Birthday 24: Things I Am Good At

Stories

By far, the most unenthusiastic I have ever acted towards a birthday. What a dumpster truck I am acting like.
Dad was looking forward all week to the dinner reservations he made at a restaurant in Buffalo for my big day of. And I respond with such an unappreciative tone.
I mean, I look forward to it. Who doesn’t appreciate a free dinner dedicated to the day of you? I just feel so worthless on the actual day, though. My excuse: I want to celebrate something I can feel I deserve to be rewarded with. Ugh, I really don’t want to jumble you with an over abundance of hipster jumble BUT what’s the point of celebrating a day that was supposed to be for the purpose of you when even you can’t appreciate you?
I am 24. I am not sad and I am not using depression as an excuse. But I do feel worthless. I attended college like I was told to and still have nothing to show for it. I don’t have that satisfying job I assumed I would get right away. I know I have the potential but I AM JUST NOT HAPPY WITH ME RIGHT NOW.
Happy birthday to me but I would be a lot more satisfied on a day of ultimate celebracy. My first project published. My first dream goal crossed off. Hell, my first child born. THAT is a day you should take me out and buy me everything.
I feel having a day dedicated to appreciating any of that is only limiting what you are capable of. No? Maybe not.
It’s depressing. Getting to your own personal Christmas and you’re ashamed the day has come.
Because on my birthday, what am I thinking of? I am thinking of the year I just experienced and what I have to show for everything I have done up to this point.
There is bound to be one item mentioned that does not please you. Mine, I have multiple mentions.
And at age 24, I JUST WANT TO GET A FUCKING MOVE ON!
What am I waiting for? Seriously, why am I still fighting for the low list of jobs? Why don’t I have a lot more appreciation now that I feel I should have?
Why am I letting all of that effect my mood?

So I am sorry for feeling sorry for myself. So I thought I would make up a list of things I am good at. For my readers, to be seen as self gloating. To me, I appreciate that I made the effort to construct this list.

THINGS I AM GOOD AT:
– improv puns
– pouring pints
– advice giving
– finding the humor in situations
– watching football
– conversation on first dates
– constructing mixtapes for people
– usually always late for everything
– driving
– handstands
– forgetting names
– entertaining when the time calls for it
– pleasing waiters and waitresses
– tipping
– balancing a tray of glasses with one hand
– using my creative intellect to improve everything ever
– making lists

That is a shortly-thought out list of skills I should be appreciative of. Ok maybe not be forgetting names or the always being late.
But I think I forget too often why exactly I am great.
We might all do that.
And maybe we should all the take the time to feel sorry for ourselves and write these lists.
Because if we don’t say it, we may not the the privilege of someone else pointing it out.
And I am ultimately scared that we may live to never see the good in ourselves.

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I Love You, Parking Garage Woman

Stories
Alan’s ideal woman had similar characteristics to Sailor Jupiter. Some would say the two were almost a perfect match. Some would say Alan’s ideal woman was Sailor Jupiter.
Tall, long brown hair, big green eyes, rose earrings.
Alan obviously couldn’t go around and ask his friends to set him up with Sailor Jupiter. He realized somewhere after his recent twentieth birthday that he would have to accept that this specially requested fantasy woman would have to come to him (if she was really out there).
Not the least bit feminine and physically overpowers bullies.
Up to then, he had never ran into or ever come to any association of meeting this woman.
But then there was this one time.
 
—-
Finding a consistent job is hard enough, never mind building the energy to stand on your feet all day. Lucky that the local indoor water park was hiring burg cooks. Just when luck almost runs out, it’s funny how life can suddenly become so… slippery?
The parking garage underneath the water park was a spirally hell to drive through. Alan had the employee parking space all the way on the seventh floor. It would take as long to get to the top floor as it did to actually drive there from his house.
 
The parking garage is where he would always see his Sailor Jupiter. Their schedules were such opposites. She would be leaving every time he would be arriving. He didn’t even know what floor she worked on. Or what her job even was.
All he knew was that she looked fiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiine.
 
She kept her bright yellow Sunfire as a sidekick charm. It looked great on her.
And she looked even cooler with her large shmancy bug eye glasses that covered half of her face.
She never smiled at him as they drove by. Maybe she was focused on always looking intimidating.
 
The more times Alan would drive by her, he would become more and more comfortable to make a motion to greeting her.
 
She never seemed to make the effort to acknowledge him. She was usually just leaving from a shift, so maybe she was too distracted in her freedom.
 
She probably didn’t have a clue Alan existed, he would consider.
And then they finally met but under the worst conditions.
 
 
Alan got miserably comfortable flipping burgers at the water park. It took him a good effort of a forty five minutes to drive to his job.
One day Alan waited ten minutes before his start time to leave his house. Weed and procrastination will do that to anybody. Besides, he HAD to see the winner of the Showcase Showdown.
 
He sped his Toyota Corolla faster then the locomotive was capable of handling. Hub caps were to be ignored, road laws were to go unacknowledged, jerkhole driving was to be encouraged.
 
As soon as he entered that parking garage, no consideration for what lie around that blind corner was given.
And that was exactly the moment when he crashed front bumper with his Sailor Jupiter.
The first thought he had when he heard that blundering contact was what would be the first thing he would say to her.
And then it struck his thought processes, “This is my chance to make my move”.
Sailor Jupiter whipped out of her door with a can of whoop ass kicking in her back pocket, prepared for opening.
“What the fuck, nerd?” she thundered out at him, storming around to the front of the car to inspect the damage.
Alan didn’t know what he deserved to have the nerd title shouted at him. Maybe it was the green Power Ranger action figure hanging from his rear-view mirror.
“S-sorry about that” Alan stuttered.
She squatted her legs and shook her hands in the air, “What am I going to do!”
Alan stretched his upper torso out his door but was scared to approach her. So he leaned his left arm on the top of the driver’s door.
“What’s your name?” Alan suavely imitated all those cool jazzy movies from the 50’s. He wished he was wearing a fedora.
She remained focused on the scratch and obvious dent that laid on her hood.
“My yellow honey”, she consoled with her car. She mournfully leaned over the hood and made the motion of hugging it. She didn’t hug it long, seeing as it was just running and probably a bit hot.
 Alan needed to act fast because she was being distracted. He had to say something that would get her attention.
“Maybe I could make it up to you.. tonight?”, Alan laid out the date invitation like the futon in his mother’s basement.
She immediately snapped her attention back on Alan. She took many fast steps toward him and sprawled out her finger nails like claws ready to attack.
“Listen her you little ass jacket,” she began on him with the uniquest choice of name calling “You’re going to pay for that scratch.”
Alan’s offer sure did do the job of getting her attention.
“Oh, oh of course I will” Alan tried to recover his conversation control footing. “Maybe I could take you out for dinner while I’m at it?”
Sailor Jupiter violently shoved Alan, forcing him backwards and losing his door lean.
 “You fucking fuck!” she screams, while storming back to her car. Her high heels clicking louder as she steps further away.
 
Alan was devastated. He didn’t know where his invitations had gone wrong. As soon as the crash happened, he instantly fantasized of how excellent he would handle the situation and how much he would impress her. His heart sank and his stomach instantly emptied. Allen went with the desperateness felt in his stomach and did the first thing that came to mind.
Alan threw his hands up in the air and screamed to the top of his lungs, “I LOVE YOU, SAILOR JUPITERRRRRRR!!”
Sailor Jupiter aggressively put her yellow Sunfire into ‘Drive’ and ran straight into Alan’s Corolla. She reversed quickly and peels back around the corner. Her car’s screeches echo throughout the parking garage like a rhythmic beat to the sinking of Alan’s heart.
That was the worst day of work Alan had ever had. Alan requested a schedule change instantly. A methodical way of avoiding the iron while it was still hot.
 
Weeks went and though Alan hated night shifts, had avoided driving into Sailor Jupiter. Alan was heartbroken but was satisfied with how he was handling it.
Then one morning while waiting for a red light on a busy four-way, he drives up beside a yellow Sunfire with his Sailor Jupiter in the driver’s seat. He awkwardly stops symmetrically beside her.
Sailor Jupiter turns her head and studies Alan’s face.
Just when Alan thought she was about to roll down her window and throw some more f-bombs his way, she surprises him one more time. Sailor Jupiter’s face grows familiar and throws Alan the first smile he had ever seen on her.
Alan darts his head forward and ignores her notion. It threw him off too much.
Then from the corner of his eyes, he spots the grungiest pair of women Alan had ever seen.
By grungy, their jeans were ripped, their haircuts were wildly uneven and their face was caked with metal and black paint. Alan had never said a word to characters of their type.
In their hands held a sign that simply read “The Big City” (in Canada).
That would be Toronto. Alan in the instantaneous moment of three seconds makes an entire motion picture in his head.
He imagines lights and endless amounts of attention. He imagines a new, unpredictable life outside of his mother’s basement. He imagines a life where he sold his Corolla for money and never experiences a ride through a parking garage again. He imagines a life with a real Sailor Jupiter, the one that can appreciate him for who he is. And how he drives.
 
Then the light turned green and the cars in front of him slowly starting moving forward.
He had a choice to make.
Pick up those bad haircutted hippies and ditch the water park.
Or wave back to Sailor Jupiter.
 
The water park would be pretty mad, was a thought that crossed Alan’s brain. So he continued with the traffic and drove forward.
 
He noticed to his left, Jupiter’s yellow Sunfire slowed down as she was focusing on reaching for something in her purse. This left a large gap in front of her Sunfire and a big open lane spot that shouted “Opportunity” to Alan.
 
Alan proved everyone wrong that tried to make him a stereotype. By making one unpredictable action that he would never do and/ or do again.
Alan swerves his car left and speeds in front of the yellow Sunfire.
This got Jupiter’s attention and forced her to slam on her car’s brakes.
Alan disobeyed all of the driving rules by cutting off every single car in every single lane.
He drove his car over the street corner curb and the Hippie Chicks got inside.
 
And Alan drove towards The Big City (In Canada) on a quarter tank of gas and seven bucks in change in his car’s cupholder.

The First Stage Of Love

Stories
This was the first day I was going to meet Alice. Yeah, I met her on a dating website. My last breakup was an absolute disaster and left me feeling as hopeless as… ugh. So obviously when I thought my connections to meeting someone new were killed, I put my real name up on one of those Match Fish sites.
And then Alice messaged me. Demeaning my manliness for a girl to message me first, but honestly I did not see her profile. It was like she purposely hid so she could strike guys out of nowhere and press even harder with her hot iron (for whatever that means).
After chatting and matching everything in common, I set a date.
I met Alice on a cool Wednesday night in March. The wind was chilly but the air was a lot hotter for that time of the season. You could wear shorts and shiver occasionally only when the gust blew in your direction.
Walking speedily down St. Paul Street, she galloped towards me. Her enthusiasm to meeting someone for the first time taking me by surprise.
She wore a beautifully colored summer dress with a jean jacket over top and… running shoes?
Maybe she was working on a new fashion. Or maybe she was one of those isolato types. Either or, she had my attention.
We talked for what seemed like years. Everything was in common and every topic was covered. Our families, our friends, our recent experiences with school, just how much we hated high school, our views on religion and just when the transition was suave enough, our past love experiences.
I knew this girl was special and the way she looked only had me motivated to do something special for her.
Probably a mistake on my part and the fact that I wasn’t very good at being funny on stage should have refrained me from asking.
“Want to go to a comedy show?” I asked her after our third pint.
“Where? Who’s playing?” she was caught off-guard just as I had planned.
“Me” I purposely looked away from her.
She had no choice but to be impressed and asked my permission to bring a friend with her who was conveniently in the area.
Daphne was as gorgeous as Alice and made for quite the good wingman to try and impress. That and she had an infectious laugh that only made everyone else in the bar laugh along with.
Yeah, my set wasn’t very good and untimely planned. But it was cute. The fact that Alice probably did not expect my show-off-ness probably helped my starter points.
Daphne even drunkenly fell in love with the comedy host. Which was as well untimely planned, as her boyfriend just proposed to her the night before. Don’t tell him that, though.
On the fortunate side, Alice right away met some of my good friends. Charlie my comedian accomplice and Barry my talented musician friend who was also excited to be at his first comedy show. They had driven me to the date and given me my space to work my first date magic. Like friends.
After confessing to my embarrassment and Alice repetitively assuring me that my set was funny, we took in many pints of beer. Tiny girl who tried to keep up with me on her beer. Unlikely but impressively attractive.
10 p.m. the comedy show ended but the misfit gang was not done for their Wednesday night.
We walked down the Mansion House where Funk Night still energetically existed (rest in peace). The covers of everything we knew and the dance moves that impressed all. Alice was a great dancer and a well-matched partner.
Shit, it was March and the week before was cold so I thought it would be appropriate to wear wool socks as I usually do when it’s cold out. I did not expect the air to be so warm. Aaaaand I bought new shoes that morning. My fear that a really odd mix of smells caused my dancing sweat would be detected. How long could I pull off a “it wasn’t me”?
Charlie and Barry found some girls of their own so I was happy that they could be occupied while my drunken love was blatantly floating in Alice’s direction.
Then around the midnight hour, she had to leave.
“I would love to stay with you longer but I have to work early in the morning” was her understandable reasoning.
So like a gentleman, I walked her home. I ran back to Charlie and Barry to assure them that I would be back and that I would still need that ride home. I did ride with them there so that wasn’t an unreasonable request.
Through the park late at night, she could have felt vulnerable. But just as her dating website had ordered, she had me. I kept my arm around her and she was wooed by the unbearable romance.
The first kiss came amazingly. I couldn’t  have delivered on better timing.
And probably that second, we were rolling around the grass and staining our clothing. We were more focused on how great of heat-of-the-moment maker-outters we were.
I was on top of her then we would decourously barrel roll so she was on top of me. She was a great kisser but she also had a greatly matched dancing partner.
And then with a howling laugh of hilarity, we looked in our eyes and expressed how grateful we were to meet each other.
Drunk off how simple it was to relate to a beautiful stranger, I ran as fast as I could back to the bar.
I get to the Mansion House and the crowd that was there before was cut in half. That included Charlie and Barry. Great, where had my ride gone?
A quick investigational phone call concluded that they followed their penises and went home with the girls. Like friends.
What was I to do now? It was too late for buses. I was too broke for cabs. So I called Alice.
“Hey, I am sooo sorry. My friends took off on me and I don’t have a ride home. What should I do?” I explained in desperation.
“You can come sleep here” her response couldn’t have been more perfect.
Just when I thought that rolling in the park making out wouldn’t continue as soon as I wanted it to, it did.
She took me to her house and let me sleep in her single bed.
We laughed at how irrational our behavior was for two people that had just met. We talked more, drank milk like healthy consented adults and she respectively refused to sleep with me.
I loved that.
I explained to her about my wool socks, the unexpected weather and my impulse that early morning to buy new shoes. I apologized for my smelly feet. She gave me a pair of her pink socks to wear.
I loved that, too.
The next morning, we called in to work sick… together. She took me to an odd thrift shop I had never been to before and I bought such a cool Velvet Underground t-shirt.
I couldn’t ask for a better first meeting.
We were the perfect strangers together.
(Ouch, sorry for the cliche bomb there).
~ We all recognize that the first steps of dating someone are always the most exciting. Getting to know somebody you find so fascinating, disregarding any flaws or just not knowing about them. Everything is new, everything is fresh. Characteristics are revealed that you never thought existed inside of you. We all have at least a small bit of hopeless romantic in us. This is my effort of bringing these stories together and expressing just how magical first impression love can be between two people.

Girlfriend For A Week

Stories

Ben didn’t have much going on this week.
No job to tend to because he lost that last week.
No fancy social appointments. No special meals scheduled. No love to plan a date.
Not even the pet rabbit was around because the ex had this week’s shift.
All he had was this damn Volvo wagon (something’s rattling in the front tire).

Maybe he would watch some television, though.

Mondays are empty. Though Ben did search for some jobs online, ate a kielbasa sandwich and wrote a really catchy song on his ukulele that you would totally dig.
He was supposed to take the car to get the rattling checked out but he didn’t really have the money for the gas to get there. Nor did he have anything to pay the car guy.
So he watched the first two Rambos instead. Ben fell asleep at some part where Rambo was running in the jungle.
That was an odd dream about his grandmother at the public pool, though.

Tuesdays usually pick up a bit faster, only if Ben actually made plans to be eventful.
“Everybody has a slow Tuesday,” a wise man once told him.
He watched his morning Price Is Right (which he NEVER got to watch before with his pesky job), ate a delicious bacon wrap and practiced his golf swing on the front lawn.
His mother then told him to get a job and move out of her basement.

That night, Ben had a terrible sleep. Fidgeting and twitching regularly, coated in a body tan of sleep sweat and shaking so hard it awoke him at four in the morning.
He downed a shot of Baileys accompanied by a warm glass of milk and went back to lay in his thoughts.

“Hey, it’s Leslie”, read an unexpected text message. Ben looked at his phone, puzzled.
Leslie Who? That bartender from Chilly’s? It was all coming to him now.

He remembered going to Chilly’s the weekend before with his best friend, Roger. Ben met a cheerful, full of life pretty young thing by the name of Leslie Disher. She was an energetic bartender with a hard-not-to-stare movement accompanied by an even more addicting smile.
“The Dish!” Ben would nickname her never to her face.

Leslie already knew Roger which made an easy introduction for Ben.
Though Roger was in no spirit for infatuation. Roger was bummed. Like all of us can fall in the habit of doing, Roger just left from a relationship with the devil. Now all he had to talk about was how much of a headache she had given him and how he was grateful that she was (hopefully) out of his life. Leslie was cousins with this said devil woman and apparently shared a close relationship, which did not make for a good description from Roger. But their relation wasn’t developed from the same womb so Leslie couldn’t have been as crazy as Roger described her cousin, right?

Ben drank a bit much that night but not with his unemployed wage.
“What do you mean fifty dollar bar tab?”, Roger exclaimed.

Ben even gave Leslie a business card before he left, though. Now she had his number… score.

Ahhhh yes, that Leslie.

Ben looked at the clock to have it shout 5 o’clock back at him. A little late to still be up but bar hours could do that to you. Maybe she worked tonight and still had the bar sprint jitters. Ben impulsively had to jump on an invitation to see her.

He ran to his Volvo wagon on to pick her up. Leslie was hammeredly intoxicated when he arrived. She explained that she did not work that night so her excuse for being up so late was a party abundance at a friend’s birthday party. She was a champion drinker and Ben had no choice but to respect that.
Leslie explained that her roommate was obviously still sleeping and she considerably did not want to hooligan the house and wake him up.
So Ben drove them to a dead end road and sketchily parked in front of a neighborhood of houses, where the two of them smoked jazz cigarettes, drank blues pops and talked storms away. They shared a friendly collection of eye contact and maniacal laughing to the ridiculous ideas they had in common for their morning breakfast. He had to drive her back to the house so she could pick up more beers, too. Just for them to drive back five minutes later and park in the same spot to sit there and do the same things they were just doing. Any people looking from their house were undoubtedly concerned.
Leslie even played Ben a song by Phoenix he had surprisingly never heard before. So she’s into good music… score.

Leslie took Ben back to her house at 8 a.m. when the roommate had left for his job. Leslie’s story about the house she lived in didn’t really make sense to Ben and this only intrigued his suspicion.
She lived in a nice house in a quiet town. A welcoming sitting room, tidy kitchen, and a beautiful den with large televisions. They even shared a dog. The only room she didn’t show Ben was the bedrooms. He made some jokes about her being secretly married. She told him that her roommate and her were best friends since grade school and he was engaged to another girl, leaving Leslie single… score.
9 a.m. of more unsober conversation had triggered tiredness. Ben offered to bring her some b&e (bacon & eggs) after she had napped and she joyously accepted. Ben politely found his way out and drove home. He didn’t think to make a move to kiss her. These were still the beginning stages of admiring somebody. In his beatdown car or in her house while her hyper dog was present wasn’t the most convenient of opportunities, anyways. And she was hammered.

Wednesdays are always an optimistic day. Ben was full of life and still high on the experience of being high and drunk at early morning hours. He just had to tell everyone about his morning.
Yes that hot bartender from Chilly’s, The Dish!
He got a phone call saying that he had a job interview in an hour and they were wondering if he was still coming in. Ben saw it was noon and seeing that he was up four hours ago getting intoxicated, he politely rescheduled for next week and took a nap.

When he awoke, he was greeted by a series of cheerful messages. Like a couple still high on their first month of dating and not yet finding reasons to hating one another. She was funny and filled with jokes for someone who was up all night drinking. She also forgot her wallet in Ben’s car and asked him to bring it to her work that night.
“I’ll buy you a drink”, she bargained with him.
Ben distinctively remembered her strapping her purse around her chest when she left his car. Ben could not understand why her purse and wallet would be separated. The most realistic answer would be to blame it on her state of drunk.
Or maybe it was all part of Leslie’s plan to see him again? Ben fantasized to think so.
Ben and Roger went for a drink to Chilly’s, where Ben personally delivered Leslie’s wallet (which had her banana lighter in it which she also forgot).
She was friendly to see him but not as conversational as she was that morning. Work can kill a buzz like that, probably. Ben drank his bev, gracefully wished her a good rest of night and ordered to message her later.
He then went home and fell in love with her Facebook pictures.

Thursdays always look to have high hopes.
He wakes up to text Leslie a good morning but doesn’t get a response until three hours later. They arrange to go get lunch.
Ben drives her to a little dive with a great menu selection. She smokes him a joint on the way there, insists on paying for his hamburger and encourages a second on the beer. This girl was delightful.
She then had the nerve to challenge him to a game of pool. Leslie won the first but Ben got his revenge… though she sank the 8 ball. It was time for her to start her bar shift, so he accompanied her with a round of coffees and adieued her in gentleman fashion.

He felt the need to continuously text her through her shifts. Saying encouraging comments like “you look great today” and “keep up the good work”. She asked him questions as to what the name of the place they earlier ate was called, which meant she must have been telling others about their date. Ben took that as a good sign, too.
He then had a dream about swimming cows in an above-ground pool.
She tried calling him at 5 a.m. again but he was distracted with cattle in swimwear.

Fridays are the best day of the week. Everything is cheerful and society is full of compliments. Leslie doesn’t answer his morning text until 3:30 p.m. It was the kind of day for a barbecue so he hand-rolled a bundle of deliciousness in a meatball, grilled it up and delivered it to her.
The two sat in her kitchen, as Ben makes an effort to give the dog attention. The dog just probably wants to bite his arm off. She held a glitter in her eyes at the burger gesture, as she quickly ate the plate. He ate his already so spent the time making sarcastic comments about how nice it was to watch her eat.
She bought him rounds at a holey bar Ben never thought he saw himself going to. It reminded him of a B Network sitcom.
There was a Spanish man getting himself drunk in the far, dark corner. He was speaking in Spanish but with his phone closed in his hand and no bluetooth in his ear. He confronted Leslie and Ben for what he addressed as a couple and wished many good lucks to. He entitled the two as “very attractive people”, most accordingly to the fine looking lady.
He insisted on buying a round and the couple gulped their liquor cups quickly. They hurried out of the hole, as the bartender greeted them a goodbye. More importantly giving Ben a stiff handshake with an attentive eye contact and saying “take care of her”.
What was she telling everyone?

She had some time to kill before work so they threw around the football in the park. Then ran down the street to indeed another sketchy bar, Wrapper’s and played shuffleboard.
They were adventuring now… score.
Despite her again calling him at 5a.m. asking for a ride from work, he was nothing but excited for what could be a new relationship.
He drove her home, smoke a J and smilingly wished her a good night. He didn’t need to kiss her because they already felt like they had something between the two of them.
He couldn’t wait to see what more surprises she had to show him.

Saturdays are meant to be special.
Leslie made it clear that she was excitedly awaiting her day-off. She invited him over later that night to drink with her roomates (now added was yet another guy into this mysterious party house).
She revealed to him a rather curious message earlier in the day. Leslie explained to Ben that her roommate that was engaged to get married was scheduled to get married on this day… though they canceled the arrangements a month ago.
She explained that that’s why she didn’t bring Ben around the house because she wanted to avoid any weird vibes and maybe didn’t think flaunting a boy around would be appropriate around this dire time.
So was he to take that in high hopes? Or was he to see it as avoidance?

Her roommates Todd and Chest were ok guys. They liked their dance music. They also had quite the whiteboy dance moves at the hips. They thought LMFAO was a good band.

Ben was patient. He smiled at the sight of Leslie getting in party mode and had nothing but good intentions that he was going to make his point clear with her. If everyone was all mourning a sad day, then he would take everyone out to gallivant in society where the guys would PartyRockClub with new creatures and he could distract Leslie with his independent charm and entertainment value.
So they hopped in the car and drove on over to the Parliament, not necessarily a place Ben was fond of but was one that everyone else was familiar with. Despite Ben personally making an oath to not go there for a year, he gave in to see Leslie happy.
Ben was not in the soberest of states to be driving but was in the best shape out of the rest of the gang. Stupidly, Ben sped through a yellow traffic light and by the time he was halfway through, it appeared he blew a red light. Well, he was halfway there. Ben was embarrassed but nobody in the car seemed to make a fuss about it so Ben stupidly apologized and they went on as if nothing happened.

When Ben got to the bar, all his old friends were there and Ben couldn’t be more ecstatic about it. Finally, where Leslie was taking him to all her places of comfort and popular society, he was in a zone where he could be seen as the famous one.
But Leslie didn’t seem to move much. She stayed hidden away in the corner with her two roommates who were slumming in their seats and not showing many signs of liveliness. While Ben was slapping hands and catching up on friends, Leslie was playing pool and staying quiet.
And then Roger walked in with a new main squeeze. Definitely not something Ben and Roger had planned out and not something Leslie took kindly.
She didn’t make an effort to say anything to Ben but did confront Roger with a comment of “you’re an asshole” and darted for the door as Ben turned his head.
It seemed that one minute Leslie was still working on her first drink, then the next she was out the door.
Ben ran after her.
“Where are you going?” he asked confusingly.
“I need to go” she repetitively insisted.
“But I don’t understand. I don’t even like this place but I came here so I could be with you… and now you’re leaving?” he just explained the obviously currently occurring.
“My friends are really freaked out that you blew that red light” she quickly blurted out. “I had some friends that just recently got in a bad car crash and we just don’t want anything to happen”.
It was an excuse that she seemed to have held in for years and delivered it so suddenly. It was the least thing Ben had seen coming or even considered. Maybe she was right.
He let her leave and she was quick to jump in a taxi and take off with her mute roommates. Ben no longer had a reason to be in his least favorite of bars.
Ben got home and went straight to sleep, desperately not concentrating on his smorgasbord of emotions.
While he was sleeping, she texted him a fine layout of excuses.
“If I never talk to you again” it began, “don’t drive like an idiot. Life is too short for anything to happen to you like that. I think you and Roger hang around each other too much. I think you are a great person but you are terrible at reading people. I am such a caring person, why would you ever want to hurt me? Well, have a good life and I still left my car phone charger in your car”.

Sundays are the worst day of the week. 
That message was a scattered scrapbook of mixed excuses. It left with with more questions then answers.
If it really bugged her, why didn’t she just tell him about the car thing instead of randomly choosing to leave? Was she even going to say goodbye if he had not seen her leaving? What did hanging out with Roger have to do with the way she felt about Ben? And what the hell did reading her have to do with anything and how would it change their night?
That morning had persuaded him most by his grumpiness. So he typed her everything on his mind and she had no response.
She didn’t say anything to him back. Ben took it as her expression of disappointment so he left her alone.
Then Roger felt the need to let Ben on every insight he was missing out on.
The reason Roger and his ex-devil-girlfriend had so many problems was based solely on her the crazy collection of emotions she would rush through caused by her addiction to cocaine. Roger had also experienced the contact of only getting attention from early hours of the morning.
“Did you think she was up every five a.m. just because she liked to miss out on sleep?” Roger realistically mapped it out.
Ben felt he could blame most of her behavior on a possible addiction but only was hurt by it as he thought about it more. 

Did she only flower Ben with attention because he was the only one willing to accompany her every late night?
Was her addiction the only influence to her showing affection to Ben?
Were the roommates the influences to her habit? And what if he could take her away from her destructive lifestyle? Could he have changed her?
Ben fantasized to think so.

The week after, she still left him messages but of no subject he cared to read. He didn’t respond back, only to watch another random collection of conversation lay in front of him.
“Hey where are you? Are you done being mad? Oh Ben please come back. I’m going to have a heart attack. I wish I had a bigger rack. Then maybe you’d be back in black. Well if you’re not going to be my friend so can I have my charger back?”

Just when he had thought she was seriously furious, here she was trying to make light of the situation. Not one acknowledgement of concern as to why Ben had stopped talking to her. Not one acknowledgment to her mixed plethora of prior excuses. Not one thank you for being overly polite to her and not the rude, sexual moron her beauty was probably used to.
And what bugged Ben the most, not one apology.
Ben never needed to talk to her again.
He thinks now about how much fun “Leslie and Ben” could have been but also worries about how destructive his life would be now if he had her around.
The idea of being something with her still makes him smile, because it was the fastest growing respect and love for someone he had ever grew.
They could have been great. But she was too ahead of herself to slow down and notice him. And he was too slow to hurry up and kiss her.

Marty Goes Nineteen

Stories

Marty was faced with his biggest responsibility of the year.
He had to raise his intoxication limits to a brand new level as the proper celebration to being the legal age to intake the loony medicine in Canada. Marty was an adult now, a veteran of the real world; nothing was going to stop him now damn it (though vomit certainly might).

Rodeos were no stranger to Marty. It wasn’t the first time gallivanting a bar because every youth needed to experience a fake identification stage. But you had to play it careful at the same time.
This was Marty’s sweet nineteenth birthday. Careful was not in the vocabulary tonight.
This day happened to be a Saturday, too. It was like God conveniently scheduled this day for Marty to eschew sobriety.
And holy hot pants, look at him now!

The day starts with Marty’s dad more-then-willingly restauranting caesars for breakfast at noon. It was the plan to meet up with friends later on but to be guided/chaperoned/babysat throughout the entire day by his best friend, Juice. Though Juice kept the same steady pace of drinking as Marty so he wasn’t necessarily qualified to be the designated responsibilitator.

Eggs, bacon and caesars: delicious.
Then the dad takes the lads to the next pad.
Terry Stu’s turned into Bobby’s Brews which turned into O Beer Where Chug Thou’s which turned into patio drinks at Luke N Puke’s.
Marty was pretty sure he also made his first appearance at the bootlegger’s house next door… but he couldn’t be certain.

It was two in the afternoon and Marty was already feeling wooooooo!

Good on Marty’s dad to encourage such joyous birthday activity. But then again, he knew his son had plans to go out and stay somewhere else that night. So why not load up the son and send him out on his way? He was society’s problem now.

Five o’clock was time to meet his crew.
Marty was still in pretty decent shape, despite that tumble he took falling out of his front door and onto the jeans-ruining concrete.

Juice was recruited as the trusty driver, Crotch as his financial partner who made it seem he was there for his friend’s birthday but was truthfully there for girls, Ben as his downtown veteran who helpfully had a nearby place for these intended-party-goers to stay and his female best friend admiration, Dorrie.

Downtown was as popular as a Saturday night could advertise.
Despite arriving with a populated crew, with each bar he visited he only seemed to have one person with him. Each friend must have knew to take chaperon duty shifts and focus on washing the sobriety away in the off time.

With each different supervisor role welcomed a new social situation.
First to bat was Crotch, where his bar of choice was Tiki Pee’s. Rich bars seemed like probably the best place to start a night of drinking. Have fun with the idea of spending big at first and then result to realistically budgeted places when the time called for it.
The looks of glamorized girls expecting free drinks in this place could populate a continent.
Though apparently “It’s my birthday” wasn’t as obvious of a thing to shout as Marty expected it to be.
Girls all over the world get free shots every day. Why couldn’t they just give in for Marty’s sake this one day?
Crotch got into some argument with a fine-looking lady after he insisted on buying her rounds. Crotch wasn’t known for being the most uncreepy guy around when confronting the opposite sex.
Crotch was blatantly looking to rent a night in a vagina but then once hostility joined the emotion bus, he mentioned to all the available ladies that he was there for his friend’s birthday.
It was probably out of spite but once that fact was brought up, a tray of Jacky Bananies suddenly came into the picture and Marty’s beverage boner erupted.
3 out of 8 shots went to Marty and one of those were specifically requested to not go to Crotch. So no question this same girl had bought a round of shots for everyone but the beatnick trying to pick her up. Awesome.

The next accomplice was good old Juice. Juice was feeling as good as Marty was; it should have been his birthday while they were at it.
Juice took Marty down to the old billiards hall because he stated “you could use some extra cash on your day of celibacy”.
That probably just hinted towards Juice’s cheapness and needed a way out of buying a round. He did drive, so that’s excusable.
Marty did lose twenty bucks on that game, though.

Next up to supervise was the lovely Dorrie. Marty was so happy Dorrie had made it out for his night. He admired her in high school, looked up to her as a best friend but now didn’t frequent her as much as he had wished.
This night was going to make up for that probably, though.

Marty couldn’t stop repeating about how much he wanted to go dancing before the end of the night and Dorrie was high energy enough to fulfill the task so they went to go get their super freak on.
The energy was electric, it was. The floor was covered in shakings of groove things. Marty and Dorrie even danced atop the booming speaker that was tucked away, sitting in the corner of the stage. How it was allowed that Marty could balance on top of a tiny surface in the state he was in was unknown to anybody. Being elevated above the other dancers with his special lady friend made him feel vibes, or maybe it was nothing at all.
Dorrie was feeling from a little bite of the drunken devil herself, too. And she must have not seen Marty dancing towards her.
Next thing they knew, Marty was making an intruding grinding motion and Dorrie felt the need to take a step further away and take a step backwards too far.
Dorrie slipped and fell backwards off the speaker, landing gracefully on the pillow of dancing people. A couple toppling over like dominos.
Marty remained dancing.`

Maybe that had something to do with it. Or maybe it was Marty drunkenly confessing his everlasting love to her that she politely tried to acknowledge that she didn’t hear.
Either or could have killed her night. Marty never really got to hang out with her again and only occassionaly kept in touch.
(Dear Dorrie, Marty’s sorry about that. You were his best friend and he will always admirably respect you)

Marty DID try street meat for the first time in his life that night, though.
Sweet tasting victory.

Crotch and Dorrie were eliminated from their supervision shifts.
The clock was turning towards the last call hour and Marty was stumbingly incapable of making his own decisions (naturally).
So Ben and Juice took care of him. Ben was feeling pretty great, too.
Though Marty hadn’t seen Ben all night, he was with him now and that mattered.
2 a.m. and Ben had the best idea for a birthday present.
The three loaded gentlemen walked into a peculiarly sketchy looking house that had an ‘Open’ sign lit in the front window.

Ben took Marty to a Rub N’ Tug.
But even the ladies at the Tug Rugger had to set their standards and politely decline the boys service and send them on their way.

“Uhh.. we’re closing early” was their faint excuse.

Marty, Ben and Juice walked across the street to 7-11 and bought some taquitos.
Drunkenly spilling their big gulps on their nice shirts and mumbiling, “We’re pieces of shit! We can’t even pay for women!”.

Those were some really good taquitos though, Marty thought.

That was a good nineteenth birthday.
But Marty really didn’t have an excuse to get that drunk again.

Ryan Meets Sandra And Never Sees Her Again

Stories
Ryan works at a breakfast diner next door to the law firm. His early bird hours keep the lookers away, though he has had scored some numbers from work before. Hurtful, snooty lawyers who can drink more of the night away then they can handle.
But never will he date those kind of girls again, he promised himself.
A woman has been frequenting the diner for the past few weeks. He doesn’t know her name but she must work at the building next door. What first caught Ryan’s eye was that she was older in age. That wasn’t much of a competition with twenty-one years of experience under his socks. She likely had him beat by a strong ten years. He simply could never resist the traits of a woman compared to a girl.
She had a charming face, dressed respectable and carried her presence joyfully. She could certainly not fit in a size small but he admired that. She seemed full of cheerfulness and remained hard to persuade. She wreaked of an intriguing personality and intoxicated all with her leather jacket worn over top a summer dress.
Ryan found ways to interact.
Though he worked in the kitchen, he would still see her arrive from the delivery window he was tucked behind. He would deliver the food himself instead of leaving it to the severs. He often commented with something generically pleasant like, “I’m having a great day today, thanks. How ’bout you?”
She would smile and respond with cheerful nicknames like “Hun” and “Sunshine”, separating their age differences probably.
One morning, she came in and wouldn’t remove her sunglasses. When he talked to her, she replied with obvious notions to being hungover and to please not talk any louder then her current volume. What was the most impressive about this was that would mean she was heavily drinking on a Wednesday night. Like a woman.
He remembers one Thursday morning where she shuffled through the front doors and fumblingly scattered herself on the diner counter. Her purse toppling over and spilling out a vulnerable sounding phone to the floor. She grumbled and picked it up, as an applause shouting encouraged from the back of the room. Ryan peaked over to see her humorously embarrassed and waving her hand in a “thank you” motion. The group of young rapscallion construction workers exclaimed a series of “Sandra”s with a single blurt of “she did a keg stand last night”. Party girl.
She stood up off her stool and took a bow. Ryan laughed with her.
He took her for a special name but didn’t see “Sandra” coming. He thanked himself for not being a Jessica or Alysha. One of a kind women need one of a kind names. But Sandra will do fine.
The first conversation they shared was as unpredictable as he could predict. He served her breakfast while asking how her day was going and she answered “Just getting started”. It was only nine in the morning, why does he still always ask everyone that?
Ryan began by telling some story he so routinely does when he has nothing to talk about. This one was something about a potluck party or when he saved a bouquet of kittens from a fire or something. Half way through the story as she’s doing her best to attentively listen, she lets out a lengthy contained belch. She instantly covers her mouth, outrageously laughs at her outburst and formally apologizes. The instantaneousity was irresistible not to laugh out loud.
“Sorry, what were you saying?”, she tries to return to the current topic.
He pauses and is clearly now distracted, “Uh, I don’t know”.
She awkwardly laughs it off and finds something else to talk about, “So what did you do last night?”
“Went out for some pool and beers with buddies”, he lied.
He just stayed home and ate pizza rolls. “You?”
She chuckles to herself and follows it with a groan, “Disaster struck, my friend. A typical foolish display I probably now patented as a case of the Sandras”.
Life for the law must be hard work.
Ryan laughs and feels the need to say, “My name’s Ryan”.
“I know”, she quickly replies and motions towards his name tag.
He shakes his head and pinches his leg nervously. He’s a cook, normally hidden by a stack of heating windows. So why the heck does he have to wear a name tag?
The next thing he asks her, he found to be bold, gutsy and very uncharacteristic of him.
“Wanna go out sometime?”
He would never ask a random out without receiving one hint of mutual attraction, which he was unsure if she gave him or not. His boldness deserved a reward.
However she chose to award him with a blatant laugh to the face. “Are we going to go to your high school semi formal?”
He wasn’t sure if she was insulting the way he asked the question or a stab at their age differences or both.
“No”, is the best thing he could think of . “I was thinking of making you jealous of my air hockey skills” sounded like a cool-guy-invite to him.
“Oh honey”, there she went again. “You’re a babe but I’m afraid if we went out, you wouldn’t have a clue what to do with me”.
Again caught off guard with that one. He assumed by her delivery of the sentence, she was subjecting to sex so he quickly and nervously glances around him to see if anybody was listening. Just a guy with his face in his eggs.
“I think you’d be surprised”, as he channels every suave-guy response he has ever seen on a television show.
It worked, though because it made her lean forward in her stool and look him ever so seriously in the eye and say, “Oh really?”
Ryan nods his head with sure confirmation.
“So wanna go do a bukkake?”, Sandra says aloud with no hesitation.
He drops the salt shaker he was gripping tightly with his hands. It makes a loud abrupt crash as he shuffles his eyes around to meet back to hers.
“If that’s what you want” is all he could think of to respond with.
She laughs so the entire diner hears her. Guy in eggs wakes up.
He lets out of a sigh of relief to himself. She was only making this moment humorous, he thought.
And just as he couldn’t predict, she got serious.
“Ryan, I see the look in your eyes you give me and I’m turned on by it”, she began. “But the truth, if you were really trying to pursue me and dearly mean it, you’d still have no absolute idea what you’d be getting and how much you could regret the efforts you’d be putting into me”.
“But then again, you don’t know until you try”, was his instinct response.
Sandra’s serious look continued with a twitch of an eyebrow raise.
“I would make you feel anger like you’ve never been furious before. I would sadden you more then what you think depression is”.
She leans back and chugs a full cup of coffee. He had just made a fresh pot for her four minutes ago.
Sandra crosses her arms as if she knew it suited the look of her leather jacket, “You don’t want me”.
She was probably right. Ryan still responds with something that could convince her otherwise.
And just as he couldn’t predict, they both rushed to the diner bathroom and had the sweatiest sex. The most spontaneous four minutes and twenty-one seconds Ryan ever lived. He dropped his phone in the toilet while she was bent over it at one point, too.
And just when he thought he was in the zone of never-ending text messages, Ryan never saw Sandra again.
Sandra never entered the diner and according to whoever he tried asking, was never seen in the building next door again.
Never will Ryan date those kind of girls again, he promised himself.

The Story of When Joshua Lost His Marbles

Stories

Joshua was a hunchbacked negligent with an unpredictable high temper, coasting through his seventh year of grade school.
He probably had a case of an attention disorder; fluctuating mood swings was his choice of drink.

He was large but it was debatable if he was fat. Though he did have to compete with the title of the class’ fat kid with another charge-in-large hoodlum named Ben.
I don’t know if it was the class pressure persuading them to hate eachother, but they sure shared a mutual hostility for one another.
They would fight in class. Both trade obtuse insults mid-class, then share a partaken hatred for the rest of the class.

(To probably work out Joshua’s anger problem) Joshua’s parents got him to often carry around the game of Chinese Checkers with him. The only downside to this hobby was the large amount of marbles he had to carry around with him.

One day, Joshua and Ben were playing eachother during an indoor recess sesh .. possibly a battle of the fat kids.
One of them won and the other lost but when the game ended, Joshua seemed to have less marbles then when he started. He blamed it on Ben but the claim was instantly denied and ignored once class started again.

This started Joshua’s miserable streak for the day.

Coincidentally, the teacher made a reference during math period about Josh’s marbles. Josh shouted a response by describing these marbles as, “Like the marbles that Ben stole from me?”

Ben instantly refused “I didn’t steal your marbles”

This response added to Joshua’s anger charts and made him blurt out the insult that got the biggest reaction for that year, “You’re gay!”.

The class giggled but the teach, little old Ms. Jacobson was not having any of that shit. She threw him down to the dreadful principal’s office.

Class was reaching it’s seventh inning and finally, Joshua comes back from the chokie office. Whatever they talked about for that long, I don’t know but I guess the consensus was decided on Joshua calming down. I had seen before that that shit never works, though.

I don’t know what the next comment was when Joshua sat down but Ben made a recognition to the fact that Joshua was gone for so long in an old lady’s office. Joshua blurts out another absurdity. Ms. Jacobson threatens to throw him out of the class again. Joshua mutters something and pipes down.
Ms. Jacobson is all stressed out so she gives us some silent reading time.

The air in that class room mixed between claustrophobic oxygen and the stink of twenty plus gradual puberty hitters. Silence was never a complete silence.

I’ll always remember this line blurted out, for it was the most unexpected quote at the most unexpected time.
Ben shouts out loud in Joshua’s direction, “dude, why do you have a boner!?”

The class erupts in laughter. Joshua nervously looks around his pelvisular area and behind him to confirm that no one was in danger. Just a butt of the joke Joshua had found himself in again.

Due to the day’s earlier events, you could sense that there was nothing stopping from Joshua blowing up this time.
With the most classy posh response in grade school history, Joshua exclaims, “YOU’RE a fucking boner!”

Joshua lunges out of his chair, rips the top compartment part off of Ben’s desk area as if the desk was never originally made in one piece. The top smashes to the floor and papers and textbooks ride through the air like an old dandelion. Ben shoots his arms up in front of his face, as if he never expected that his antagonizing remarks never deserved a reciprocation.
Joshua leaps through what would have been a desk and tackles Ben to the ground.
He pummeled Ben that day, as Ben squealed for his face not to be damaged and Joshua just not giving a blatant shit. And innocent little old lady grade seven teacher, Ms. Jacobson screaming to try and get what she saw as a beast-with-no-cause causing havoc upon the classroom once again.

The outcome was decided to suspend Joshua for two weeks after this outburst. I always felt bad because I never thought Joshua was wrong in this situation.

Just a case of a guy trying to keep all of his marbles, until a sucka pushes him too far.

Grade School Memoirs – Kindergarten

Stories

“Grade School Memoirs”
Chapter 1- Kindergarten

It was at Empire School (which they shut down 18 years after I started) and we had a pretty terrible jungle gym. The basketball courts were lopsided, too.

I can’t necessarily say I remember my first year of grade school. I had some pretty great outfits though, as well as some sweet stories.

I’ll always remember the biggest and cruelest punishment in kindergarten was the dastardly “Time Out Chair”.

Where a doomed student was ordered to sit in this lonely chair in a lonely corner with the worst of it all: their thoughts.

My troubles were that I had already had a friend going into school, so it almost felt like a cocky immunity.
I just had the natural instinct to be a little bastard.

My P.I.C.’s name was Blair and it was comforting to have another bastard guide me through the way. We were devious and conniving, terrorizing every student around us. Blair would scheme an operation swiftly on one target and I’d feel the need to trump him.

One day I took it too far.

We had weekly show-and-tells and each student would have a scheduled day to bring something in to show around. One day a girl… Kaitlyn or someone… brought a really expensive antique china doll. I’m not saying it was Blair but some one got in my head to go poke it in the eye.
Voices in my head? .. possibly.

So I jammed my finger in that asshole’s glass eye. And it tipped over off the chair.

… and it’s head smashed into pieces.

The smash caught everyone’s attention.
The teacher was pissed. Kaitlyn bawled her eyes out. “How Could You Do That?” wreaked through the air like a venomous gas.

… I spent a shit load of time in the Time-Out Chair for that one.

(If you’re reading this Kaitlyn or whatever your name is that I did this to, I’m so sorry for that.)

I wish that was the only story about the Time-Out Chair.

Like I said, there was some tactical schemes built from this relationship of partners-in-crime. I wasn’t so thought out with my plans as he was, though. I was better as the body work man.
Blair was the Hannibal Smith and I was the Mr. T.

I remember another instance on a day where each student was given a coupon for “Free Pony Rides” at a local pony farm. Blair and I kept persuading another student named Shane to give us his coupon but he was as pumped for the pony rides as we were.
Who wouldn’t be, right?

So we devised a scheme to distract Shane. Blair distracted him from the front while I sneaked around, pantsed Shane from the back while Blair stole the pony coupon.

Clever plan for kindergarteners, huh?

This pantsing action revealed Shane’s beloved Barney underwear to the class.

The class howled in laughter. Shane cried in embarrassment.  He loved those underwears. And Barney apparently.

Back to the ever so familiar Time-Out Chair.

(God damn, reading and writing through all of this confirms my opinion that I WAS a little dick.)

Which reminds me. Kindergarten was the first time I ever punched someone in the face.

We had this toy during play-time that was like the Hot Rod tracks but with marbles. They were pieces of plastic tubes you could build into giant skyscrapers and inserted marbles at the top and watched the ride of your invention diminish to the bottom.

I loved it. But I certainly didn’t like when my opinion was being questioned. In fact, I still don’t.

So I was building this masterpiece, right.
Alongside one of my friends who used to live across the street from me, Steven Beaulieau.
But I was in charge of this operation.
And Steven comes in and tries to change the whole operation up.
My adolescent temper boiled to a top and I punched Steven right in the face.
His reaction was exactly the same as mine. We just looked at eachother in shock, like a “who-stabbed-who” result in a knife fight you see in the movies.
He got up and darted straight for the teacher.

Back to that damned Time-Out Chair.

You know though, with those little asshole ways always comes consequences to actions.

My most embarrassing moment as a child had to do with kindergarten that’s for sure.

One day was a day when the teacher brought in from a farm (maybe the same as the pony farm) and this lady brought a bundle of different birds.

Sure enough, as soon as one of the baby chicks sat on my lap for the first time, it crapped all over my pants.
I was scarred. For the rest of the day, I had to sit there with dry baby chicken poo stains on my pants.

They all called me “Zakky Poo Pants”… those hurting terrors.

… and that was the most I got for Kindergarten.
That was fun, though. I’ll have to do this again.

The Whacked Out Mexican

Stories

(Writer’s Note: I created an extensive pile of old writings because my man den is a mess and apparently, organization is good for you. I collected for a year but never took the time to look through the stack. I found a small story I wrote when I was in grade 7. Assuming it wasn’t an assignment and just something I did in my spare time, I have came to one conclusion after reading this: I was a weird kid.)

One sunny day, I was in a diner eating a rabbit with a glass of apple juice on the cide. I was sitting on a padded stool, seated in front of the diner’s counter. To my right, empty tables. In front of me, a bar with no tender. My left, a wide window where the entire corner of the street could be seen.

Walking down the dusty street was a friend, Pedro. People called him Pepe but formal people would call him Gonzalez. I liked to call him a combination of all three. I watched him cross the intersection when suddenly, a light green automobile swerved on it’s side and hit Pedro/Pepe/Gonzalez. He smashed to the concrete, as the convertible sped off. I got back to eating my meal.

From the corner of my eye, I watched Pepdroalez enter the diner. He sat down on a stool to my left and asked me if I saw him get hit by the car. I nodded my head, swallowing the bunny meal.

Pepdroalez laughed and said, “I want to buy an automobile.”

I stopped eating and looked at him weirdly. “Are you crazy, you whacked out bugger? Mexicans can’t drive!”.

He shrugged his shoulders and drank my cider. He asked me if I knew how to drive. I shook my head and told him my age.
The Mexican gargled the drink and spat it in front of him, waterfalling it over the bar.

“Do you really want to buy a car?” I asked.

Pepdroalez groped his beard and said, “Si.”

“Why don’t you buy one then?” I asked him, taking a bite out of my rabbit.

“I don’t know how,” Pepdrolez said, “I can’t even read!”

My look of strangeness grew bigger as he proceeded to tell me his life story. The Whacked Out Mexican poured his heart out, telling me how his last job was as a pole dancer and how selling drugs was his hobby on the side.
He asked me if I wanted to buy drugs.

I decided to leave the diner without paying.

Pepdroalez just sat there.

St. Patrick’s Day 2012

Stories
I never really had a bad St. Patrick’s Day. I mean, that time we went to The Rex to see The Boozy Truth, stomaching all those Irish Car Bombs I most certainly do not remember paying for. That was a pretty good day.
(Had a midterm the next day. Handed it in with green dye smudged on the papers because I couldn’t wash it all off from the night before)
I don’t have a string of Irish in my blood, so this holiday was never really a big celebratory deal to me.
This day made it probably turned it into one of my favorite holidays, though.
I was seeing.. I don’t know what she’d call it.. I was around the presence comfortably with a girl 2 years younger then me. Something I’ll always rant to you that I’d be against.
Started in the early afternoon. Hearty lunch and speedy cab ride to a house of loud college guys with a flipcup table and couch in the driveway. Patio Outdoor Couch, man.
My girl.. let’s call her Daphne (I’ve always liked that name) brought a friend and her mansqueeze along, too. Together, the friends had a weird relationship with this speedy cab guy (who brought his friend along that rode passenger while the 4 of us crammed in the back) and he’d drive them around drunk for (I’m pretty sure it was) free charge.
Got to the house and even though I had never played flip cup before at this time, I learned fast… I think. They made an imitation of their own Jungle Juice. Which I continue to theorize that Jungle Juice really doesn’t have an original recipe, it’s truly a college drink with any alternative liquors they can find in or around their house.
And then add cranberry juice.
Gave us the weirdest purple lips, though. Like the deepest of purples. Now it’s my favorite color but it’s not that quite attractive as a lipstick.
Dinner time came around and friend couple had passed out. Who woulda thought? They were tapping out and we hadn’t even gotten a U Need A Pita yet.
Took the incapable couple in and fed them some old pierogis we found in Daphne’s fridge.
Then it was time as my plan to head downtown.
Got our pitas, ate them fast. Ordered a second each.
The original plan was The Matadors at City Lights (rest in peace) for 8pm (hell of a booking for that holiday).
I really don’t think that was our first stop though. We must of made a few stops before that because I naturally never start my bar drinking at a show where you’re certain drinks have had an extra 4 dollars added to them.
And then again, I currently wasn’t.
I don’t really have a germaphobe problem but I for sure don’t like when there’s shit on your hands and you can see it. That’s probably why I stayed away from anything green dye (last year not soo muchhh..).
9pm comes around and after probably trying everything else, The Matadors show was packed. Was it really 15 bucks each to get in? 30 in total for me. Yeah, I was in over my pockets and it was only 9pm.
Matadors I always listened to. Had that jekyll-billy hardcore Stray Cat vibe you had no choice to like (#Don’tBeAChooch). Their first set, they do a usual shtick that apparently are regularly known for doing but I had never seen it before so it was a big deal to me.
Lead singer shows up in a old man body outfit and starts playing covers of songs that were terribly popular in the 90’s and would claim to have written said songs. Classic.
– Noteworthy moment: gets crowd pumped up to see him do a duet with his “wife” and takes a girl ventriliquilist dummy, singing lyric for lyric to “Total Eclipse Of The Heart”.
The more you have to drink when seeing events like such, the more it excites you. –
Starting the afternoon killed me, though and I was dying as I knew it. The first set of the band was so overwhelming, both Daphne and I didn’t feel like staying for the second where they abandoned gimmicks and played as their original self.
Sorry, The Matadors.
Walking home through downtown St. Catharines some time around the midnight hour. Across from the well-known park were some fancy looking apartments. Not too big, only 3 stories and I couldn’t necessarily say they were fancy because I had never been inside one before.
As we’re walking, we were pretty much convinced we had enough of partying for one night.
Then we passed this particular apartment. People from the top floor, hanging out the windows, screaming, etc.
There was one guy down on the street, having a smoke in front of the door.
The people out the window began screaming “Heyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy!!” (as a person dangling out a high window would say) followed by “Come on innnnnn”.
Guy in the front having a smoke confirmed it with “Yeah, we made a really good potato salad, man”
Was potato salad a code word for something new wave I was about to get into? I was so pumped that it was.
The hours were growing late so as we got in this apartment, the original partyers were in the infamous ‘Everyone-take-a-couch-and-lounge’ state. The host, must have been his place because he greeted us, showed us around, felt-like-instantly filled our hands with a beer and shot. Jameson, not something I needed and especially should have put in my stomach at this time of day.
Everyone else around us were clearly too beered-and-shotted out so I was able to take control of the music situation without a complaint.
I got in what felt like a deep conversation with the host and couldn’t help but overhear the conversation Daphne was having a couch away from me with a sketchier looking older fellow she had just met (And took pictures with earlier).
He said something to the effect of “So do you guys do anything else for fun?”, physically gesturing to her drink and clearly hinting to ‘harder drugs’ as the movies would do.
Her response, though. Innocently, hilariously brilliant.
“Like what? Doing crafts?”
I burst out laughing. Couldn’t help but break the other conversation I was having with someone else and yelled, “He was talking about the nose sugar!”
He nervously laughed. She blurted out a “Yeah Right” laugh.
The potato salad was really good, though.
I think.
And that was one big chuckle of a St. Patrick’s day.