Saturday, December 24, 2011

And to All, a Happy New Shit.

It appears to me that, even for the more religious folk, Christmas has agreeably lost its moral center, preferring instead to be a holiday seized by capitalism, gift-giving, and PC twats.

No one likes Kwanzaa. Sorry.

But, even for them, they still kinda have an unearthly investment, whereby it remains a celebration of the savior, their lord, Jesus Christ.

Obligatory meme is obligatory.

So for those of us who've opted not to believe, how do we salvage this strange time of the year? I can't speak for all Atheists, as I've got a hint of Agnosticism.


But Christmas isn't really a shit time for me.

If the super cool duo of God & Jesus act as the precedent for human behavior in Christians, then without them, I'd need to create my own standard. Like I've said before on this blog, the precedent I live up to is whatever the most desired traits of human interaction is. This means high standards for compassion, understanding, logic, and Christina Hendricks.

Precedent set. Erection had.

With that compass in mind, I find a kind of fondness for Christmas. A nice little time in the year where, at least it seems, all the vices get washed away, everyone's shortcomings are ignored, and in their places are respect and admiration for whoever the hell you are. It's really kind of sweet.


A lot of this comes from my own nostalgia, where, being the youngest kid in the family, I was swarmed by presents and gifts. So it seems easy to think my wintry infatuation is associated with McDonald's Playpen and a fucking huge Megazord that I totally ended up breaking.

It's okay, Pokémon cards are just a few years away.

But those temporary pleasures have long since evaporated. And what's left is a silky residue of emotion, elicited not from the plastic comforts of China-crafted playthings, but from why it was they landed in my hands.

Why is there an annual ritual of getting inside a car, toiling through traffic, landing in a mall, being annoyed by similarly busied people, and getting inside a store to reluctantly purchase an object you know full well will be obsolete in 4 months?

And why is the process initiated, executed, and repeated with full willingness, motivated by no personal incentive, on a yearly basis?

It's the only time we actually care.

Ho, ho, ho, Merry Give a Fuck!

The highest regard is given to the most venerable characteristics of the human spirit, and everyone seems utterly willing to adhere to them. It's the epitome of everything I'd ever ask from humanity. All this because someone decided "Let's just fucking be nice this month", and attached a little baby Messiah to the whole thing.

Thanks chibi Jesus.

It's a testament to who we are, and what we can be. And it's certainly questionable. And strange. And unusual. And selfish. And retarded. But goddamnit, people actually give a fuck. And it's wonderful.

I wake up this morning to find I have no qualms with Christmas. I love everything about it. I embrace it, and hope to embody its spirit. I only have to ask, at this point...why isn't it Christmas everyday?

Merry Give a Fuck, everyone.

Wednesday, December 21, 2011

An Announcement.

So having written 2 blogs in the past 5 days (The 2nd coming soon), I am very quickly realizing something.

I am the opposite of Tupac.

Christina Hendricks is immensely attractive.


...deserves being posted in every blog.

Fucking yes.

I know, I'm saying some revolutionary shit man.

Indie Guevara.

But I'm going to work Christina Hendricks into every blog, and that is final.

Case closed.

Feminist Disclaimer: Hey, listen, at least this isn't Etsy-knitting shit, alright?

Sunday, December 18, 2011

Kinda like Tupac.

In the recent couple months, I've delved extensively into the Occupy movement. I've learned lots of things, met tons of people, and did what I've always loved.

Circle jerk?

Expressing myself, and being appreciated for it.

This has led to a remarkable boost of confidence, and a feeling that, frankly, I'm beginning to actualize the meaning of my existence.

It is within this beautiful little sentiment that an underlying concern nags at the ends of my consciousness, like a child tugging at the calf.

That you don't circle jerk enough?

I'm pretty sure I'm gonna die.


I mean, inevitably, yeah. But like within the next 5 years.

Of course, I have no viable evidence. The only thing I can successfully point to is that I have never been able to envision myself beyond the age of thirty. I have never been able to fathom the career I would have, the family I would be maintaining, or the adulterous slut I'd invariably ruin my marriage with.

But she'll be worth it.

Future slut aside, for all 21 years and 12 days of my life, I have not been able to crystallize my future, and though I hold no spiritual beliefs of any kind, I feel like whatever ether I trust in granting me foresight should have the vision if the vision was there.

But it isn't.

The psychological quirk that takes fetish about death is my intense discomfort with social success. As a kid, having been the victim of bullying, racial/social discrimination, and all-around dorkiness, I'd always felt like I would not achieve success. And that if I did, it would be sharply equalized by an ugly consequence.

'Cause for every time I thought I was a good writer, been a good person, or, goddamnit, thought I looked good that day, there was something waiting to destroy all of it.

A man with a van and two fingers.

This is probably a plausible, and perhaps more accurate, reason for the increased paranoia over my own mortality.

But I admit to innately preferring a young death.


I'll preface it with this:

The success of one's impression is directly affected by the age of that person. For example, a 5-year old reading material years beyond his age is more impressive than a 25 year old reading that same material. In some unwritten truth, there is a list of things you should already be capable of, and list of things you should not be capable of. To do the former is expected. But to do the latter is impressive.

And as you get older, your expected capabilities grow more vast, and you are less likely to impress anyone. After all, if you're 45 years old, shouldn't you be good at something? And if you're 10 years old, shouldn't you suck at everything?

Get better, twat.

Having established that, if my self-imposed purpose in life is to make an impact and be impressive, wouldn't it be in my vested interests to die early? Lest my ability to impress stagnates, and my impact becomes less notable?

Also, in truth, if I died right now, the potential I leave behind is left to one's imagination, which can far exceed any potential I can bring into fruition. i.e. Dead, I could've been a President. Alive? A blogging twat who worked at a hipster hotspot.

That's either way, really.

And it goes without saying everything I'd ever done will be hindsighted the fuck out of. I don't mean to pretentiously predict my friends will just feverishly read/hear everything I've ever done, but that it happens every time someone dies. Look at Amy Winehouse; I'm pretty sure someone would be flinging crackhead jokes right now if she weren't in an underground box.

It's okay Amy; I never liked you.

Too soon? Exactly.

Will I die in 5 years? I think so. Do I want to? Vaguely. Ultimately, I'm pretty scared of death. I think any sane Atheist should be.

omg i can't wait to see this forever!!!!111

Ideologically though, I'm prepared, most especially if it's because of my beliefs or principles. At the very least, my death could be absorbed into an idea. And ideas cannot be murdered. No this was not V for Vendetta-inspired.

Fuck off with the masks.

But that at least there will have been a purpose, and that my eternal nonexistence will be paralleled by a similarly eternal idealism. Perhaps one that's actualized in my wake.

I wouldn't prefer it, I suppose. I guess I just wouldn't be surprised. No matter how much logic I use to anchor the generic scarification of bullying, occasionally poor parenting, discrimination, and alienation, I'll always be inundated by it's ever looming presence.

I don't really expect you, the reader, to have any particular reaction. Please, don't let this sway your normal response. 'Cause like everything else, I just want you to know what I was thinking, and why I thought it. And I want unadulterated opinions, not coerced sympathies.

I will release 5 blogs post-mortem.

Tuesday, November 1, 2011

So you make a Facebook comment

CLEARLY, your entire persona can be based off said comment.

CLEARLY, 30 or less letters can define 20 years of social conditioning and hundreds of years of genetic programming.

OBVIOUSLY we have a RAPIST here.

Thursday, October 27, 2011

An Ode.

To thine mysterious author that has dost bestoweth upon me this glorious meme that is inappropriate porn labeling:


To intertwine the fragile innocence of such Disney channel visuals with the powerfully disgusting label of a well-known porn site is simply the act of the divine; a message of great humor that could only be attributed to the Gods themselves.

Thanks, bro.

Wednesday, October 26, 2011


"Give me a means by which to exercise opinions and beliefs freely with no oppression, or give me perpetual and immutable lack of existence!"

"I had fallen asleep last night, a mixture of being exhausted and general laziness, but yeah, I had funny visions in which a few different looking people did a few things that were generally unacceptable in this day and age but should be acceptable because that's what's right."

"Something like, I dunno, eighty...eighty and some odd years ago? Seven? We'll check that."

"People are asking these really stupid questions, like 'Bro, I wanna do stuff what can I do' and I'm all like 'That's a stupid question, because you should ask this other question right here' which was to make them do stuff instead you know."

"Holy shit this leap is crazy for us, guys."

Monday, October 24, 2011

Indie, y u no srs?

I am going to ignore the fact that this meme is clearly a parody on Hispanic people and offensive to the culture I so strongly disassociate myself with.

wat is dis.

If you've read this blog in a thorough fashion, you will have almost certainly noticed that I am indeed a prodigy.


Being prodigious is a burden I shoulder every day of my life. "Oh Indie, you write so good!" "Oh Indie, teach me how to be musical like you!" "Oh Indie, please don't touch me there!"

My prodigy van.

These stresses create vast pressures on me, from which I have little respite. There has to be some time I can designate as a solace for when I'm not undoing blindness and fornicating asexually with supernatural connotations.

Or at least looking asexual.

Cookies and Landmines is the leisure of my genius. The intellectual nap of my day. The ideological scratch of my balls.

Please don't make me Google Image this.

This grants me greater focus when I apply my infallible thinking process to greater purposes.

Critical thinking.

And that is why I do not tackle issues more worthy of my astronomical intellectual fortitude.

And/or I suck at writing that shit.

Saturday, October 22, 2011


Situation #1: Friend has a new girlfriend.

Congrats on the fresh vag.!

So glad you have a new pocket for your dick!

How many drinks did it take???

She better not be black!

Situation #2: Pregnancy announcement on FB (Female)

So in how many pieces did your life shatter? :))))

Let's all pretend this has no negative consequences! *Like*

Faallllccoooon punch!

She better not be black!

Situation #3: Pregnancy announcement (Male)

This is why we have condoms, bro.

Shit you too, bro????

Hey, my GF's name is the same bro...

She better not be black!


Friday, October 21, 2011

Hi, my name is MrIndieDay.

In trying to undo what self-righteous anger I've wrought in my 20-year-blink of unbridled awesomeness, I find it a tad bit difficult to divorce the petty anger that so drunkenly careened my creativity into various social/racial/ideological poles.

Too soon?

Which means I have to settle this problem like you would with any possessive bitch who's clearly told herself she knows you better than anyone else and cries when she's told she doesn't two months after you've broken up.

Enough, Aesop.

I could

A) Come to terms, and bite my scathing tongue.


B) Find an outlet.

The former scares me. "1984" was a book that has molded me into believing that utter ideological freedom is one of our most utmost sociological ideals, and that any form of repression leads to the corruption of humanity.

And no, I don't have more words that end in "logical".

So in realizing this, C'n'L will remain alive and brazenly offensive. Albeit with a sharper focus; having minimized verbal knifefighting in my personal life, this'll be the means by which I avoid psychological implosion.

Yeah, it happened like that.

This is important to note because what may have constricted the flow of 190 proof Grade A sarcasm here has been its persistent use in real life, and my lack of control over it. Like a kid doing his first kegstand. I have profusely vomitted, and you know what, I feel better now. I think I'm ready to do it again.

And with my higher tolerance for sarcasm and its bitter, bitter aftertaste, I can let proper conscience take the wheel as designated driver when I so need it in real life.

However, this blog is my weekend frat party. And we are getting fuuuuucked up.

Thursday, October 20, 2011

Unusually Spontaneous

In an effort to search for something I'd written 3 years ago, I took a trip to my ol' Myspace blog and found myself re-reading more than a few things. I'm kind of alarmed at the striking self-awareness I held at that time. I'd assumed I was operating in blanket self-denial about my problems, when in reality, I just lacked the means to act otherwise.

There's one sentence in which, tongue deeply buried in cheek as always, I suggest that I'll change someone's life. Before anyone could even fathom it, somehow, I knew I was someone worth being on this planet.

That's the flag I hoist with every waking moment. Every breath I take, every word uttered, every smile delivered, all with the intent of having impact. Of being substantial, and prolific.

This is the irony that I don't understand. While being my most persistent critic (Which I know to be the demon of any artist), I somehow was my greatest ally. Throughout all the shit people and myself had given me, I held a diligent glimmer of faith. That being a little twat was a temporary affliction, and not the ultimate prognosis.

This makes me feel good. I feel positive. Imbued with an aura of bountiful determination, self-preservation, and an utterly disgusting amount of idealistic integrity. I have a desire not only to succeed at my goal of footprinting the fuck out of this planet, but to make sure it's a more positive place in my wake.

i.e. I'm 20.

At the same time, however, I wonder how the operation of this machine works. For years, and featured prominently on this blog, I'd ran on anger. Not merely for creativity, but for social renown and charm as well. I'm to avoid this, and today was the first day in actualizing this. And it felt fantastic.

I feel trepidation departing the warmth of caustic retort and double-edged bravado. I suppose it doesn't have to be entirely eliminated. Hitler jokes and unabashed questioning of female intelligence have a bit of a charm when someone sweet is saying it.

A bit.

But it feels about right. This, while having all the (lack of) style of a Peace Corp. quota, does not feel generic. More over, to suggest these as "ideals" would be to deny the very real impact I've already made these past several months. I know that if I died tomorrow, I can say I'd changed a few things 'round here.

I'm happy.

Shit this blog is gonna suck now.

Wednesday, August 3, 2011

Here's an obscure thought

Masturbation is not an act that just happens. And, generally, it isn't premeditated: It's an action initiated spontaneously by the right image or moment. The beauty involved in this is that the keys to jack-off ignition is usually random and unexpected, and can range from a variety of things.

Someone just got a chubby.

One of the few things in life that is truly non-routine and completely without anticipation, this has become something of a rarity as I approach (more like disastrously collide into) adulthood. Not masturbation of course.

That flight has no stops.

But spontaneity. My days are usually as follows:

Work, generally in the afternoon through evening.

Day off. Band practice.

Work, generally midday

Work, generally morning

Work, generally morning, used to involve band practice (Band died on me :()

Day off. The same two friends and I do something that involves verbally pirouetting around homosexuality.

Like this, but with grace.

Work, generally midday. Possible hangout time with a friend.

I've inadvertently established a routine of things to substantiate my life with. This usually leads to the homogenization of human thought, though my personal routine has enough variety in it to keep me sharp, or at least not like those other boys with the college sweaters.

This hatred is brought to you by my lack of college.

So in order to avoid becoming a gray blob in a tannish shell adorned with some variant of a tanktop or a cardigan, I've made sure to cherish and create moments that destroy routine, or the established "supposed to's" of life. And one of the microcosms of all this?

That's right, masturbation.

I am aware this is probably not your initial answer.

When masturbation is initiated spontaneously, as it often is, the actual session that follows does not usually involve whatever fucked up fetish rattled your jigglies in the first place. In other words, female Link sending sexy signals through your dick doesn't mean female Mario will be what sends the cumsies flyin'.

But it should.

In fact, it may be something entirely different. In an entire session of masturbation, you very well may have explored a myriad of different fetishes before landing on one particular minute that a Youporn vid featuring Eva Angelina got super hot. And before you know it, in 15 minutes, you just visited 3 websites, viewed 8 to 10 videos, and watched God knows how many people put their pink squigglies together. I dare you to find any moment as culturally varied as the act of masturbation in your daily life.

Or maybe just male masturbation. Because women don't masturbate.

But she will.

And sure, actual sex is all fun and good. But banging the same partner saturates the fuck market. And promiscuous sex is like post-Blitzkreig London in WWII; yeah you got a lot of cool shit to say, but really, you're all dead inside.

Keep calm, and offend war victims.

This blog is, in all seriousness, less about masturbation and more about the embrace of all things different. The things that keep you waking up in the morning, quietly muttering "Oh yeah, that happened". The things that have you re-reading texts you fired off in whatever emotional (Or drunken, haha *regrets*) haze you might've undergone. Because they grow scarce as we get older. And I honestly believe these wonderful rarities keep us, as intellectual members of society, mentally fit and emotionally upbeat.

So make the world a better place. Get to jackin'.

I am a professional, upstanding citizen of the world.

Saturday, June 11, 2011

Texts, posts, and Wendy's.

Sitting in the midst of Wendy's with a couple friends, there was a funny looking sight to behold. The three of us sat in a triangle shape, reminiscing about things that happened days ago, and looking to recreate those forgettably unforgettable nights.

But I realized. All three of us had our phones on the table. And we weren't all necessarily using them; we were actively waiting for an excuse to do so.

In seeing this, the conception of this generation's addiction to the screen became clear.

When we go home, we sit in front of a screen, and interact with it. When we are outside, we bring a miniature screen to serve the same yet portable service. And it's become not just a common occurrence, but apart of my generation's life. There has not been a physical human interaction for this generation after 12 years old that did not involve someone eventually pulling a mini-screen from their jeans, or sitting in front of a bigger one at home.

We are essentially the first generation to depend on this technological interaction not merely for convenience, but as a distinct part of our culture, and the first to grow up through adolescence and young-adulthood with it.

The beauty in this statement is that it can be corroborated by physical, statistical evidence. If you look onto the Facebook pages of people older than, say, 26 (People who did not have social networking or texting as preteens or teenagers), they do not have the same amount of friends as someone younger than them. So as the FB accounts get younger in age, the more friends those accounts are connected to.

This doesn't mean that the younger you are, the more people you know. Merely that the younger you are, the more likely your peer group is immutably connected to the social network, and so there is a bigger pool of friends you'll have access to.

The negative in this increasingly addictive need to utilize every screen available to us is that we've become perpetually connected to our closest social circle. This gives us little reason to venture beyond that group, and thus means we're less likely to make an effort to create deep relationships with people as we get older. Why leave the comfort zone if it's always available for you?

This is unlike the generations prior to us, because when they left the house, they were unable to interact with anyone who wasn't physically there with them (No Facebook, no cell phone, no wi-fi, no laptop). So they were forced to sustain deep physical interactions with various people at all times.

The counter claim to this is that we can maintain contact with people from miles, and perhaps oceans, away. This is true. But those interactions contain little substance, and for the most part could have not happened, with no consequence on your maturation.

However, the positive is that the pool of texts and Facebook posts that we insatiably imbibe from is pristine, and has sincere human behavior. The Internet is a place clean of commercial/government influence, where people are about as much as they can be without the worry of propaganda seeping into their heads and casting shame.

Granted, this also means that we are delicate about our status in our peer group, as the Internet provides a constant view into the world of others, which means we have a constant source of people to compare ourselves to.

But changing the perspective, this means we hold social allegiance to one another. Not a nation, a corporation, or any vague entity. The people who hold the most influence over this generation and every generation after us are ourselves. And there's something kind of pretty about that.

Sunday, June 5, 2011

A Good Time

This is a short story I wrote about a girl who meets a boy. The final few paragraphs are very adult in nature, and you probably don't want the wrong people around while you read it. Or maybe you do. Fuck 'em, right?

She boarded the bus haphazardly as she ever did. The bus driver gave his look of acknowledgement, she reciprocated, and the 1.50 transaction was completed. Her walk down the aisle involved, as it always does, a few stares from unintiated masses. She took a seat in the back, as she always did, because it was "fun to watch unfun people".

She reflected upon the day she had. As the sun poured into the back window of the bus, floating upon sharp brunette eyes glazed by deep thought, her mind was screening a less delightful view.

Scurrying between tables, she found herself slightly overwhelmed. And the patrons weren't particularly considerate.

"Hello! I'll be your server. How are you guys today?"

"Let me have a --"

And the words "obnoxious cunt" would often spring alive between her ears, like the sudden zombification of the dead. But her smile, modestly sized and well-curved by her palpably soft and gently pink lips, played facade for the verbal whiplash cracking behind it.

This rude style of exchange ("if you could call it that", she'd often say) was not unusual. In fact, it was routine. But she awoke everyday to the same black polo, tight black spandex, and the classic chucks that have endured years of manifested teenage angst. And everyday, as she ritualistically ponytailed her boldly brown hair, the long bang bounced enthusiastically as ever around her right eye, embodying the borderline psychotic concept of waking up to the "same ol' bullshit" with stark eagerness.

But her affably blunt nose edged downward with the same boldness she aproaches her daily life. And her politely tanned skin humbly hides the scars her psyche persistently endures.

These thoughts and descriptions of her were the very same that scrolled behind her narrowed eyes like an animated news ticker. And they were not unusual.

The bus found itself slowed to a halt at a fairly obscure stop near the park.

"That's when he got on", as she often uttered when she recanted this tale.

He was tall, slender, and fairly confident in the way he seemingly refused the banility of this bus ride. His long, pale face did not care, his long, unkempt black hair did not care, and his white button up, black dress pants, and black sneakers did not care. This wasn't apathy or nihilism, however.

"That sort of hipstery 'fuck society' kind of thing", she'd elaborate.

He walked down the aisle in almost perfect syncronicity as his aura. He sat a few seats ahead of her.

"The perfect staring distance."

She understood it to be the back of his head, but she registered it as something far deeper. And in the same thoughtful manner as she had done earlier, his head titled slightly towards the window. He captivated her. And her eyes pierced through his skull like a sniper, with all the deadly accuracy of a marksman.

There was a rising fountain of urge in her stomach. Why, she did not know. Only that it begged for conversation from him. And with every exerted mental effort to inundate the compelling cries of her nerve-wracked intenstines, it would ricochet with greater force.

" what is there to be scared of..." she reasoned, mid-sentence. "It's either....he ignores me and it's all the same...or I get what I want....but I really don't....avoid rejection..."

Her logic argued for apprehension. But little do emotions care for what reason has to say. The buzz in her stomach swelled to her head, and her heart was at the peak of its crescendo. The urge was making its argument by force, and it was quite convincing.

Somewhat uncoordinated, she stood from her chair, and began a small walk down the aisle "that felt like fucking forever", as she'd explain. The world was shrouded in a blurry veil, made of concentrated anxiousness and makeshift courage. During that walk, there was nothing but him, and her.

She sat next to him, and the world suddenly flashed back. Having forgotten, it was then that she realized there is no context for their meeting, and that this was completely unsolicited.


She'd forgotten how to introduce herself.

"Hey." he exclaimed, softly as he carefully turned his head to acknowledge her, and back towards the window.

" that like...a dismissive hi...." she thought.

It was.

But her urge would not allow it to be fully digested. And so she trembled onward.

"I've been staring at you for like a minute."

It had been 15 minutes since he boarded.

"And it felt like forever."

"That's because it's been 15 minutes since you've been staring at me." he sharply replied.

She found herself mentally slackjawed and physically ill. Her hands burrowed slightly into the crevice between her legs. She'd assumed the worst, and seemingly, the worst had happened.

"...And I would've stared back had I not sat here."

Like a hand pulling her from the edge of a cliff, abundant relief cascaded over her previously disconcerted body. Reciprocation was made. It was only a matter of time.



It was during this brief silence she'd realized he had not been looking at her throughout the conversation.

"So let me see your face."


She blushed.

"Later? That's pretty presumptuous of you."

"Then fuck off?"

She was amazed by his sincere bravado. He was irrational, and perhaps antisocial, but he was right. And irresistably so.

"I don't think you want that."

"I don't." he said, somewhat begrudingly.

She made her way in, she thought. But still, she was lost. She'd made her thesis statement. But what was there to argue for, exactly?

"Which stop do you get off at?"

She found herself surprised. She did not ask that, she thought. She couldn't have even fathomed that question. Something else asked it for her. A question like this entails many things. But in this instance, she knew there was only one implication.

"The next one."

His well-toned response answered the question explicitly as it did implicitly. They had agreed to a million things with 9 words.

In the gap prior to the stop, a silence had fallen. In this silence, she found a shame lying beneath this entire encounter. She was not a nice girl, by any means. But she wasn't entirely removed from naiviety. And while she was clever enough to understand any situation she was placed in, a childish guilt was crippling her. "I don't normally do things like this", she'd often say, as if to excuse the events of that day. So she found herself "extra out of place, you know?".

Back and forth, she volleyed thoughts of retreat and thoughts of indulgence. She looked to his face for persuasion of the latter, but to no avail; he had refused to turn to her at any time during this trip, and did not do so then. "I was a goddamn mess" she'd later admit.

Knowing she was chest-deep in hesitation, she broke the momentary silence.

"So what's happening later?" she slowly asked, emphasizing "later" with great curiousity.


"Aren't you a goddamn charmer."

"You're still not fucking off?"

"I won't." she jabbed, with annoying glee.

"Good." he replied, his face stoic as his mouth remained flat and shut. A strange sight next to her brightened eyes and crescent smile.

The silence took its original place, but with an underlying voice that marked what was about to happen. It whispered a mutual enjoyment of what was to come.

He remained peering relentlessly out the window and she facing her front. But she suddenly found herself less "awkward about the whole thing".

The bus found itself slowing down, the sounds of its engines steeped from an incessant growl to a confident hum. This drop in noise was in sharp contrast to her climax of emotions; as if the void in sound was filled by a sickening ball made of her nerves and self-doubt. This was it. This was their stop.

Without cognizance, they rose from their seats and exited the bus's back door, much to the shagrin of the small bus crowd they had been discreetly offended by their promiscuous charms. Their eyes trailed their exit, as though to brand the back of their heads with a scarlet letter.

"I felt them burning my spine." she muffled, apparently thinking aloud.

"They do that." he immediately replied, as if violently brushing any scrutiny off her shoulders.

They scuffled off the bus, walking in equal cadence. The doors closed behind them, and the bus vanished in the middle of the distant horizon.

He swerved left with pride, but she percieved there was little in the way of actual direction. In fact, everything about where he was headed and how he was headed there implied he may have been as lost as she was.

"You're leading the way."


"...So why does it look like you've never been here before?"

They paused, and he insisted on staring forward.

"Does it really matter to you?" he asked.


"Why the hell should it?"

She caught herself speechless. Why should it matter?, she thought. As long as whatever they've serruptitiously agreed to happens, what is it that's so important about the destination, and who deemed it so?

They began to pace forward a little more as this thought embedded.

And then she found a response.

"Because if I'm banging a strange guy, I wanna make sure it isn't a strange place."

"We're not banging." he replied, offended in tone, but calm in nature.

"I could've sworn that was the point." she said, almost satisfyingly startled with a half-smile. "Everything about this stupid...thing suggested it."

"We share a few words and you assume I'm having sex with you?"

She'd ignored this, and suddenly realized how unusually deep she took this encounter. But before she would succumb to feeling naive, she realized something. He does not express agreement explicitly. That it only occurs beneath a harshly layered crust of curt conversation and perpetual angst. So it was clear to her.

"This is the part where you say 'I was right'." she said smugly, with a sardonic smile to compliment her profound discovery.


They stopped, and he turned right towards the porch of a dimly lit, one-story home. He took his steps deliberately, as though giving space for a signal to sound between every step.

As he made his way for the door, her sardonic smile faded. She'd realized he wasn't inviting her in, and seemingly had no intention of doing so. His body wreaked of rejection, and his relentless sense of disgust was waiting to be allieviated by the door closing behind him as he slowly walked in, and her face no longer being there. Nothing was going to happen. It was all for naught.

Her face twisted as she percieved this, and embarrassment tied a deep knot in her stomach; a feeling which forced out the one innocuous phrase that summarized the sudden futility of this encounter.

"Fuck you!"

The door opened from its closing. He turned to face her.

Before she could process whatever clever wordplay landed her here, his sharp arms were securely gripping her supple waist, her legs twisted around his lower back, clenching alongside her arms for whenever she felt her tounge needed further thrusting onto his. He stumbled from the front of the house into his bedroom in a flurry of salvia-ridden sucks and gulps as he let her control the situation. But this was a momentary lapse in dominance; as he stumbled into the bedroom, he placed his arms underneath, his protruding wrists dug into her deep rear, and took force as he slammed her into the wall.

A pulse of uncivilized pleasure electrocuted her innards, and compelled her right hand onto the back of his head. She gripped his hair unflinchingly, and in response, he bit her lower lip for one of the few moments their tounges were not conjoined.

Her lip sent desperate messages to the brain, begging for mercy. But she'd knew that he would not stop. Not unless, of course, it was reciprocated.

She took her left arm, cocked backwards, and slapped him across the face with no hesitation. She braced herself for the oncoming drop, and landed awkwardly, falling against the wall a little, her palms reaching for grips that weren't there. He took a few steps back, as though to provide her space, with his arms bent at his sides, unsure of what to do.

She felt a small trickle edging towards her delicate chin. He had drawn blood. And his face had endured a small bruise to the cheek. And for a moment, only the sounds of their syncronized panting could be heard.

"Fuck you!"

He smiled. This was not a rejection. This was not a denial. And it was not a plea to stop. No, in this instance, "Fuck you" was an invitation.

Before he could take his steps towards her, she stomped across the room at him and pushed him towards the bed several times, until he was forced to fall on his back. They both knew to remove their pants, and they scurried doing so, to where they'd forgotten to remove their shoes. They had to connect. He had to be inside her. And that was all that mattered.

She jumped onto his erection and her vagina warmly housed it. They stared upwards in their respective directions, relieved by what they'd been foreplaying all along. She grinded foward and backward, her knees and shins on the bed, and her thighs providing leverage. He dug his hands inside her inner and outer thighs, and he could not help but to scratch the delicious curves that surrounded their union. She began undoing his button-up to reveal his wonderfully gaunt upper body, which seemingly awaited her nails, and so she did oblige. He winced quietly to himself, but his penis certanly did not.

He motioned his upper body towards her. She had assumed it was for a kiss, but instead felt his hands clawing at her biceps, and before she knew it, she was on her back. It was his turn.

He thrusted into her erect legs violently, so as to indulge in the sounds of their thighs slapping against one another. And with each thrust a soft "oh" escaped the girl's lips. With his left arm holding him up, his right hand grasped a part of her face, and dug in, as though to find the source of her beautifully gentle moaning. She'd known he was scratching her. But the burrowing of her face compelled the burrowing of her cunt to be all the more enjoyable. She grabbed his hair again with greater passion, to signal the unquantifiable pleasure he had been providing. And he replied by dragging his hand downward, from her eyes to her neck, and occasionally cutting her breathing off.

With one arm around his lower back, she'd been begging for it deeper. And he had been giving it to her. Moan, panting, moan, panting; each picked up louder, and louder. And before either of the two understood it to be so, they climaxed into one another, in a glorious collage of nails, bruises, blood, and cum.

She did not know what occurred. Only that it did occur. And at that moment, she did not care. In the wake of sheer euphoria, she found herself drifted into sleep.

"I'd never forget that morning", she'd often say. She awoke to find herself alone, in the strange bed of that forgettable room. She "felt like shit...and it was wonderful. Like I've never done this before, and always should've.", a thought reinforced by a small smile that curved onto her tattered face. The previously kempt ponytail and bang was replaced by an unkempt mangle of brunette strings. And her polite tan was marred with discolorations and reddened streaks. Her waist, arms, thighs ("Hell, probably my cunt too") were equally as decimated.

She got up from the bed, and looked at the empty spot that belonged to him. He had long since left. Perhaps right after she went sleep. There was not a single reminder of his existence. And she found herself smiling again.

All that was left to ponder was what would happen when she returned home to her parents, uninformed of her impromptu tryst. She plotted the conversation, and concluded it would only consist of two lines.

She would go home with cuts and bruises in various places, and would she be asked "What happened", her sole response would be a monotone cut through thin lips; "I had a good time".

Saturday, April 23, 2011

This is not about ejaculate.

Sorry I haven't been as consistent with writing as of late. Material hasn't been coming through. Mostly because instead of lolz, I've been waxing philosophically about myself.

I put on my leather jacket the other day, adorned in pins that I believe represent some amount of my thought process. Since I brought it, it's become a sort of trademark of mine.

And I felt wrong. A sort of odd disgust happened when my arms slipped into the sleeves and it gripped my shoulders. It felt wrong.

I'm also dealing with situations that thrust me into worlds I've never delved in, namely being a leader. Leading I can do well. Feeling comfortable doing so is another issue entirely. Why?

The cynicism I apply to myself, a clever ruse to both maintain self-awareness and provide a humble foil against my naturally pretentious style of speaking (Like right now), has started working against me. It's bumming me the fuck out. Instead of certifying that my own faux-narcissism doesn't destroy me, like a cancer, it's defected against me. Unable to keep control, I ravage myself in moments where it was not required. Leaving me feeling like a failure in situations where there was no success to be had. Like losing a race that never happened.

And so as I lead, or even as I do anything I've never done before, I destroy myself for understandable errors.

And when I do succeed, I don't allow myself to enjoy it. Which means when I rarely do, I don't know how to properly do so, and end up alienating everyone when I sound like an arrogant ass.

In an effort to salvage what little self-esteem I have left (And, in the future, properly perceive success and failure), my psychology has opted to temporarily avoid the levity of humor and seek actual building blocks for confidence, instead of painting ridiculous caricatures of it to contrast the grotesque moments of self-doubt. This requires that I avoid practicing cynicism. And what is this blog, at its heart, if it isn't a picture of toothy-smiled cynicism?

We'll pretend like this never happened in the next blog. Well, no. But we'll get back to poetically denouncing the injustices of sperm during nutbustings. Eventually.

Tuesday, April 19, 2011

Poetry for the Fallen

The 6 million cried
Group divided by simple primal binds

Of psychology, atrocity, it was
The thing that bothered me
To do so so wantonly
Was a saddening dichotomy

So traveled the hand
That waived off their demands
And jettisoned the group with no remorse
And vicious plans

The 6 million cried
This is a poem about ejaculating guys

Friday, April 15, 2011

A Detailed and Critical Analysis of Bob Dylan

Having recently delved into the world of Bob Dylan's music, I decided to take a brief look at the lyrics and found myself feeling as though I'd absorbed more information than I'd read. I decided to speculate even more so on the lyrics of "Mr. Tambourine Man", and found myself in awe of my discovery, during the first verse through to the second:

Though I know that evenin’s empire has returned into sand
Vanished from my hand
Left me blindly here to stand but still not sleeping
My weariness amazes me, I’m branded on my feet...

Hey! Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me
I’m not sleepy and there is no place I’m going to

Take me on a trip upon your magic swirlin’ ship
My senses have been stripped, my hands can’t feel to grip
My toes too numb to step
Wait only for my boot heels to be wanderin’
I’m ready to go anywhere, I’m ready for to fade
Into my own parade, cast your dancing spell my way
I promise to go under it


Friday, April 8, 2011

Pledge of A-Scene-Giance.

I brought those glasses.


But Juno does not speak to my life.

Or any Dominican's, for that matter.

Scott Pilgrim does though.

Annnd my Dominican license has been revoked.

But I like my music with raucous energy.

What hipster songs are recorded with.

And I like bleeding on my drums.

This is not crayola.

But I do have a tumblr.


But I don't post skinny scene whores.


But I do think Zooey Deschanel is cute.


But how could you not?


I fluctuate between diametric sub-cultures. This could only mean I align myself with one, very specific group.


I don't think "douche" is a sub-genre.

But I'm happy like that.