you ever fucked someone for the sole purpose of trying to feel alive?
    I washed my sheets today, three times. I think they might still be dirty, or maybe it's just the grime I sense in my self. His name was Alex, and he told me he was just out of two month long relationship with his straight best friend. Why is it gay boys always crush on their straight best friends? Again my belief in god doubles. At Nola's, he told me he was tired of jerking off and sleeping alone. All he wanted was some human contact. Have you ever fucked someone for the sole purpose of trying to feel alive?
    I scrubbed my carpets this morning, early, right after I told him to leave my apartment. I can still see the look on his face, a sad look of quiet acceptance. It was heartbreaking, to see someone so broken, hints of tears in his blue eyes as he quickly got dressed. He is still young, young enough to have delusions about true love and lasting commitments. In his time spent in my bed, I think I might have jaded him, tarnished his golden armour. Set him on the path to be another jaded fag, just like me. Have you ever fucked someone for the sole purpose of trying to feel alive?
    His name was Alex and he was beautiful. His hair smelled of honey and mixed berries, I can still smell his Tommy cologne. And his breath didn't smell like un-washed ass, more of beer and cigarettes. A mixture that usually drives me wild. Young and filled with life, Alex was a tiger in the bed. The sex was primal and filled with passion and sweat. Innocence smells sweeter before you fuck, afterwards it smells of guilt and self-loathing. Have you ever fucked someone for the sole purpose of trying to feel alive?
    I washed myself four times today, I still feel dirty though. Scrubbing the stains away in my carpet was something I could control. Elbow grease works, my carpet is now again spotless. Just like my shower, the fourth time I showered I spent most of the time cleaning it. My skin smells of 409 Bathroom and Tile Cleaner. My toes and hands are wrinkled, I don't think I'll ever get clean again.
    Have you ever fucked someone for the sole purpose of trying to feel alive?
    Have you ever just fucked someone over?
    Have you...
  6. Jason Rimbaud

    ?????

    By Jason Rimbaud,

    I wonder, at this moment in my life, if I should care about anything.
    I have this feeling, a feeling that rips me up inside, if I should even bother with trying to be a human.
    The only thing I can say, at this present moment, is I don't care about anything. Anyone?
    Life is too hard sometimes. Too the point where I wonder why I bother trying to make it fluffy white bunny clouds. Life sucks, existing sucks. I don't want to end it, but why should I bother to give a fuck? Pretending that it's okay is pointless. At the end of the day, there is only one being in bed with me. And right now, "ME" thinks life sucks. Fuck it, it's almost been a year, maybe it should all go away.
    Jason R. should go the way of the dodo. Maybe I should end it with a whimper? Or maybe I should grow a pair of balls and let everyone know my name. Admit the truth, let the world know the one behind it all.
    I hate feeling this way, I hate being ashamed. I hate everything.
    Fuck it. It's been a year, the charade should stop.
  7. Jason Rimbaud
    Current Music Selection: Robbie Williams--Intensive Care
    Current State: Sober (somewhat)
    Current Mood: Relaxed
    So now that its football season, every Sunday I hang out at the Old Pro. Its this really cool sports
    bar in Palo Alto. They have fifteen flat screens, high def of course, that you can see from every seat
    in the bar. Insert screaming like a little girl. And the best part, they have an outdoor patio with two flat screens and you can smoke, eat hot wings, drink beer and watch football all day. All this and heaven
    to. There just might be a god, and if there is, its okay if he/she hates me for sucking cock. I mean,
    football, cigarettes, beer, hot wngs. Yeeeeeaaaaaahhhhh
    Over the course of the day, Daniel and I are joined by various friends who come to the bar to watch
    me lose my mind. Though they leave after a while, I guess spending the entire day inside with
    screaming breeders is to much for them.
    Football season is something I take extremely serious. Not only do I wear my lucky 49'ers jersesy every Sunday but I have the cutest matching underwear with the team logo over the crotch. How butch is
    that?
    Over in the corner of the Old Pro, they have a bull riding machine thingy. But will get back to that later
    on.
    The day of football had its disappointments. The niners got spacked though they started coming together after the half. Anyway, being the loudest person in the bar and naturally fabulous, I began making
    friends with the hot college guys sitting at the next table. When I want to, I can turn off camp and butch it
    up with the best of the breeders. As long as they never see my underwear.
    I'm sure they figured out I was gay by the hugging and kissing I did to each of my friends as they arrived and as they left. (Even my straight friends much to their chagrin. If thats the only way I can touch
    then so be it) But they seemed cool with the chit and chat we were doing all day. I even bought them some
    drinkie poos. Okay, they called it beer but whatever.
    One of these hot college studs seemed to show me more attention then the others. Like maybe his closet door was opened a crack and he had convinced himself he was "bi" curious. Like they say, its still
    experimenting as long as you're in college. After college, you're a big ole' queer. Where was I?
    Hot college stud and I were doing a little chit and chat, discussing the niners chances at a winning season, musing over whether ketchup or musturd is the only condiment for a hotdog, which cheerleader was
    the hottest. Hey, whatever it takes. He even joined me a few times for a smoke on the patio.
    Okay, everytime he went for a smoke I followed. There, I admit it. Are you happy?
    After the niners had lost, I was feeling pretty buzzed. And bored. Which is never a good combination for
    people such as I. For weeks now, since the Old Pro re-opened, I have been staring at the bull riding machine thingy wanting to try it. But every time Daniel talked me out of it. So to get around the old queen,
    I waited until he went into the bathroom and made my move.
    By the time Daniel returned from the bathroom, I had already signed the waiver and paid my three
    dollars. Much to my happiness, the bull riding machine thingy operator informed him there were no refunds.
    And with his tight ass frugile saving money ways, he couldn't in good conscious let me waste three dollars.
    So with a smile, i jumped into the padded area and climbed atop this fake bull.
    Now the college guys were crowding around the bull riding machine thingy pen and joking around that I
    could never stay on. So I offered them a challenge. I threw the gauntlet down as it were, though I had to use my hat i had forgotten my gauntlet in my other underwear.
    My challenge came out sort of like this: "If I can stay on this bull riding machine thingy for longer than one minute then hot college stud had to give me his number." I pointed at the one I was smoking with all
    afternoon.
    Hot college stud immediately countered with, "Make it three minutes and you have a deal."
    So the bull riding machine thingy operator asked if I was ready. I waved and raised my hand. Using the
    same techniques I would on any other thing I ride, I gripped with my knees and held on tightly to the small handle right between my legs.
    I must admit, it was easier than it looked. Yeah, for the first thirty seconds until the bull riding machine
    thingy operator turned the knob to eleven (Spinal Tap reference number one) and that damn thing went one way and I went the other and I crushed my own nuts. But I was determined to last for the full three minutes. It would be nice to last for three minutes wouldn't it?
    I'd love to say I made it the full three minutes. I'd like to say after I won and the bull riding machine thingy stopped, I ripped off my niners jersey and I showed the bar the shirt I was wearing under my lucky jersey. Which is a pink shirt with big black letters stating this phrase "I Fucked Your Brother" And that hot
    college stud picked me up in his arms and we rode off into the sunset. As I read this paragraph back, I really wish I could say that.
    But that didn't happen. When that damn thing went one way and I went the other smashing my own nuts with my arm, I fell off and landed on my head. Once my vision cleared, I looked around at everyone laughing at me and my eyes rested on hot college stud. I shrugged my shoulders as if to say, your loss.
    After waving at my fans surrounding the pen area, I stumbled back to my table and nursed my bruised ego.
    It wasn't long after my bull riding machine thingy adventure that the college guys paid they're tab and left the bar. I watched my hot college stud leave and thought, win some lose some.
    Just when Daniel started consoling me, wouldn't you know it, hot college stud came back in the bar and shoved a piece of paper in my hand and said call me sometime. Yes, once again my charm and debonair attidtue worked on the breeders. Woo Hoo.
    I guess what I'm trying to say to everyone, sometimes acting like a fool gets you the guy at the end of the day. As long as that guy isn't some crazy homophobe that waits for you outside the bar and kicks the crap out of you. But hey, what the hell. Life isn't living if you live in fear, right. That and I have been known to outrun even the most determined homophobes. Cheers everyone.
    Jason R.
  8. 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?
  9. Jason Rimbaud
    So as of thirty minutes ago, for good or for ill, America voted in Senator Obama by a large resounding margin. Soundly defeating McCain in key Republican states, I think America has spoken clearly and loudly that we need change in America.
    With such a majority, Republicans need to get behind the Presidential Elect and try to heal this country. I think McCain said it best in his concession speech that though they were opponents this morning, McCain will fall behind Obama and work with him to move this country forward.
    Now more than ever, Washington needs to see this election as the people are pissed about the "old boy's club" ruling the nation and to start being a government for the people by the people.
    Like I said, I don't know if America did the right thing tonight, I don't know if I did the right thing by voting for Obama, but apparently a majority of the country felt as I did.
    Obama has a long hard road ahead and I hope he surrounds himself with the right people to give him the right kind of advice to restore the greatness of our nation.
    All my best thoughts are directed to the man that will now decide my fate and that of my country for the next four years.
    Jason
    And it was of some doubt in my mind, but McCain's concession speech proved to me that he is a man of honor, patriotism, and has a great love for this country and if he follows through on his promise to get behind Obama, then he truly is a great American.
  10. Jason Rimbaud
    Questions We Don?t Ask but Should
    Question One: Ever wonder about those people who spend $6.00 apiece on those tiny bottles of Evian water? Try spelling Evian backwards.
    Question Two: If 4 out of 5 people suffer from diarrhea?does that mean that one actually enjoys it?
    Question Three: If people from Poland are called Poles, then why aren?t people from Holland called Holes?
    Question Four: Do infants enjoy infancy as much as adults enjoy adultery?
    Question Five: If a pig loses its voice, is it disgruntled?
    Question Six: Why do croutons come in airtight packages, aren?t they just stale bread to begin with?
    Question Seven: Why is a person who plays the piano called a pianist, but a person who drives a racecar is not called a racist?
    Question Eight: Why isn?t the number 11 pronounced onety-one?
    Question Nine: If lawyers are disbarred, clergymen defrocked, then what would an electrician, musician, cowboys, models, tree surgeons, and dry cleaners be if they were thrown out of their profession?
    Question Ten: If Fed Ex and UPS were to merge, what would they call it?
    Question Onety-One: Do Lipton Tea employees take coffee breaks?
    Question Twelve: What hair color do they put on the driver?s licenses of bald men?
    Question Thirteen: People tend to read the Bible more often the older they get, are they cramming for their final?
    Question Fourteen: I thought about how mothers feed their babies with tiny little spoons and forks, so I wonder, do Chinese mothers use toothpicks?
    Question Fifteen: Why do they put pictures of criminals up in the Post Office? What are we supposed to do, write them? Why don?t they just put their pictures on the postage stamps, so that the mailmen can look for them while they are delivering the mail?
    Question Sixteen: If it?s true that we are here to help others, then what exactly are the others here for?
    Question Seventeen: Why is it that you never really learn to swear until you learn to drive?
    Question Eighteen: If lightening wouldn?t zigzag, what would the speed be?
    Question Nineteen: Whatever happened to Preparations A through G?
    Question Twenty: Did you ever notice that when you put the two words ?the? and ?IRS? together, it spells ?theirs??
  11. Jason Rimbaud
    Unsent Letter to Jessica
    If I could, I would gladly heal your pain
    If I could, I would lay your head on my shoulder
    If I could, I would love you more than I love myself
    If I could, but we both know I can't
    If I could, I would paint the sky blue for you
    If I could, I would write a sonnet with you in mind
    If I could, I would scream my love from the rooftops
    If I could, but we both know I won't
    If I could, I would have told you I was gay
    If I could, I would act like an adult and admit my mistakes
    If I could, I would take back the way you found out
    If I could, but we both know I can't
    If I could, I would never return to Nola's
    If I could, I would tell everyone that you broke my heart
    If I could, I would lie and say I'm sorry
    If I could, but we both know I won't
    If I could, I would never have fucked you...twice
    If I could, I would take it all back
    If I could, I would make you forget me
    If I could, but we both know I can't
  12. Jason Rimbaud

    "N" And I

    By Jason Rimbaud,


    Life In Glasses
    So I had plans. Much like every other person on the planet, I had plans for my future. It involved moving out of San Francisco and going someplace where “N” and I could buy a house and maybe start a family. And much like every other person on the planet, March 16th, 2020 happened and the whole world went absolutely bat-shit crazy.
    As of this current writing, it is October 12th, 2020 and I have been married for one year and two months with the most amazing person on this bat-shit crazy planet. (truthfully, when I first started writing this entry, it was my one year anniversary but things got away from me as it often does when you always get distracted by bright shiny objects)
    Over the course of my life, I have made some mind-numbing stupid decisions. I have more sophomoric mistakes and regrets than any one person should have to endure while still maintaining the fiction that he is somewhat intelligent. But if you look back at the entries of just this Blog, you will find the most asinine circumstances one could find them in. Granted, all of them avoidable if I had even an ounce of intelligence but I digress.
    For those of you that have not had the pleasure of meeting “N”, he is perfect in every single way…and yet he is also the most flawed human being that means the world to me. He is irritating while somehow making me laugh at the most inopportune times. He’s serious to a fault, not understanding irony in the slightest way, and often leaves me scratching my head in amazement/confusion. He is also the most loving person I have ever had the pleasure of sharing my bed with. I have never been so much in love while suppressing urges to strangle him at the same time.
    Like someone famous once said, Context is King, I’ll relay a little story to demonstrate how his mind works. Two days/weeks/months ago, I was at work while he was enjoying a day off, I sent him a text, “What are you doing?” (And for full disclosure, I don’t use abbreviations when texting…ever) His response, “Studying.” So I texted, “Are you naked?” After a few moments/minutes/hours/days of staring at the three black dots, he finally responds, “Why would I be naked, its cold outside”.
    Have I mentioned he doesn’t know how to flirt? And lying is not in his nature, so I’m stuck with an Indian Spock. (very logical at all times)
    My plans to move from a city that I’ve grown to hate for more reasons than I could relay to you, is on hold indefinitely. Why you might ask? Mainly because “N” has decided to change careers after being in the restaurant industry his entire life. And while we reside in San Francisco, he can take classes for free. By the way, is it any wonder that this very serious individual wants to become a CPA.
    So my amazing husband is working full time and going to school, virtually, full time. And I’m stuck in a job I no longer like but after all it is for our future so I soldier on.
    I’ve told “N” I love him a thousand times a thousand times. And yet, when I first saw him in his Sherwani, traditional wedding attire, I immediately started to cry. He came out of the door where he had been sequestered and I swear, my heart skipped a beat. The song was playing and everyone in the space was staring at us, our eyes connected, and in that moment, I understood what unconditional love looked like, what it felt like, and what it meant fully realized for the rest of my life.
    No matter how many years we will get together, I know I will always look back on that single moment and wonder in amazement, how the hell I became so lucky to have him in my life.
    So yes, the world is a bit bat-shit crazy right now, and yes I might be living in a city I no longer hold dear, but I get to be with him, and that makes life perfect.
  13. Jason Rimbaud
    Moonlight Will Prevail
    Part One
    By: Jason R.
    I guess I?m just like everyone else, I have good days and I have bad days. I cry through the bad days and laugh through the good ones. Most days I just exist. But then there are some days, I don?t know if I can take it anymore.
    You know those days. That day when your favorite cousin tells you his child, the one the doctors said they could never have, has a greater than average chance of being born retarded. That day when you realize that your cousin and his wife do not believe in abortion. That day when your heart seems like its going to burst from the sadness that encompasses your life.
    It never ceases to amaze even a skeptic like myself that the human will and the human mind can endure such pain and hardship. Any other species would have given up on life long before suffering the amount of torment that most humans deal with on a daily basis. That?s the magical word isn?t it? The human will.
    We all secretly laugh off life?s little misfortunes. We claim allegiance to one form of god or another. Even going as far as offering empty platitudes to those that have suffered a loss. We pretend, as a society, that we?re happy for those who pass, saying, ?He was in so much pain, he?s better off with the angels.? But isn?t that just a lie?
    I?m not saying we aren?t happy. I?m saying we?re happy for a completely different reason then we show the world. Aren?t we really ?happy? it?s not us lying in that expensive wooden box with brass covered handles? Isn?t that why we have the party after the funeral? Not to remember the loved one but to express thanks to whichever god we serve that we made it another day.
    We spend a few horrid hours pretending to feel sorrow by eating and drinking, whispering in small circles, telling all the sordid details of that person?s life. Thankful, deep down inside, that we have given death the old heave-ho once again.
    Unfortunately, to many of us humans feel that way. Maybe it?s something the collective society breeds into our heads from an early age. Maybe it?s the influence of pop culture that teaches us this manner of mourning?
    We?ve all seen the movies. You attend the wake, get drunk out of your mind, and talk about that person in quiet revered tones. Well, I think its all bullshit. And luckily, I learned what it?s really about. And I learned it from the most unlikely of places.
    I was raised in a strict religious household. We attended church four times a week. Yes, I said four. Once on Sunday morning for Sunday school, once for Sunday evening services to make sure we all remembered to give money to the church. Once on Wednesday, to drive home the fact that church was the center of the universe and once on Friday, to keep the parents out of the bars and keep the children brainwashed.
    It wasn?t the best way to become popular at school let me tell you. Looking back it?s quite ironic that I was one of the most popular students in my High School. I didn?t say I was well liked, I simply said everyone student in that school knew who I was. For good or for ill, I was famous.
    We had lots of rules growing up in my household. I won?t take the time to list them all since I wouldn?t want to bore you any further that I already have. But since most of the sports all took place on Friday nights, my father, deemed it blasphemy for any child to attend or play sports. To me, it seemed the church was more concerned with the loss of revenue if all the parents skipped service to attend their kid?s game. Do I sound bitter? Because I am.
    I had twelve years of torture and abuse from the other students because I never wore the proper clothing. No jeans for me, nope, I was lucky. I got to wear a suit every day to school. And don?t think for a moment I attended an exclusive private school, I know some of you were headed into that direction. I went to a normal everyday High School in Menlo Park California. If only Menlo Park had a Christian school back then, but also it did not.
    Years later my parents would blame the public school for all the ?trouble? I got myself into. Or they would blame my Uncle Malcolm, saying he had been nothing but a bad influence on my young fragile mind. (my uncle believed in free will and taught me to follow my dreams no matter what the world threw at me)
    Just thinking back on my childhood makes my blood boil, and brings an unquenchable rage rising to the surface from the core of my being. Should I hate my parents for raising me in this manner? I did, for years I hated them. Hatred so strong my anger consumed me until the very thought of my parents had me fantasizing about the horrific deaths I could inflict upon them.
    I didn?t want to be different. I wanted to be just like ?Billy? or ?Tommy? or countless other little boys that did all the things I could never do. Yet, little did I know that my quest for normalcy or to be the same as everyone else, would take me down a road seldom traveled by ?normal people?. I look back and smile at life?s little irony.
    I have to admit I bought into the ?whole god thing? pretty much hook-line-and-sinker. Until the tender age of thirteen, I said my prayers each night. All I wanted to do was save the ?sinners? from their evilness, and their inevitable descent into hell. This attitude never helped my already legendary image at school, no one likes a ?bible thumper?, especially a twelve-year-old one at that.
    What happened to change me you ask? I discovered the forbidden fruit. I discovered, which to the day my father died refused to admit or talk about. (when asked of my parents what happened to their only son I?ve heard they reply by saying I died in a horrible car accident) Nice parents huh? But don?t get mad at them, hate the disease not the person. That makes me laugh, my father always quoted that while I was growing up. I guess it?s a saying of, do as I say not as I do kind of thing.
    Oh fuck, he was wrong. I did listen when I was a child.
    Too bad he never followed his own advice. Not only did he hate the disease but he also hated me as well, and was convinced to the day he died that I was going to hell. I know, I say this with such casualness. But you must look at it from my point of view, I don?t believe in hell.
    To Be Continued
  14. Jason Rimbaud

    TGI Friday's & A Broken Nose

    By Jason Rimbaud,


    Life In Glasses
    TGI Friday's & A Broken Nose
    It was the year 1997. I was young, with luscious brown hair that fell past my shoulders. I was fit, hard bodied like only the young can have without exercise and down to fuck anything that captured my attention. But I was trapped in the midst of my only at night relationship with a straight boy named Jason and frustrated beyond belief. 
    I was also at an emergency room at 3:45 am and being questioned by a policeman about injuries Jason had sustained in a fight. 
    For those of you that haven’t followed this long outdated Blog, then you might want to read I'll Never Wear Boxers Again to fully understand my relationship with Jason, my undercover lover.
    During this particular year, at this particular time, Jason was balls deep in (love) with a female bartender at a local restaurant/bar called TGI Friday’s. You must remember, back then, TGI Friday’s actually had great food. Though they might have been better known for their “flare” bartenders and happy hour specials than anything. 
    It was common on most nights where the forty plus seats at the bar weren’t filled with regulars. Due in no small part that they offered a subscription based trivia game called NTN Buzztime that you could play against other players all over the country. 
    You’d ask a bartender for a controller, log in to your Buzztime account, and then play against other players in a plethora of trivia that normally lasted for thirty minutes at a time. I never participated in the sport theme trivia games but many a night, Jason and I spent hours playing that damn game until they kicked us out at closing. 
    We had been going there for almost a year so we had gotten to know the bartenders and most of the regulars pretty well. I was also involved in a rather heated rivalry with another regular patron by the screen name of FitzFuc who was my only real local competition in my never ending quest to maintain my high score on Buzztime. 
    You might not believe this, but my perfectly bald head is filled with useless information that makes me a devastating player at any bar trivia night. But I am finding more and more these trivia nights are less focussed on general trivia and more on themed nights which I find a bit boring. 
    But in 1997 and for all other purposes, I was head over heels in love with Jason. If you went back and read I’ll Never Wear Boxers Again, then you know how it started between us about a year earlier. 
    And since we never openly acknowledged our lust filled nights, I was confused, lovesick, and angry most of the time surrounding this secret relationship. With the amount of alcohol we consumed, my undercover burgeoning drug use and intense feelings, I’m surprised we didn’t have more violent arguments. 
    I’ll preface this story by saying I wasn’t the only one confused. Jason was in deep denial about his feelings for me and often used me more as a cumdump than a boyfriend. Though his intentions were probably more honorable than mine but both of us was stuck in this endless circle of sex, lust, anger, and hurt. 
    At one time or another, each of us tried to break this unhealthy cycle we had created for ourselves. As a gay man it was easier for me to find a willing receptacle. All I had to do was go to any gay bar and dance around in my underwear, twenty minutes later I’d be thrusting into some random dude or bent over taking a dick in the backroom.
    Jason had to employ a different strategy to find sex. His modus operandi was quantity flirting. He had figured out that sooner or later some random girl would agree to fuck him if he asked enough girls. So during this period, there were many nights he’d come home horny as fuck and needing to play around with me to scratch that itch. 
    Over the course of our “relationship”, I lost count of how many times I would see some ugly skank slip out of his room and make that long walk of shame back to whatever rock he found them under. And some of these “girls” he should’ve been more embarrassed than he was for taking them to his bed, but that’s a him problem. 
    With him being so deep in denial with his sexuality, those encounters might have been a way for him to justify the fact he wasn’t really gay no matter how many times I slipped inside his ass. As long as he was still sexing up girls, then he wasn’t really a fag but maybe bisexual.
    And that was an important distinction for him to make, which he did often. Usually it was right before I put my dick in his ass, he’d look up at me and say, “I’m not a fag.”
    What was I going to say? My dick was literally an inch away from the very place I wanted it to be. So I would always respond, “Me neither.” Then I’d do about the gayest thing one can do to another man. 
    But I was talking about 1997. I was working the mid shift, 12 pm to 8 pm, so after going home and taking a shower, I met up with Jason around 9 pm at TGI Friday’s. He had been there since five so he was pretty fucked up. 
    Our beer of choice at TGI Friday’s was Killians Irish Red Lager. They were served in a 23 oz chilled glass and we would normally knock back seven or eight before the night was finished. And in between each 23 oz Killians Irish Red Lager, we’d have a shot of our favorite drink. 
    Okay, they weren’t technically shots. I think I should explain before we move on. 
    Our shots were one of TGI Friday’s signature cocktail, the Malibu Baybreeze. This was a cocktail that had 2 oz of Malibu (coconut flavored) Rum, Pineapple Juice, and topped with Cranberry Juice in a ice filled 12 oz glass. 
    For some reason we loved that drink back then. So after each beer, we’d order this cocktail and then race to see who could finish it the fastest. The only rule, we had to drink through the straw. My personal record was five seconds. 
    Over a period of time, especially when they were really busy, the bartenders would grow tired of making so many of these cocktails, we had a habit of ordering them for several of the regulars. So for us, they started making us doubles and putting them in the 23 oz glasses. My personal record was about eight seconds.
    I know what some of you might be thinking. There was no way we would have the equivalent of sixteen beers and who knows how many double cocktails and still manage to walk upright. Then you would be wrong, very wrong.
    Jason and I were professional drinkers back then. We’d drink a solid five or six hours and then I would drive us twenty minutes back to our apartment. Don’t judge me, you do unbelievably stupid things when you’re twenty-two. 
    From the day I turned 21 until I turned 30, each football Sunday, five of my friends would drive about 45 minutes away to this amazing sports bar called Kokomo’s. There were closer locations to all our houses, but one of my friends, Five, was in (love) with one of the waitresses at that location so he made us go there.
    I can’t remember her regular name, but she also did strip shows in her private basement bar, and I remember her professional name, Velvet. Of course I’d remember her stage name. She was the only female stripper that ever gave me a boner. But that’s another story for another penis.
    Even though we’d arrived for the first game of the day at 10:30 am, Velvet didn’t start until 3 pm. We’d make sure we sat in her section so when she did come on shift, she would always be our waitress. We’d actually eat lunch and also dinner because we wouldn’t leave until the late night Sunday game was over. We’d basically drink for about twelve hours.
    Then we had our Friday game nights at my apartment. We’d all meet up at my apartment and play card games all night. It was standard practice for Jason and I to polish off two cases of beer and a 750ml bottle of Vodka. So our consumption was legendary in the circle of bars we frequented. Not only did we spend money like drunken sailors, we also tipped crazily. 
    How could two twenty-two year olds afford to drink like this you might ask? Prices weren’t the same as they are today. We could get a pitcher of beer for $10, .10 cent wings, and $2 well shots. So our Sunday football all day tab was about $150 and we split that five ways. 
    As a business owner, I am appalled by what I’m about to disclose, just remember times were different back then. Restaurants/Bars were making money hand over fist. Rent, labor, cost of goods, were maybe a third of what it costs now. Hell, bartenders/servers were only making $2.83 per hour because we really did live on our tips.
    Because we tipped so heavily back then, our bar tabs started shrinking the longer we frequented any establishment. After drinking for six hours, it was normal for me to receive a twenty dollar tab. We’d each, Jason and I, tip the bartender forty dollars and call it a night. So for eighty dollars, the bartenders were basically giving us who knows how many free drinks a night.
    Life was different, I had a 1200 square foot basement apartment with two bedrooms, a private entrance, and it cost me $800 a month. Jason and I split everything down the middle so our basic needs cost less than $600 a month. As a bartender in a very busy restaurant, I was making $200 in tips on a bad morning shift. Saturday lunch shift I was walking out with about $400, so I had cash coming out of my ears. 
    There was one ime after it got cold enough to warrant wearing a jacket, I grabbed one at random from the closet. When I put my hands in the pocket, I found tip money from the last time I wore it five months earlier. I had so much cash back then I had completely forgotten about the three hundred dollars. 
    But we’re talking about 1997, one of the more violent arguments I ever had with Jason. So when I arrived at TGI Friday’s, Jason was fucked up and in a bad mood. He had met his bartender crush’s boyfriend and it finally sank in no matter how much he tipped her, she was not going to suck his dick in the parking lot at the end of the night. 
    The other bartender, Nick, informed me Jason already had about eight beers and four of our “shots”. He was hoping I was there to bring him home. Nick had been a bartender for years and knew the signs of someone drinking in anger. But Jason was adamant that he wasn’t ready to go home yet and had no interest in stopping for the night. 
    There lies the dilemma of any bartender with a regular heavy tipper. If they cut off the drunk person, they run the risk of losing that income, on the other hand, if they continue to serve said drunk person, they run the risk of an altercation in the bar or worse, an accident on the way home. 
    I was only there for about ten minutes when Jason told me to fuck off and leave him alone. Remember, I was twenty-two, and you do stupid things at that age. So I did just that. I paid for my unfinished beer and I fucked off to the gay bars.
    TGI Friday’s was located on Union Deposit Road, about ten minutes away from Stallions, the largest gay bar in Harrisburg at that time. By the time arrived, Jason had called several times. He was angry that I left him there and was looking for a “fight”. I wasn’t in the mood to indulge him in an argument. So I ignored him.
    Stallions was a three level club but during the week, only the bottom level was open. The upstairs levels were the nightclub, dancing and drag shows while the bottom level was more like a neighborhood bar. There were a few pool tables, some arcade games, dart boards, and they hosted Karaoke on Tuesday nights. This was by far my least favorite level but it was the only one opened that night.
    Brandon, the downstairs bartender, was a good friend of mine. He was early thirties and had a nineteen year old twink boyfriend named Nicholas, not Nick, Nicholas. Nickolas was short, maybe 110 pounds, with a flaming red mohawk and a lip ring. I always thought Nickolas was hot but as he was Brandon’s boyfriend, I stayed away. 
    My last night in Harrisburg, some eight years later, I fucked Nicholas in a one room apartment next door to Stallions but that’s another story for a tired penis.
    Brandon was average height, a bit chunky but very cute with short brown hair. He served me my first legal drink in a gay bar called Strawberries the night I turned twenty-one so I had a soft spot in my heart for him. Those first few months he kept me away from the pervs, creeps, and drug pushers and introduced me to a group of gay’s that I regularly hung out with as we made our rounds of queer circle. 
    There were only about ten people there that night when I rolled in around 10pm. It was Wednesday night as I surveyed the crowd, I didn’t see anyone I knew other than Nicholas and Brandon. So I sat next to Nicholas and ordered my go to gay drink at the time, a Greyhound. 
    Nickolas was newly out to the world. He was a little punk rocker whose usual attire at the time was red checkered pants, black leather work boots, leather harness and nothing else. He was also a huge flirt and on the prowl to bring in a third for their sexual escapades that normally happened in the bar after they closed. 
    Don’t ask me, I just knew to keep my hands off his scrawny little ass. There was no way I was getting involved with that trainwreck of a couple no matter how many times they enticed me or how many free drinks Brandon gave me. And it was a lot. 
    Brandon liked them young and later on, after they broke up, Nicholas told me that Brandon had urged him to get me in a threesome with them. Nickolas was hot, but something about Brandon just turned me off so I always declined. But I will admit, one of the only reasons I did fuck Nickolas eight years later was to rub it in Brandon’s face right before I left. 
    This particular night, Nickolas was wearing a pair of black spandex shorts, black leather work boots and a smile. And the moment I sat down next to him, he jumped into my lap and kissed my cheek. I might have copped a feel of his little package as he squirmed around in my lap, maybe, but I’ll never tell.
    It was strange for me to be there on an off night, as I had the reputation of only showing up when I was looking to fuck. So Brandon said something along the lines of, “What are you doing here on a Wednesday?”
    “Relaxing after a long day.” Though Jason and I had been playing around for almost a year, I had yet to tell anyone about him. So I was dealing with all that emotion alone.
    “Let me help you with that.” Brandon declared and poured us Purple Hooter shots. 
    I had really only gone there because Jason was being an asshole and I wasn’t really looking to get hammered as I had an early shift the next day. But who could say no to a purple hooter. Not me, and after three greyhounds and two purple hooters, my will to call it an early night went out the window. 
    Nickolas and I started a game of pool. Back then, I played pool all the time. My buddy “Five” and I spent at least three hours a week playing at a local pool hall with regulation sized tables. I was really good once upon a time. On a bar sized table, I was virtually unbeatable. 
    Full disclosure, I loved playing pool with Nickolas, mainly because I would stare at his narrow ass every time he bent over to shoot. So as the night progressed, I was becoming increasingly horny and actually thought about taking them up on their offer to play. But that was as close as I would ever come to indulging their fantasy. Because a quarter after midnight, a tall slender boy with a caesar haircut, piercing blue eyes, and a sexual swagger walked in and asked if he could play winner. 
    I took one look at this boy and flashed him a smile and said, “I’ll play any game with you.”
    His name was Brandon, I know, confusing right. But he was known throughout queer circle as having all meat and no potatoes. And later that night I found out that was correct. He had an eight inch cock, straight and thick but little bitty balls that would have been perfectly fine on an eleven year old boy. Not a twenty-five year old man with a dick that could choke a horse, or a Jason.  
    For sake of clarity, my friend, I will call Brandon 1. I could give Brandon 2 another name but where would be the fun in that. 
    Nickolas quickly figured out that I wasn’t going to play with him so he went back to the bar to sit with Brandon 1 while Brandon 2 and I started to play. It was apparent from his first break, he was a great shooter. And after four games, we were tied, two to two. That’s when the night started getting interesting.
    First off, the loser of the next game had to buy the next round. So when I went to the bar to order the drinks, I asked him, “Do you know him?”
    Branond 1 frowned. “He’s kind of a whore.”
    “I like whores.”
    I could tell Brandon 1 didn’t like the guy. I wasn’t sure if it was because he had intentions on me for that night or if Brandon 2 wasn’t really a good dude.
    “Everyone says he doesn’t like to use condoms and he’s always staying for the afterparty at Strawberries.”
    Strawberries was right next door to Stallions and was a little narrow bar that was famous for a group of guys to stay after closing and run trains on naive twinks and do copious amounts of drugs. 
    Partipating in crazy sexapades didn’t bother me, but not playing safe did. AIDS was a huge deal and a guaranteed death sentence not to mention all the other STDs going around the gay community. As horny as I was, as dumb as I was, I was always careful to play safe. 
    As the months went on, I found out that most of what Brandon 1 told me that night was a lie. It was true, Brandon 2 was a whore, but so was I. He always played safe and didn’t sleep around near as often as his reputation suggested. 
    It all started because Brandon 2 had been seeing one of Brandon’s 1 friends that ended badly due to rampant drinking and drug use about six months earlier. A group of these older gay men were mad that Brandon 2 wasn’t a naive twink that could be passed around at those famous after parties at Strawberries. 
    Full disclosure, a few months after my twenty-first birthday, I was that naive. But that’s another story for a naive penis. 
    And the most interesting thing I found out about Brandon 2 was never mentioned at all. He loved watersports. 
    Jason had called me several more times that night but I always ignored it. I fully intended to honor his wishes by fucking off and leaving him alone. And some time later, when Brandon 2 followed me into the single occupant bathroom and started sucking my dick, I figured I’d start forgetting Jason by riding Brandon 2’s eight inch cock. 
    Brandon 2 still lived with his parents, so we couldn’t go back there. And I lived twenty minutes away in Grantville Pennsylvania, a place not easily accessible without a vehicle. So Brandon 2 didn’t want to come home with me. But I did manage to blast a load down his throat before I left with a promise to hook up again soon. That didn’t happen for another six months or so but it was worth the wait, let me tell you.
    By the time I made it home, around 1am, I was pretty drunk and ready for bed. Jason had not returned yet and a part of me was worried. I knew he was fucked up more than usual and he would never leave his Jeep there so the odds of him driving home was rather large. 
    But I was mad and being twenty-two, I shut my bedroom door and went to bed. I think I might have been asleep before my head hit the pillow. 
    “Hey asshole.” 
    I don’t know exactly what time Jason barged into my room, but I do remember coming awake and seeing him looming over me like some kind of vengeful angel. Before I could really blink the sleep from my eyes, Jason’s fist connected with my cheek and I fell back against the bed.
    No matter who you are, getting sucker punched in the face awakens something primal inside you. I’m not a tough guy by any means. Over my lifetime, especially back in High School, I had my share of fights. I’m naturally strong and can take a punch without collapsing like a sack of potatoes. So it really didn’t surprise me that I immediately jumped out of bed and went into a defensive stance. 
    I was still trying to process what just happened, and Jason lunged for me again. I’ll admit to all of you, there wasn’t a lot of force behind Jason’s first punch. Maybe it was because he was drunk and having trouble standing, or maybe he really didn’t want to hurt me. But when he lunged at me again, I didn’t have the same problem he did. 
    My fist connected and I felt his nose break. Blood immediately began flowing down his face and he looked at me in shock. LIke he couldn’t believe I had actually punched him. Then his eyes filled with anger and he attacked me. 
    We fell back on my bed, blood pouring down on the both of us, as we wrestled around for a bit. I slept naked, and not only was I self conscious about my nakedness, but I really didn’t want to hurt him. So I tried to block his blows and get him into a position where I could get away from him.
    Then a wild punch connected with my eye and I decided enough was enough. I threw him off me and started punching him as hard as I could. I made sure not to hit him in the head, I focused all my blows on his back. All I really wanted to do was stop him from hitting me. So after about six or seven hits on his back, I jumped off the bed and stood there gasping for breath. 
    Jason was groaning in pain, holding his broken nose as he tried to stop the blood. He was writhing around my bed and I grabbed a shirt from the floor and threw it at him. “Are you done?”
    Jason put the shirt up to his nose and said, “I’m done.”
    “Then get the fuck out of my bed. You’re bleeding everywhere.” 
    It took him a few moments to gather the energy to get off my bed and stumbled out of my room. I slammed the door shut behind him and stripped my blood soaked bedding. After putting the sheets in the washer, I remade my bed and was just about to crawl inside when I heard Jason calling for me. 
    As mad as I was about him attacking me in my sleep, I was still madly in love with him. And I could hear the pain in his voice as he called out for me. All the anger melted away and I ran out and saw him lying on the kitchen floor. 
    He had a towel filled with ice clutched in his hand but was face down moaning in pain. 
    "What's wrong?” I asked. I know, he had a broken nose and I was asking what’s wrong. But I was still a bit drunk.
    “I can’t breathe. It hurts. I think you broke my ribs.” Jason managed to say between breaths. 
    That’s when I ran over and knelt down beside him. I lifted up his shirt and looked. I could see where I punched him, his skin was red and angry looking. The next day, the left side of his back would be one big bruise but that night, it just looked hot. 
    His eyes were already bruising and the blood flow from his nose had pretty much stopped. He looked horrible. I immediately felt sorry for him. “I’m sorry.”
    “After this, me too.”
    “What do you want me to do?” I asked him as I tried to move him into a sitting position. 
    “I think I should go to the hospital.”
    “You can’t drive, I’ll bring you.” I offered. 
    He looked at me and then reached out with one finger and hit the tip of my dick gently. “Maybe you should get some clothes on.”
    On the way to the emergency room, Jason came up with a story to explain where he got his injuries. We both knew, the moment an ER doctor saw him, he would know he was in a fight and report it to the police. 
    Twenty minutes earlier, we were trying to kill each other and now we were conspiring to lie to a police officer. The basis of the story, Jason was out at a bar somewhere downtown, and after he left, a few guys jumped and robbed him. Then he drove home where I decided he should go to the hospital. 
    As we suspected, the ER doctor called the police and after they triaged him, the officer took his statement. Then as Jason was filling out the paperwork, the officer found me in the waiting room and interviewed me. 
    This wasn’t the first time I had lied to a police officer and it wasn’t the last. And from the look on his face, the police officer didn’t believe a word I said. I have no idea what he thought really happened but our story was so weak, Jason couldn’t remember which bar he went to, nor where he was parked, nor could he offer a description of any of the attackers. But I think the main reason he didn’t believe our story was that Jason had his wallet in his personal effects when he was admitted.   
    We were pretty quiet on the ride home. It was almost five am and he had to be at work at 8am and my shift started at 10am. He had a broken nose, a cracked rib and a bruised kidney, needless to say, only one of us made it to work that day. 
    The explanation he gave me behind his anger never made sense either. Yes, he was mad that his bartender crush wasn’t interested in him, and yes he was mad that I left him at TGI Friday’s, and yes he was mad that I went to Stallions and got a blowjob from Brandon 2, but none of that was the reason he attacked me. 
    After my shift the next day, I went home to check on him as well as to shower. He was propped up on the couch watching TV, bored out of his skull. When I went into the bathroom, he followed me and sat on the toilet as I showered. 
    “What are you doing tonight?” He asked.
    “Maybe go to Stallions.”
    “Why don’t we just get some beer and hang out here. I’m off tomorrow.”
    Truthfully, I was still angry that he had punched me. And I wanted to go back to Stallions to see if I could find Brandon 2 again. So I answered noncommittally. “Maybe.”
    “If you’re going to just hook up, you could always fuck me.”
    I started laughing. This entire situation was so ridiculous. Even in my young confused brain I knew what we were doing was bizarre to say the least. “You’re so banged up you can’t even walk. I’d break you.”
    “I’ll just take some more pain killers.”
    We ended up staying home that night. And somehow, we even took turns topping. We snuggled in his bed and I pretended we were a couple. It was nights like these, alone in the safety of our apartment, wrapped up in one another’s arms that kept this dream alive of us one day becoming a real couple. 
    When we arrived home from the hospital, I helped him get undressed and put him to bed. I made sure his phone was charging and right before I turned off the light, I asked, “Do you need anything else?”
    “After all this, the least you could do was give me a blowjob.”
    There it was. Our relationship summed up in a single sentence. After I broke his nose, his ribs, and bruised a kidney, after all that, the least I could do was suck his dick. Any normal human would have run away from this situation. But I have never been normal and I didn’t run away. I sucked his dick.
  15. Jason Rimbaud
    Moonlight Will Prevail
    Conclusion
    By: Jason R.
    After the funeral was over, my Uncle told me how he had tried for years to contact me but my father had refused his inquiries. He told me I was welcome to stay in his house for as long as I wished to stay. And I have lived there ever since. I guess he became the dad I should?ve had in the first place.
    He taught me that hate, any kind of hate, was no way to live this beautiful life. He forced me to see that if I truly didn?t want to be like my parents, I couldn?t hate them for what they did to me. Or for what they believed. He taught me to love and to show compassion for all living things. And that loving a boy wasn?t sinful. He showed me that love in any form is pure and seldom achieved. Through his patience and constant guidance, I learned that love is a gift from God. He opened my eyes to the gift Greg had left me.
    From shortly after my sixteenth birthday till four days after my twenty-second birthday, I lived with my Uncle in bliss and contentment. He had never married and to my knowledge wasn?t gay either. He enjoyed hanging out with his many friends and of helping others out in thousands of different ways. For all I know, he never thought about sex unless I asked an absurd question about this or that. The time I spent in that house with him is some of the best years of my life thus far.
    For everything he taught me about life, about relationships, or just about giving of ones self to others, I am forever in his debt. Unfortunately, I will never be able to repay his kindness. You see, four days after my birthday, my Uncle passed away from lung cancer. It seems I?m destined to lose everything I love in my life.
    First, I lost my beloved, Greg. Just a few brief hours after that, I lost my family. The ones I have loved so deeply and to this day still miss like it was only yesterday. Then I lose my Uncle, my dad if I may be so bold.
    As I look back on the last ten years, I can see how I grew and how I changed due to my Uncles influences. He has helped me through some of life?s hardest lessons.
    But the most important lesson I ever learned, I learned from Greg. It wasn?t one thing he said or did but how he lived his life day in and day out. If anything, I learned by his example. I have to live everyday like it?s my last. We really never know when it?s time to go. I learned to follow my dream now, today, and not wait for that ?perfect moment?. I learned that it will never be perfect, sooner or later, if you wait, your dreams can pass you by.
    When I went to Greg?s funeral, I didn?t get it. I was so angry with the High School kids and their indifference. This attitude they had, thank god it wasn?t me. I hated each and every one because of this attitude. I didn?t know then what I know now.
    Last week at my Uncle?s wake, I didn?t get it at first either. All his friends were sitting around the table, laughing and joking like nothing happened. At first I was angry, but then I watched as they looked at old pictures of my Uncle and told stories about his life, and slowly I began to understand.
    Funeral?s aren?t about mourning the passing of a loved one. It?s not about groaning and moaning over death. A funeral is a celebration of life, my Uncles? life. His friends weren?t laughing because they didn?t care. They were laughing because they remembered my Uncle in the most precious of ways. They celebrated his life and what he did for them and everyone he came into contact with on a daily basis. It was a remembrance of all things good about a beautiful man.
    I wish I had known this for Greg?s funeral. I could?ve let everyone in that building know what a wonderful and kind person he was. And how much love he had inside his body and his passion for chasing his dreams. But I was still caught up in the trappings of death, I didn?t understand.
    I don?t mourn for Greg anymore. I miss him just as strong today as I did then. But when I think of him now, I remember the laughter we shared, the love that held us together, and I remember his life and what we all could learn from it. To live life with no regrets, to never pass over a dream due to fear and to always follow your heart. I believe with every breath in my body that Greg died content and happy with his place in the universe. A free spirit that never let circumstances dictate his happiness.
    The doctor said he had a heart attack, that he died peacefully in his sleep. He promised me it was painless and quick. I like to think sometimes as I gaze up at the moon, that the last thing he felt was my love and the last thing he thought was his love for me. I?ll never forget our walk in the moonlight nor will I forget he gave me the most precious gift of all, a will to embrace life and to always take a chance on love.
  16. 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
  17. Jason Rimbaud
    One giant can of Red Bull, Spearmint Gum, and a pack of Marlboro Lights
    Current Music Selection: Snow Patrol?Breaking Benjamin?Ryan Star
    Current State: Slightly drunk
    Current Mood: Optimistic
    So on the way to work, I stop off at Max?s Smoke Shop to buy a giant can of Red Bull, Spearmint gum, and a pack of Marlboro Lights. This is something I?ve been doing every day for the four months I?ve worked in Palo Alto. I say hi to Max, light up a cigarette and shoot the shit with probably the coolest ?old guy? I?ve ever met. We talk about football and the chance of the 49?ers making the play-offs. I ask about his wife, he asks about my flavor of the week, we converse in friendly tones.
    Being slightly OCD, I really, really, really, like my routine. If something happens to alter this routine, I become?well lets say it how it really is shall we?an asshole. I?m sure you guessed it; this routine was altered today when I returned to work after having off for New Years.
    It?s another post, if I ever get the nerve to write about New Years, but I walked into Max?s Smoke Shop, a smile on my face, and a happy New Year greeting on the tip of my tongue for my favorite ?old guy?. But that damn greeting died on my lips when I saw the nightmare standing behind the counter. Have you ever seen that show on BBC, called Are You Being Served? If so, do you remember that old chick that always changed the color of her hair? This is exactly what the DUDE behind the counter looked like. Even down to the cheesy old skirt and stained white blouse. It was frightening.
    I know I live in the San Francisco Bay Area, probably one of the largest gay communities in the world, and I know it takes all kinds. If you have any doubts, take a walk in the Castro and you?ll see what I mean. But digressing again and I?m trying to stop this practice.
    Upon seeing this?thing behind the counter, I pause at the front door. I look around, making sure I walked into the right store. I?ve been known after a long three days of partying to wander into stores aimlessly. But I had walked into the right place. I swear I stood at the front door for a good minute. I get used to certain things and I wasn?t sure if I wanted to buy my giant can of Red Bull from this sitcom reject.
    While I stood in the doorway, I noticed this old lady with probably the ugliest dog I?ve ever seen. I immediately shudder; this lady was somehow odder looking than the ?thing? behind the counter. She was wearing this long black wig, it was dirty and ratted like she had never bothered to run a comb through it. But the thing that made my head turn to one side, much like a dog, was every few moments she would raise a wrinkled hand to her wig. Like she was making sure it was still atop her ?probably? bald head. And each time she checked her wig, she would move it slightly. So by the time I saw her inside Max?s Smoke Shop, it was beyond crooked. I think a slight breeze would send it careening to the floor, which would be cleaner than the mess resting on her head. But digressing yet again. She was wearing these shoes, I can?t even describe them. But I bet they were old during the fifties. I think at one time they were black, but now they looked more like?mud. Her skirt, bright red with yellow fringe, looked like it was two sizes too small and unfortunately left nothing to the imagination. I couldn?t see what shirt she chose to accompany this ensemble, because she was hiding it under a three-quarter length fur coat. Which I might add, was suffering from the same affliction as her head hair.
    I think its time to let you know that I?m not an animal lover. I?ve never understood the need for a pet. But hey, it takes all kinds, right? Whatever, but I do believe that since I can?t smoke inside public places, then I don?t think a flea infested dog should be allowed inside public places. Digress, no thanks, trying to quit.
    I reach into my pocket and pull out my trusty silver cigarette case. I check to see if I have enough to make it through the night. I shake my head, three cigarettes won?t cut it. So I make the decision to go the rest of the way inside and quickly grab my giant can of Red Bull, my Spearmint gum, and a pack of Marlboro Lights. After all, Susan said I should be more open to change. Stupid therapist, change sucks.
    So I walk quickly by the ?thing? behind the counter. I hug the gum shelf to get as far away from the smelly dog, and its ugly companion. I breathe deeply as I reach the cooler that is normally filled to the brim with giant cans of Red Bull.
    Again for a moment, I stand there, staring in disbelief at the empty cooler. I decide that Max must?ve changed the coolers around again without giving me the week?s notice we had agreed upon. You would think the ?old guy? would?ve learned his lesson the last time he moved the coolers around. Why would you put the Red Bull cooler all the way in the back? It was right next to the gum shelves, it was perfect. I?d walk into the store, I grab the gum, grab the giant Red Bull, turn, and walk to the counter where I would pay for everything.
    So I walk down the row of coolers, peering into each one carefully. Maybe the ?old guy? had finally taken my advice and moved them back to the front of the store. But once I reached the gum shelf, I had not seen any Red Bull. So I walk back down the row of coolers, peering carefully again. After doing this two more times, I look at the front of the store. The ?thing? behind the counter was now leaning over the counter petting the ugly dog while the weird old lady looked on with the biggest smile I had ever seen on a human. Crocodiles had nothing on this lady, except maybe a few more teeth, but that was it.
    Again I shudder; dogs shouldn?t be allowed inside public places. But I choke back that retort and instead ask where Max moved the Red Bulls. This is when the ?thing? behind the counter, looks over at me and replies, I swear this is his exacts words, ?That?s right, Max left a note telling me to make sure I fill up the Red Bulls.. Sorry, I forgot.?
    So I walk towards the front, I ask, ?How can you forget? He left you a note and everything.?
    ?Sorry, why don?t you try a Rock Star instead?? This is what he says, now fully focused on the dog.
    Seeing that he has gone to that place when adults see either children or animals, I give up. I can do this, change is good, remember. So I grab my Spearmint gum and walk to the counter. I notice, because I?m somewhat intelligent, that the weird lady is neither waiting to purchase anything nor has she purchased anything. As far as I can tell, she wandered in just so the ?thing? behind the counter could pet her ugly dog.
    I wait, longer than a minute, I know I looked at my watch, and this ?thing? behind the counter is going on and on about this dog. Talking to it like it?s a human, like he expects the ugly dog to answer his stupid questions. And when he asked the ugly dog if it got everything it wanted for Christmas, I finally lost it.
    I ask for a pack of Marlboro Lights and threw my pack of gum on the counter, still standing a good six feet away from weird lady and ugly dog. The moment I spoke, that damn dog turned and looked at me and before I could do anything, it had covered the distance and jumped up on my freshly pressed pants.
    I pushed the dog, cringing at touching such a dirty animal, and looked at the lady and say, very plainly, ?Please control your dog.?
    You would?ve thought I punched the dog, which was my first instinct but after four months talking to Susan, I had ignored this reaction. She called out for the dog and the ?thing? behind the counter gave me a funny look. So I repeat what I wanted. The ?thing? rolls his eyes and grabs a pack of Marlboro Lights.
    While I?m paying for my purchase, minus one giant can of Red Bull, that damn dog jumps up on me again. This is when all of Susan?s advice went out the window. I shoved the dog down, and looked at the lady saying, ?What don?t you control your flea ridden dog for fucks sake?? Granted, not very diplomatic, but after seeing what I did the first time, she should?ve expected something along those lines.
    The ?thing? behind the counter looked at me and said, ?Calm down, he?s just happy to see you.?
    So I say, ?I believe Palo Alto has a very strict leash law, shouldn?t that thing be leashed up out front or better yet inside the car??
    The conversation pretty much went down hill from there. The lady went off on me, telling me where I could stick my leash law and the ?thing? behind the counter told me to get out.
    I was mad, but I knew in the back of my mind I needed that pack of Marlboro Lights, so I told him I wanted the cigarettes. He refused, so I threatened to call animal control and say that the dog attacked me and that it wasn?t on a leash, and I was inside a store.
    I admit I might have been just a bit irrational at this point. But change really isn?t good and sometimes I just can?t help my anti-social behavior. I really do try but I don?t have a lot of patience, or good judgment at times in crisis. Besides, I brought two people closer together today. I?m sure, long after I left with my cigarettes, they bitched about the asshole who doesn?t like dogs. So in a way, I did a good deed today.
    I wonder what Susan?s take on this will be next week. She probably won?t like it on one hand but on the other, she realize just how much money she?ll make trying to help me adapt to change. Wow, that?s two good deeds I did today. One more and I?ll make Eagle Scout. But I digress again.
  18. Jason Rimbaud
    Stay True to the Dreams of Your Youth
    He rose again from his shadow to contemplate the decision before him. The sun was descending into the west, and he felt it exploding him from behind. A few feet from where his eyes rested upon his young face stood two signs.
    One sign pointed down a road where a car awaited to take him into the womb of certainty, should he choose that path. The other sign pointed towards a narrow trail that disappeared into a lush forest.
    He looked at the sign pointing at the car. Upon it, in big, black gleaming letters was the word CERTAINTY?10 miles. Underneath this word written a bit smaller, it read, ACCEPTENCE and SECURITY.
    He stared at the sign for a moment before shifting his gaze to the other. This sign was older looking and the words were a bit faded?it read: UNCERTAINTY?miles unknown. Underneath, like the other sign, were two words: RISK and FREEDOM.
    The boy became confused and distraught once again as his eyes began to swell with water. Most of his life he had been told that this day would come. They had all said for him to prepare himself and he now knew that this would be the biggest decision he would ever make. A resolution that would decide his life course. Those close assured him it would ultimately be his decision; but at the same time he felt the urge to get into the car, which would lead him to certainty. They had all been where he was now, and they would convince him that getting into the car would be the safest way to live his life.
    Most of them had chosen the path of certainty. They had all sat down in the comfort of the car, and like most before had all ended up secure and accepted. But were they happy? Were their hearts singing everyday when they awoke?
    The boy thought about this as he turned to let the setting sun dry his face. He watched the beautiful merging of the sun and ocean. The sight seemed to return a calmness that had been absent from his soul. He breathed deep, longing for the rays of light to enter his body, to maybe melt away his emotions. Then, after a while he closed his eyes and slowly turned to face the inevitable.
    The boy retracted his eyelids to let all perception enter. He glared at the first sign, trying to dismantle the words until they were naked, revealing their true meaning. CERTAINTY. ACCEPTANCE. SECURITY. He couldn?t figure out, why most of the world was obsessed with obtaining these things, why most deemed this path the safest for one?s life.
    He shifted his eyes to the other sign, looking deep into the words. UNCERTAINTY. RISK. FREEDOM. He repeated the words over and over as he read them. Then, slowly but suddenly, quietly but urgently, the revelation crawled into his head and rest upon his brain.
    The boy quickly looked up, beyond the sign to the trail disappearing into the lush green canopy. Then he glanced at the car. He felt his heart begin to beat harder. He looked back to the trail and the beautiful forest, which eventually enveloped it. The boy watched as a bird took flight from one tree to another. He noticed a squirrel run down the base of a tree and then disappear under a bush. He realized that animals are not concerned with security or acceptance. They are content with being who they are, and they are satisfied with what they have.
    His breath quickened as he looked back to the car and the looming city beyond. He pondered all the people scurrying around in the shadows of those towering buildings. He wondered if they were content with being who they were. He wondered if they were satisfied with the path they had chosen. The boy concluded that maybe some were, but most were trying to fill the void where their childhood hearts once sang.
    Most were trying to get somewhere the car would not take them because in this life, nothing is certain. He felt a wonderful burning in the center of his chest, as he finally turned his back to the car forever. As he moved to the head of the uncertain trail, he glanced at the sign, which pointed to it. A subtle smile crept across his face. For now he knew what the sign meant.
    The boy stood before the path of uncertainty, held his head high, and said these words aloud, ?This is the route for my life. I know because my heart has shown me the way. This passage will not be an easy one. There will be numerous obstacles blocking my way and many challenges to overcome; but by doing so I know that I will learn and grow from every experience, pleasant or unpleasant. I understand that by taking this uncertain path, I may risk acceptance and security, and at times life might be filled with suffering; but if the risk is taken out of life, then there will be no true living. Through the risk of the life I?m choosing, ultimately I will be free.?
    Tears of joy began to gather in the boy?s eyes as he took to the path of uncertainty, because he knew he was following his heart, and his heart had told him to stay true to the dreams of his youth.
    Just before the boy was consumed by the thicket of trees, he looked back over his shoulder to where the car was. He began laughing and singing lovely songs of freedom because the car had vanished.
  19. Jason Rimbaud
    Bitch of the Day
    (and I don?t mean Howard)
    By: Jason R.
    As I write this, I can?t help but feel a bit cranky and pretty upset with one of my numerous roommates. Not to mention I might just be dying of hunger. Oh yeah, I almost forgot until I shifted positions, I have this blister on the bottom of my right foot that just might be the size of Texas. How did I get to be cranky, tired and ravenous you ask? *Insert question here*
    Fine, those of you not conditioned to the tragedy that is my mind; I?ll explain it to you. As you might guess, July Forth Weekend is usually a slow boring three days for us at Market Street Caf?. Normally the crazy denizens of Harrisburg enjoy the numerous outdoor activities Mayor Reed had planned during ?lets make all the fucking money we can before winter kicks our ass? three day festival we call Fourth of July weekend. With everyone hanging at the festival with the cool peeps and considering my staff had been working overtime with ?little? complaining, I decided to schedule a skeleton crew for the weekend. (Just because I would rather have my nuts torn from my body by a baby elephant than spend time with my parents, doesn?t mean I should make others suffer for my retarded home life, does it?)
    Let me tell you, I must have been out of what little mind I have left. Not only were we busy as rabbits in a storefront window, but we did record numbers for the weekend. Probably due to the horrendous downfall of rain we were ?lucky? enough to receive. (Like I watch the fucking weather channel) I have spent the last three days eating, breathing, and sleeping Market Street Caf?. Wearing the same stinky clothes, trying my best to remember why the hell I entered the service industry in the first place.
    By four PM on Monday, we were slammed back to the ding dong section. I, in all my wisdom, had only three servers and two cooks working that beautiful rainy day. To say we resembled a famous star losing his mind on a popular daytime show would have been an effort in futility. Being the great and talented manager I am, I used my talent for multi-tasking. I ran around serving tables, I made drinks at the bar for the other severs, I bussed tables so fast I reminded customers of police upon hearing Crispy Creme gave away donuts. So basically I was the resident insane person. Why didn?t I call in some of my fun loving, grateful I had given them the weekend off, employees you might ask? Let me say this, all efforts to reach them by train, plane, automobile, cell-phone, fax machine, email, text message and pony express proved in vain. Not a single one of those pricks answered my call.
    After finally arriving home around 1am Monday night. I poured myself into my soft comfortable bed fully intending on catching up some much-needed sleep. But I was so wired on Monster and nicotine I tossed and turned for about five hours before finally drifting off to a restless slumber. I had clocked just under forty hours in the last three days and Damnit; I deserved some fucking sleep.
    But alas dear reader, it was not to be. Fate had other plans for me. After drifting off to sleep around six am, I was awaken rudely at nine am by the doorbell. Ignoring the various doorbell sonatas and the very loud banging on the front door, I rolled over and buried my head in my pillow hoping whoever it was would grow tired of this quest to gain entry into a house filled with five other roommates. But not before I wished some fairly unpleasant things upon whoever this was and their entire family, second cousins and such included.
    But the incessant banging finally grew too annoying for me to ignore any longer. So I ran from my first floor bedroom to the front door and threw it open only to find a crazy meter reader person standing there. She informed me in a pleasant voice that she was there to read the meter. So after greeting her with some pretty horrendous morning breath and seventeen yawns, I showed her to the basement. Not more than thirty seconds later she walked back up the stairs and wished me a good day.
    I slammed the door shut behind her and crawled back into the safety of my bed. Hoping to quickly fall back asleep and resume the dream I had been having about four friends and I in the middle of a giant arcade surrounded by pink bubble gum. Right about the time I had convinced myself that it had all been a horrible nightmare and while teetering on the edge of oblivion, teetering mind you, the ringing of my front doorbell once again disturbed my slumber.
    Exactly twenty-three minutes after I had slammed the door behind the gas meter reader person, a way too cheerful UPS delivery guy began his tortuous attempts to gain entry into my house to deliver a pair of shoes my roommate (and employee that would not answer my desperate cry for help over the weekend) purchased online from this trendy store in New York City.
    Tearing myself from my nice warm bed for the second time in under thirty minutes (I must have missed the meeting where the other housemates voted on making me the designated door answerer person. If you think about it, you know logically and stuff, it makes all the sense in the world. I live on the first floor, the other roommates live either on floor two or floor three. I don?t have the pleasure of traversing narrow stairs each time the doorbell rings. It?s only fair that I should answer the door. Isn?t?) I opened the door.
    It wasn?t that I rude. Because I wasn?t. I swear. But something about way too cheerful UPS delivery guys makes my blood creep inside my already blocked veins. He had it coming, right? I mean, it was early in the day. And I had a blister.
    Anyway, after signing for the package and giving the finger to the way too cheerful UPS delivery guy, I slammed the door shut. Now there?s something about holding a person?s package in ones hand that does strange things to your mind. Like maybe deep down we all, everyone one of us, has this unfulfilled desire to deliver the mail. Because no matter whom the package is for, we feel like we must give it to the intended party. I hated climbing those narrow rickety stairs but I found myself carefully walking up those stairs heading for my roommate?s door. You know I lost my mind because I wasn?t wearing shoes, and in my house, that?s as good as inviting tetinas.
    Banding loudly on the door, I completed the two-day trip for the pair of shoes by personally handing them over to said purchaser. Knowing my good deed for the day had been accomplished, I walked backed down the stairs and climbed into my now cold bed with a promise to the gay god, you know the gym, that I would not rise again until at least one PM. Again, fate decided to royally fuck me. Spitting and laughing on my simple pursuit of a good days sleep. Before my head hit the pillow, my roommate, now fully awake and ready to face this beautiful sunny day, began blasting his music at what I can only assume is volume eleven.
    With what I can only describe is him dancing around the room in his newly purchased sneakers to the horrid sounds of the Broadway musical Urine Town, I stare at the ceiling and plot all the horrible ways I am going to kill him, slowly. Upstairs, oblivious of my murderous thoughts, he dances and sings not caring about my desire and need by this time, for sleep. Beautiful restful zombie like sleep. In my tired dementia, I envision him dancing and singing in his room, wearing his sponge bob square pants boxers, in some kind of bizarre ritual to the shoe god in the sky.
    No amount of burying my head with my pillow can block out the wailing from above. And much to my dismay, God did not strike him dead, unless the banging sound is him in the final throes of death; he is very much alive and happy with his new pair of shoes.
    So with a spirit of retaliation, rivaled only by America?s hunger for oil, I rise from my sleep like a vengeful vampire and approach my own stereo. I serenade him back with the thunderous sounds of Orgy?s Fiction (Screaming in Digital), the synthetic sounds blending with crunching guitar?s to battle the happy sounds of Broadway. Like a childish game of truth or dare, we battle back and forth for noise supremacy. The noise emanating from the house not only woke up the remaining roommates, but shattered several laws of the city of Harrisburg.
    What is the moral of this tirade you ask? *insert foolish question here* No matter what you plan for your life, no matter how hard you try to anticipant the extraordinary, fate, destiny or maybe even Loki (mischievous god of the Norse) takes an almost perverse pleasure in destroying those plans.
    If ever awaken by a crazed meter reader person, promptly make a pot of strong coffee and wait for the inevitable. Sleep is lost for the rest of the day and maybe for the rest of your life.
    Oh yeah, on the subject of my hunger. I have yet to buy food this week so I had nothing to eat. In a final attempt at retribution, I eat my roommate?s last donut. And when he inquired about the missing donut, I smiled and wipe the crumbs from my shirt and blamed it on the crazy meter reader person. I?m not surprised he didn?t believe me. I was chewing the last bite at the time.
    Hey Ann, this is for you. Now you can't talk shit.
  20. Jason Rimbaud
    Moonlight Will Prevail
    Part Two
    By: Jason R.
    What is this forbidden fruit I discovered? I hear you ask with a hint of anger in your voice by my lack of explanation. So I?ll tell you. I discovered I had a free will. And I did the unthinkable in our religion, well any religion for that matter; I began to think for myself.
    And I decided to explore this newfound gift I discovered. I began exercising free will like a boy with a never-ending back account. I thought about whatever I wanted to think about, not the ?safe? subjects they outlined for me and drilled into my head. I thought outside of the box.
    I thought about all the hate that surrounded my life. The hatred that consumed my parents and I didn?t want to end up hating everything and everyone like they somehow managed to do. I thought about all the choices I could make, and all the different roads I could walk.
    Heavy thinking for a twelve-year-old you might say. But I was the only child of a father with an IQ of 174. Let?s just say I was taught from an early age the beauty of learning. This was a man who grew up during the sixties and all the paranoia that went with that decade. He taught me to think independently, and never to rely on what others taught. I was being taught by my father from the moment I awoke to the time I went to bed.
    It wasn?t just religious subjects he drilled into my head. Though I must admit that took a huge chunk of my day. But he taught me the classics. And I developed a love of reading and a thirst for knowledge at an early age.
    I know my father was trying to make sure I would not be swayed from my religious brainwashing by the ?worldly? teachings of public school. He knew that peer pressure overwhelms millions of students each year, and wanted to make sure I would never fall into that trap. (independent thinking, can you see how that might backfire with anyone with an IQ higher than 92)
    I was a good kid in my fathers eyes as long as I listened and followed whatever my parents or minister instructed for me to do. But when I began to question their words or deeds, I was branded a rebellious teen and punished accordingly.
    I ask you, how can you teach a child to be wary of what others teach and expect them to never question what they have been taught by you? I remember my father saying long ago, that he was a horrible father because he taught me independence. Thankfully, it was a lesson I learned well.
    But back to what I was trying to say earlier. I discovered my free will. And with that realization, I knew I could choose whichever path I wanted to take. I could choose what kind of person I would become. I could choose what religion I would practice. I could choose which sex I would sleep with.
    You had to know I was going to go there eventually, didn?t you? I have since found out that suppressing people?s mind is never the proper procedure for a well-adjusted adult. If you tell someone ?no? enough times, sooner or later they will do ?it? just to see what the fuss is all about. Well, at least that?s what I did.
    From the time I could understand English, I was told that sex before marriage was sinful. And if I ever dared attempt premarital sex, I would be hurting god. Do you have any idea what that does to your libido? Every single time I got an erection, I had this picture of god crying. It?s hard to have sex with god crying over your shoulder, believe me, I know.
    To this day, there are still times when in the middle of sex, I get a picture of an old wizened bearded god crying as he watches from on high. I missed out on so many years of intimate relations with my left hand because of the powerful fear of making god cry. All it took was a free will and suddenly my hand is one of my favorite partners. What? You know you do it to.
    I can remember so vividly, the first time I actually masturbated. It?s funny now, but at the time, I was so scared that god would send an angel down from heaven and punish me for wasting my seed.
    It was late at night, I?m guessing around four in the morning. It was summer, that nasty August humid summer night that makes sleep without air conditioning impossible. (we weren?t allowed to buy an air-conditioner for our house based on the belief that if god would have wanted us to be cooler than he wouldn?t have made the sun so hot)
    That?s right, I was speaking of masturbation. I was lying there in my small twin bed, naked, all the sheets thrown on the floor in my perpetual quest for coolness. My bed was so small; I didn?t have the small luxury of finding the cold spot on the bed. I had to lay there on my back, trying to fall asleep with that sickly sweaty feeling all over my body.
    I?m not sure what I was thinking about, but I started the innocent rubbing of my chest and stomach area. I found out quickly that if I lightly rubbed my body, using just my fingertips, I would receive a chill for a brief moment. To say my youthful curiosity was peaked would be pretty much redundant.
    I slowly ran my hand over my nipples, my body shivering at the feather like touch. With just one finger, I began to rub my left nipple ever so gently, alternating the direction every few seconds. As I now know, if I wanted to cool myself off, this wasn?t the best way to go about it. But back then, I was touching my body in a way I had never done before and I was enjoying the new sensations. As dirty as it might have been for me mentally.
    For the first time, I actually thought about my thirteen-year-old body. I was slim, even for a thirteen-year-old. I had been taught from birth that god hated obesity and was kept on a strict diet by my father. Which is the reason I was always the best-conditioned boy in my school. I exercised every day with my father for two hours. We would run two miles every day, then do sit-ups, push-ups, crunches, and all other sort of exercises that most adults, much less other thirteen-year-olds, didn?t even know existed. And of course, our daily workout offered my father the opportunity to continue his brainwashing.
    Where was I? Oh yeah, I was lying naked in bed, a big taboo in our house. You know, nakedness being a sign of the unclean as well as a sign of those that had unlawful carnal knowledge. (I wonder if my parents have seen one another naked even after so many years of marriage) Yet here I was, naked, and doing the unspeakable. I was touching myself and for the first time, I was lost in the euphoria of male sexuality.
    My flat stomach had sunk well below my ribs as I lay on my back. And each time I took a breath it sunk even lower. (to this day, I still lay on my back and stare at my stomach as I breathe. It never ceases to amaze me at the illusion of my stomach and guts disappearing into my body somehow) As I rubbed my chest and nipples with one hand, my other hand began stroking my upper, inner thigh.
    By this time, I had noticed my ?evil thing? between my legs was fully, painfully hard and sticking straight up in the air. And I swear, this isn?t just denial talking, up until this night I speak of, that very moment, I had barely touched my ?evil thing? unless I was washing it or putting it back inside my underwear after relieving myself. I had been told repeatedly that it was a sin to touch or play with it at anytime. I had been spanked because one day my mother saw me scratching myself in public.
    Quite accidentally, while I was rubbing my upper, inner thigh, my pinky finger brushed my ?evil thing? for one brief moment. This sensation shot through to the very core of my body, a torrent that washed over me, drowning all thoughts of a supposed crying god. Not only did I get the chills I was trying to create, but I also received pleasure that shot up from my toes and directly to the nipple I was massaging at the time. Needless to say, I brushed against my ?evil thing? again, quickly.
  21. Jason Rimbaud
    Maybe The Cause I Am A Bit Fucked-Up
    I am in the process of moving, and I found this piece I wrote when I was sixteen. To give a brief, like I could be brief, backstory,
    I come from a VERY religious background. In the News and Views this week, Dude posted an article that scared me, so much so
    I decided to post this piece here, on my blog. To show others how real the threat of the religious right truly is, and how the young are
    brainwashed on a daily basis. This piece was herald by the private school I attended, it scares me that they bought into this piece and
    made everyone in my class read it. Stating during chapel no less, that I might have been inspired by the divine one himself/herself to
    write such a cautionary tale.
    MY REWARD
    By: Jason R.
    One dark and stormy night, I died. It wasn't the first time I have died, but it would be the last. Some say that the best is always saved
    for last, as it was when Jesus turned the water into wine and the wedding guests claimed the host had saved the best for last, and it was
    true. I will never forget this time. NEVER.
    I was lying in my bed, touching myself, as I entertained thoughts about my best friend, when my heart suddenly stopped. Instantly, I
    was transported to an empty field. Each other time when I died, my earthly senses became void. Like I was so much wind floating
    through the earth. Yet this time, I could hear the wind gently blowing through the tree tops, I could see the grass slightly bending over
    by the subtle force of the wind, I could smell the night air, soft and rich with the promise of rain, I could feel chill in the air and I shivered.
    I made a small noise in the back of my throat that reminded me of a child whimpering. All around me was calm, much like the eye of a
    tornado. I could feel forces moving through the earth and I was scared out of my mind.
    Without warning, my eyesight focused so that I could see even the bugs crawling along the leaves in the trees several hundred yards away.
    I looked up, and much to my amazement, I actually saw the infinate of the universe as I stared into the night sky. I shook my head and
    took a deep breath, filling my nostrils with a moldy, dead smell that made me lightheaded and disorientated. Instinctively I knew something
    was wrong and I began running as fast as I could.
    I had not gone four steps when the ground started shaking violently, falling and rising much like a rushing river, I lost my balance and fell
    to the cold earth. To my horror, the trees started falling on the edge of the clearing, great massive trunks that threatened to end my life
    as they crashed around me, plummenting down on the grassy field showering me with dead leaves.
    In the center of the field, a chunk of earth shot up, flying through the air before landing fifty feet away. Smoke and fire exploded from the
    hole causing me to choke as the tonic fumes billowed out like sheet falling on an empty bed. Rising out of the hole, clothed in fiery tones
    of red and black, Satan ascended in all his horrible glory. As this supernatural being rose grandly from his earthly domain, I
    was forced to my knees by the power and hate that eminated from this devourer of souls. As the figure revolved around to face me, I
    shook and quivered as I hugged the charred earth. His powerful chest rose and he breathed out, a fetid smell that caused me to choke.
    This supreme master of evil watched me shaking, a look of contempt on his face as he surveyed the scene. Without speaking audibly, he commended me to rise to my knees and look upon his countence. I tried to resist but the force of his will overpowered my fragile human
    mind. As my eyes focused on the sight before me, I screamed out to God, because I had look upon Satan himself. Satan laughed, a sound
    so vile and twisted it caused me to heave, my stomach emptying on the ground.
    Again, I screamed out for God to save me. Satan stopped laughing and said with much glee in his voice that God had forsaken me. That
    I had commited the unspeakable sin in my heart and that there was no forgiveness for one such as I. That God had turned his back on me
    and that I would live the rest of my life serving a new master. I was informed that I would awake, and that I would live forever. Abruptly
    he disappeared and I awoke in my new body. I went insane as I realized I was a swine, my reward for being a faggot.
    Whether or not the writing is good, it scares me to remember how I felt back in my teens, trapped in a closet with hate surrounding me
    like so much sharks waiting to devour me. It scares me to think that others, young and impressionable teens are filled with such images
    every time they walk inside a church. I have not fought for gay rights, nor have I stood up for those doing so. I told myself that I did
    not care about marriage, so why fight for it, I told myself that I am tough enough to hear the word faggot and not become angered. I
    conditioned myself to use the word faggot, claiming humor as the reason I told "gay" jokes.
    For years I have fought being gay, for years I have acted straight, so much so that people wonder if I only say I'm gay for effect. I use
    to claim that I was helping the "straights" accept gays by acting like them, showing them I was "normal". Maybe in a way I was helping
    along the ideas that its a disease that can be cured. My god, what have I done?
    I think its time to be different, show them that I'm willing to fight for all basic rights. If we spend even a tenth of time on fighting for gay
    rights as we do fighting for the next piece of ass, what a difference we might be able to make. Chilling thoughts from me tonight.
    Jason R.
  22. Jason Rimbaud
    7 Things I Hate Today!
    I know hate is a strong word and should never be used lightly. But if there is anything that would justify a universal feeling of hate, I think the following list will suffice. So without further digressions, rants, or any other silly hijacking comments, I give you the seven things I hate for today.
    Number 7: Every few days I receive an Email from ATT INTERNET service. They give me a list of reasons why I should switch my INTERNET service and they also offer discount prices. Today I read an email where, if I sign up for a year of service, I could get DSL access for $14.00 a month. Oh yeah, I forgot to mention this part. I already have ATT Internet access, they sent me the fucking email at my ATT Email address that they fucking gave me when I signed my contract locking me in at a set price for a fucking year. Oh yeah, I fucking hate that.
    Number 6: Old people coming to restaurants. I don't want to hear about the good old days when coffee was a nickel and you had unlimited refills. At my fucking restaurant, coffee is $4.00 a cup. And if you want another one, that will be another fucking $4.00 dollars. That's what by the cup means. Oh, and one more thing, it's never a good idea to order only one entr?e with the intention of "sharing because you don't really eat that much anymore". We all know it's bullshit, you're just cheap. And if you weren't cheap, then you would leave more than a ten percent tip. Remember, a server lives on tips, and if you stay sitting at that table for three hours because you and the old lady have no where else to go, then don't be surprised if you find something floating in your $4.00 cup of coffee.
    Number 5: Anyone, and I mean any-fucking-one, who believes that a one-year-old is a welcomed addition to a night out at a restaurant who charges sixty-dollars a plate. And don't even think about asking why we don't serve a children's menu. If you have to bring your smelly offspring with you everywhere you go because you don't want to pay for a babysitter, then take your fucking family to Denny's. Don't bring your ill behaved monsters to a hip upscale restaurant, the servers don't want you there, and I can bet the couple sitting next to you trying to celebrate their tenth wedding anniversary don't want you there either. So fucking stop it. If your kid doesn't have hair on it's "no-no-parts", then stay the fuck at home.
    Number 4: People who arrive 5 minutes before a restaurant closes for the night, wearing smiles and exclaiming loudly that you're just so damn happy that you made it before we close. Why? Because you are the type of person that will order two waters, and share a single entr?e, that you will not eat for two hours because you're busy making-out in the booth in the corner. Not only are you keeping the server from going home, but you're making them wait for ten-percent of a thirty dollar check. And even if you add in an extra ten percent and give them six whole dollars, don't be surprised if they leave the money on the table. Because the idea of having to stay at work two hours after the restaurant is closed because you want to make out in the corner booth is not worth the six dollars. If you are the type of person that does this, then you are a bastard and I hate you. I fucking hate you.
    Number 3: Commercials spouting anti-smoking propaganda. Let's face it, there is not a single person living on the planet in the year 2007 that doesn't know that smoking isn't the best idea. And I get it, you hate smoking. Get over it. Do we really need to spend hundreds of millions of dollars on really stupid commercials trying to stop people from smoking? Why don't we take that money and spend it on more important things, I don't know, how about universal health-care? How about offering classes on the long lost art of minding your own fucking business? I want to take that guy from that commercial and lock him in a room where hundreds of people blow cigarette smoke in his face for three days. Then, and only then, can he have a reason for making those stupid fucking Truth ads.
    Number 2: Commercials heralding the latest advancement in prescription drugs. It started out harmless enough, remember Antonio Banderas as the cute little bee flying lazily about telling us too take this new pill for our nasal allergies. And I could even understand the ads dealing with sleeping disorders. But now every few minutes I see commercials advocating erectile dysfunction pills and anti-depression tablets with side affects that are decidedly worse then the aliment they claim to cure. Think about it, I've got this granite hard cock but I can't seem to stop my ass from leaking. Hmm, flaccid cock or shit spewing from my ass, I wonder what I would choose? And doctors need to stop inventing diseases to justify their new miracle pill. Who the fuck ever heard of restless leg syndrome? I didn't, I didn't know it was a syndrome. When my legs hurt when I was in bed, I got up and drank a glass of water. Problem fixed. But that's not good enough anymore, now we need a fucking pill. What the fuck, it seems like they have a pill for everything now-a-days.
    Which leads me right into
    Number 1: Commercials telling us NOT to do drugs. Well, it should be, commercials telling us not to do drugs that aren't controlled by the Federal Government. Have you seen these anti-pot ads? In one, a girl is sitting in the kitchen, go figure, eating, and the family dog comes in and sits on a kitchen stool and asks her to stop smoking pot. I wasn't even smoking pot when I saw that commercial and all it did was make me wonder if my dog would start talking to me if I smoked up. How fucking cool would that be? Can you imagine what the family pet would have to say?
    I don't want to start bitching about those of you that are currently taking pills that are saving or prolonging your life, but I'm not sure if I want to take a handful of pills that actually have a higher risk of hurting me than helping. And what about those pills that after you take them, you fucking die. Is that side effect warning on the bottle?
    Shouldn't we be wary of any drug that is invented for the sole purpose of generating money? If we are so advanced that we now have to start inventing diseases to cure, why are people still dying from cancer? Why can't we cure AIDS? And don't get me started why we have dozens of pills to get a boner but still can't come up with a better solution to fight the flu then by injecting flu in the form of shots. Hmm, I get a shot to ward off the flu, and the shot gives me the flu. That is a brilliant scheme if I ever heard of one.
    For a society that spends so much money on anti-drug campaigns, we are quickly becoming perpetually medicated and all with the Federal Governments approval. And I don't care what anyone says, having a full-on-robot-chubby due to severe rigor mortis stemming from complications caused by my erectile dysfunction medication isn't really a miracle cure by any means. You have to be at least breathing to enjoy fucking. Though being dead is a viable alternative when faced with anal leakage. But of course, that's just me.
    Jason R.
  23. 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.
  24. 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
  25. Jason Rimbaud
    Moonlight Will Prevail
    Part Three
    By Jason R.
    Who can explain the first time a male masturbates? Who can describe the feeling of ecstasy one gets at the slightest touch on the male penis? I know I could never describe it but the feeling has never been as strong since that first time lying naked in bed. Not even after my many sexual encounters and my desire to learn new things, I have never felt that feeling again. I guess in a way, I?m still searching for that level of awakening. In a weird way, it?s the reason I?m writing this now. But I?ll get into that soon enough.
    For a few minutes or maybe hours, I would rub one finger against my ?evil thing?, reveling in the feelings I received. And just as every boy learns eventually, I began using more fingers and in no time I had begun a gliding motion up and down. No one teaches a boy how to masturbate, that?s obvious in the many different techniques I have observed in the various partners I?ve had over the years. But the gist of it, the end result, is always the same.
    As I played with my ?evil thing?, I began to notice each time my finger brushed against this one certain spot, right below the head, a shiver would shoot down my back. I don?t have to say this but I will, I enjoyed this immensely. So naturally I began to focus all my attention on that one area. It wasn?t long before I had wrapped my entire fist around my ?evil thing? and slowly began to develop the technique I would use for the rest of my life.
    That first orgasm didn?t take me long to achieve. I remember letting a groan escape my lips and my entire body convulsing as the release raptured my being, spilling out my seed on my heaving stomach. (I remember disregarding the seed on my stomach. I knew what it was, by that age I knew where babies came from and how they were made.) I?m amazed by what my parents considered good teachings and what they considered bad teachings.
    My breath came in gasps, and I realized I was still quite hot. I had sweat above my upper lip and my hair was damp from the exertion of my hand. But I felt satisfied. And in a weird way, I had taken the first steps towards my awakening free will. Steps that would set the tone for the rest of my life.
    Can I really place this much awakening on a single orgasm? At that time, I learned there was something other than religion that could give you satisfaction. I know it?s satisfaction in two distinct different ways, but it was satisfaction none the less.
    My parents had told me that my ?evil thing? was the downfall of humanity and that nothing good would ever come from it until I was safely married. That was the day I first found out they had lied to me. A lot had come from my ?evil thing?, and for the first time in my life, I begun to question what they had taught me.
    I?m not saying that next day I didn?t feel guilty about what I had done. But I didn?t tell my father either. That was my first experience that I had kept from my father. And though there has been many since that night, masturbating was the first thing I kept from my parents. (so dad, in a way you were right, my ?evil thing? really was the reason I stopped believing in your god, but only in a way)
    The next morning, over breakfast, I was petrified that my father would know I had played with my ?evil thing?. He had drilled into my head that god saw and knew everything we did on earth. And I was expecting to hear that god told my father about what I had done the night before and that I would be burning in hell forever for making god cry. And yet, all through breakfast, my father sat there telling jokes as he enjoyed his morning coffee, laughing with my mother like he didn?t have a care in the world.
    And then my overactive imagination took over. I began to believe that my father was making me suffer, and that he would yell at me after my conscience had wrecked havoc on my tortured psyche. It was the longest day of my life. All day I was jittery and nervous. I just knew my father was hiding behind every corner, ready to jump out at any moment and accuse me of my sinful act. But it never happened.
    After that long horrifying day, I swore I would never do it again. I had learned my lesson. I even went as far as to wear pants to bed with a belt tightly fastened to make sure I could never touch my ?evil thing? again, not even in my sleep. I must have sweated buckets in those following few days after I touched myself. My mother kept asking me why my sheets were so wet every morning. (try explaining the rational behind that freakish behavior to your mother) My father actually spanked me on the third day after I touched myself because he thought I must have wetted the bed during the night my sheets were so soaked. Couldn?t he understand I was trying to stop my ?evil thing? from sending me to hell?
    But after a few days with ?nothing? bad happening, I began to calm down. I thought I must?ve gotten away with it and I felt as long as I never did it again, that god would forgive me and let it slide just this once. He was supposedly a loving and forgiving god, right?
    But then church night came and once again, I was petrified out of my mind. At that age, it was the first time in my short life I really didn?t want to go to church. I had convinced myself that god had told the minister about what I horrible sinner I was and he would stand up in front of the congregation and explain how I touched my ?evil thing? until my seed came out. (I know I was a bit strange, but I had every right to be strange, I had a strange childhood, what?s your excuse?)

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