For a Good Time:

Call me.
Getting better, biting bigger,
Being bitter, fire starter,
Call me game changer.
Call me close shave, close call.
Leaps and bounds, call my bluff.
Put me on a shelf,
Put me in the zoo,
Put me to sleep,
Put me down,
Call the shots.
Call me.
I answer to sleepless nights and ringworm days,
Toothpaste kisses and  2 am power plays.
Lofty rivers of sweat.
Call me when I least expect it.
When I'll most regret it.
Call me.

On the Inflation of Fulfillment

My life got full so much quicker when I was small. It took a lot less. My day felt heavy when I was learning that a peninsula was a stretch of land with water on three sides of it and choosing to sit near my male classmates in hopes that one of them might bring up the rarely exhaustible topic of boobs.

It might be greed... or boredom, I don't know. Maybe it's just that my body is physically larger now, but it takes a lot longer to fill. Days melt together and are smeared with other distractions. It's a lot of pressure to have a good time before life fires stress-missiles up all of our defenseless assholes.

We all desire to be the sole survivor of a crippling shitstorm of commercialism. We all desire to be the martyr of this Applebees. But beyond the moral high-grounds of the mozzarella sticks is an exceedingly minimalist realization: that you have all you need simply because it's all that you have. While some may chalk this one up to confirmation bias, strive to experience the moment where what you have is enough. And focus on your work ethic and your attitude and your fucking daily water intake. I mean shit, in the grand scheme of things, $8.75 an hour is devoid of glamour but enshrined in importance. So what? So what. If you can no longer stand writing about depression or sobriety or... um, the seemingly cyclical nature of family secrets, than write about a dog you saw that day. Worldly significance is an illusion because the only mind through which you can interpret it is your own. So make it matter to yourself... that's it. You're all you have.

And then, when it's over, thirst again. For boobs. Or mozzarella sticks.

The End

I covet your intelligence; I am a glutton for it. I want to bottle every one of your words and position them on a shelf, like organs preserved in formaldehyde. How do I write a thank you note to the person who introduced me to myself? Who retrieved me like a discarded paper fucking bag on the side of the interstate? How do I explain that knowing you for a couple years is like driving a v8 for a couple miles? Or like going to the beach in November or only seeing the moon in the daylight? I don't own enough lifetimes to pay you back.

So please don't meet me in the middle. The middle offers only false contentment and laziness. Nobody has to try in the middle. Meet me in the end. Meet me immediately before my annual grudge against Mother Nature, where the earth brags the same temperature as my gaze. Meet me in the waiting room, where the slow melodic tones of the machines compete with your heartbeat. (Who knows which is actually keeping me alive?) Meet me in the end, so I can offer you all the lifetimes I've collected for you.