In(vincible)

alcohol is dangerous

and maybe not in the way

that you're thinking

i'm not talking about liver damage or 

dead brain cells

or the depression of your nervous system 

or that time you cheated on someone

you liked a lot

or loved a lot

and blamed it on being drunk. 

alcohol's most dangerous side-effect
is delusional thinking. 

thinking you're cooler or tougher

than you really are.

so when i went to college in the bronx
and rode the subways late at night

drunk with friends

i felt slightly

invincible

an alcohol-induced complex 

of superhuman strength.

of course in the morning

i would be sober and realize

i was not cool or strong.

and i am always caught between being thankful

and disappointed

when hitting that after morning

reality check. 

but one night i found myself alone

underneath 168th street

at 2 am on a monday.

having separated from 

the others to head back to school

sober,

i felt encompassed by the fear

that alcohol so efficiently

numbs. 

finally feeling as scared

as i should have felt 

all those other times
at 168th street station.

and it's a good thing

a really good thing

that it happened. 

Cables of the empty elevator 

jolted me forward with a lurch 

sank from floor 2 to floor 1

and brought me deeper into earth

so i walked across

the concrete bridge

got to my platform

stood far from the edge

reluctantly looked up 

to find i wasn't alone

and saw i was the only one

who had ever had a home

I shrank into my clothes

started to count 1..2..3..

found i was outnumbered

nineteen bums to little old me

the old woman to my left

made a bench into a bed

draped in a white hospital gown

i prayed she wasn't dead

and the man to my right

his foot had an infection

swollen gray and pussing

pin-prick holes of past injections

and the boy opposite my platform

fell down onto his knees

screamed out in his anguish 

and clawed at the floor in need

and the three men grinning rotten grins at me

with hats pulled down low to hide their eyes

laughed at me and rubbed their palms together

so i zipped up my coat to hide my size

and the man running down the stairs

screamed at me in tongues

and banged his fists against tile walls

his face was old but he was young

but then i saw a man reading a book

and felt a pang of hope inside me deep  

but then i saw it was just a ripped up bible

and a man cant read when he's asleep

pigeons cooed in the mist over head

suddenly my horrors started to worsen

was it the station that was beginning to groan

or were those noises from a suffering person

forty minutes later it finally happened

my train came down the tracks screaming 

it halted at my feet and for the first time

its dirty metal seemed to be gleaming 

i ran like i was being chased

but no one was behind

i was no bums first priority

they had nothing to lose and nothing to find

stop chiefing on that.....poop?

Last month, I was really rooting for the end of the world. 
A renewal is in need.
The spring cleaning of our planet will be it's extinction.
For those of you who think that things are going good, just reminisce.   
-Bush was elected president...TWICE
-Snooki probably makes more money in one year than your entire family makes in a lifetime. But let's face it, she probably works harder than your family too. Snooki's vagina is in a hell of a lot worse shape than your fathers calloused hands.
Maybe your fathers permanently dirty hands are living timelines of hard work and years gone past, but Snooki's face is a walking charade of gullibility. She believed all of those tanning salons that mentioned the term "natural glow" in passing. 

-Justin Beiber is living proof that you can be a sex symbol/millionaire before your balls or voice has dropped. 
-WOMEN like chris brown even though he beat up a WOMAN. 
-Iowa has accepted gay marriage before New York
-Fish swim in oil oceans. 
But I think what most indicates this world's desperate need for renewal is its contemporary drug use. 
I think the term "if it ain't broke, don't fix," it applies to this situation. 
Heroin, weed, crack, cocaine, meth, prescription pills, acid, mushrooms, ecstasy and PCP are great classics. They're easy enough to find so that your unsuspecting suburbanite neighbor can discreetly  smoke/snort/swallow/eat/shoot drugs after the children are tucked in and it's cheap enough so that the homeless bum on the sidewalk can live the "high" life.  
But somewhere in-between paying for water, the creation of dub-step and fighting a war for a million reasons misunderstood by the general public, things started to get weird. Shooting up heroin in bathroom stalls and running from the "CIA" high on meth wasn't hitting the spot anymore. 
Desperate kids and adults are looking for new ways to get high/resorting to old ways that have previously been discarded by smarter druggies. 
New and unimproved ways to get high. 
1) Licking toad venom.
2) Smelling really hot poop
3) Eating rotten cheese
4) Drinking rubbing alcohol
5) Drinking the pee from people who had previously eaten hallucinogenic mushrooms. Why not just skip the pee step and eat the mushrooms first-hand? I wonder.
6) snorting bath salts. 
7) choking yourself.  
8) huffing moth balls
Sniffing poop to get high should act as a silent alarm/automatic world reset button. The second someone voluntarily stuffs their nose into a pile of feces and breathes in the scent, the world should explode, wait a couple of months, and then start over. 
So if you find your son hunched over with his face buried into a pair of his grandmothers soiled depends underwear, Don't yell at him. Don't hit him. Don't send him to the fmaily therapist. Don't even try and stop him. Just sit back, take a few deeps breaths and relax as you wait for the world to end.  

Groundhogs Day.

(original summary)

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Groundhog_Day_(film) 

Self-centered and sour TV meteorologist Phil Connors (Bill Murray), news producer Rita (Andie MacDowell) and cameraman Larry (Chris Elliot) from fictional Pittsburgh television station WPBH-TV9 travel to Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania, to cover the annual Groundhog Day festivities with Punxsutawney Phil. Having grown tired of this assignment, Phil grudgingly gives his report and attempts to return to Pittsburgh when a blizzard shuts down the roads. Phil and his team are forced to return to Punxsutawney and stay in town overnight.

Phil wakes up to find that he is reliving February 2. The day plays out exactly as it did before, with no one else aware of the time loop, and only Phil aware of past events. At first he is confused, but, when the phenomenon continues on subsequent days, he decides to take advantage of the situation with no fear of long-term consequences: he learns secrets from the town's residents, seduces women, steals money, drives recklessly, and gets thrown in jail. However, his attempts to get closer to Rita repeatedly fail.

Eventually, Phil becomes despondent and tries more and more drastically to end the time loop; he gives ridiculous and offensive reports on the festival, abuses residents, and eventually kidnaps Punxsutawney Phil and, after a police chase, drives into a quarry, evidently killing both himself and the groundhog. However, Phil wakes up and finds that nothing has changed; further attempts at suicide are just as fruitless as he continues to find himself awaking at 6:00 A.M. on the morning of February 2 with the clock-radio on his bedstand playing I Got You Babe, by Sunny and Cher. 

When Phil explains the situation to Rita, she suggests that he should take advantage of it to improve himself. Inspired, Phil endeavors to try to learn more about Rita, building upon his knowledge of her and the town each day. He begins to use his by-now vast experience of the day to help as many people around town as possible. He uses the time to learn, among other things, to play piano, ice sculpt and speak French.

Eventually, Phil is able to befriend almost everyone he meets during the day, using his experiences to save lives, help townspeople, and to get closer to Rita. He crafts a report on the Groundhog Day celebration so eloquent that all the other stations turn their microphones to him. After the evening dance, Rita and Phil retire together to Phil's room. He wakes the next morning and finds the time loop is broken; it is now February 3 and Rita is still with him. After going outside, Phil talks about living in Punxsutawney with Rita.

(My summary)

Negative and bitter college freshman, Dominique Turek, is sent from the Bronx to travel to Guilderland, New York to engage in the annual summer break festivities starting on May 18th 2011. Dominique grudgingly relocates back to Guilderland and then attempts to escape to just about anywhere else in the United States. Unfortunately, she has no job, no cash and five failed road tests trailing behind her. Dominique is forced to stay in Guilderland for the summer due to her laziness and inability to get her act together.  

Dominique wakes up to find that she is reliving May 18th 2011 day after day after day after day. The day plays out exactly as it did before. No one else seems to be aware of the time-loop. At first she is confused, but, when the phenomenon continues, she decides to take advantage of the situation with no fear of long-term consequences: she learns that her neighbor doesn't like it when cars park too close to his house. She earns money by pulling weeds for her father dressed like a lesbian in front of Route 7. She cannot drive anywhere because she does not have a license and would be thrown in jail if she sat anywhere in a car besides the passenger seat or the trunk. Her attempts to get closer to having an eventful summer repeatedly fail because of her proximity to the worlds most average capital in the world, Albany.

Eventually, Dominique becomes despondent and tries more and more drastically to end the time loop; she gives ridiculous and offensive criticisms of Albany and its residents. She decides to plan an escape route that will land her anywhere over 50 miles outside of Guilderland. She sees herself behind the wheel of a car gunning it towards Vermont or Colorado or Georgia. Police chase her until she drives into a quarry, evidently killing both herself and her small dog she brought along. However, Dominique wakes up to find that nothing has changed; Dreams about escaping persist but her plans to run off are just as fruitless as she continues to find herself awaking at 1:30 PM every afternoon with her t.v blaring episodes of Roseanne. 

When Dominique explains the situation to fellow Albany residents, they suggests that she is a bitch who needs to stop complaining about her hometown. Curious why people are so defensive of this place, Dominique endeavors to try to learn more about Guilderland, building upon her knowledge of the town each day. The experience has taught her close to nothing. She has re-learned that Albany/Guilderland is as shitty as a place as she previously believed it to be. She uses her negative attitude to piss off as many people as possible. She also spends her time eating, going to the bathroom and reading horoscopes.

Eventually, Dominique is able to de-friend almost everyone she meets during the day, using her experiences to make passionate Albanites even more defensive of their hometown. She crafts a blog on the summer vacation festivities, or lack thereof. People become so irritated by her constant complaining that most readers close out of her blog and suddenly turn into Guilderland patriots.

After dominique's 5th grilled cheese, she retires to her room, the spot in her bed still warm and sunken in from having laid in it right before the cheese melting began. She wakes up the next morning to find that the time loop is still in action; it is still May 18th and everything is still the same. After going outside, Dominique talks to herself because she is slowly losing her mind. She then goes back inside because it's too hot out.

Sex isn't for everybody (women)

My brother has been calling me a lesbian for years now. He thinks that because I advocate for women's rights, that I also advocate for women's vaginas. But finally, it dawned on me, women can't do everything that men can. There is one area that men handle much better than women, and that is sex.
Cosmopolitan magazine is famous for running articles about sex, women, and flexible women who have sex. Thousands of their articles and magazine covers are dedicated to helping couples improve their love lives, but I think Cosmo is going about helping readers all wrong. If the magazine really wanted to help it's readers, it would publish an article titled, "Women Should Never Have Sex." The article would go on to explain the various pitfalls of having sex with a woman and all of the benefits it doesn't have to offer. 
Women should have a mental health evaluation before losing their virginity. The test will be administered by women who HAVE had sex and HAVE NOT lost their sanity afterwards. There will be no questions on the exam such as, "Did you grow up in a good neighborhood," "Did you go to a private school" or, "Were your parents happily married?"  With regards to sex, the answers to these questions mean nothing. Women with clean pasts are not exempt from the sex-based insanity that plagues so many. To gauge a woman's sexual sanity, ask her an untraditional question. "Did your last partner file a restraining order against you?"                                                                                                  
As I have mentioned in a previous post, no activity that can be replicated using a hot dog and a donut is that serious. In fact, it's quite funny. People being naked; funny. Weird noises; funny. Pelvic thrusting; very funny. Yet, it's not uncommon to watch a woman transform from smart, funny and assertive to naive, psychotic and spineless in the weeks/months that follow sex. 
The symptoms of sexual insanity are: 
1) False Hope. Women with sexual insanity often hold on to every last bit of hope and falsely assume that their relationship is worth saving. 
2) Chronic Low-Battery. Obsessively checking their phone hoping to see a missed call or text from their "lover."
3) Loss of Friends. Friends sink lower on their totem pole of importance as the infected girl becomes more serious about her career as a stalker. 
4) Over-Abundance of Unnecessary Knowledge: The girl knows where the guy is at all times, has seen his new profile picture before anyone else and has kept close tabs on suspicious wall posts from other women.                                                      
If gone untreated, sexual insanity can lead to:
1) Dating a loser for a prolonged period of time. False perceptions of grandeur in a loser are not uncommon. 
2) Becoming a stay-at-home mom. The disease causes women to lose sight of their aspirations once it infects the core of their brain. 
3) Adultery. The man, seeing the woman's pathetic obsession with him, believes that he can get away with cheating. He knows she will give him a second chance...and a third.....and a seventh. Suddenly, the woman is caught in a love triangle. 
4) AIDS. A result of all the unprotected sex happening in the love triangle.


By combatting AIDS and sexual insanity in the article titled, "Women Should Never Have Sex," Cosmo would be killing two birds with one stone. 

The Unimportance Of Family.

I think that you have been fed a lie. 

I think that I have been fed a lie as well. Luckily my weak stomach caused me to regurgitate it before it could do any real damage. 

I think you've been told that family is the most important thing in the world. That without family, you have nothing. That at the end of the day, all you have is your family. 

I guess this information sounds good and looks pretty when knitted into fabrics or painted onto signs and hung up around the house. 

But what about the people who have shitty families. What about the kid with a crack head mom and a sociopathic brother with a tail and a dad who moonlights as a transvestite prostitute. 

Telling a kid with a bad family that family is the most important thing in the world is like telling someone with lactose-intolerance that milk is the meaning of life. At the end of the day, you can always come home to a nice glass of milk, and then painful bouts of diarrhea. 

Now, you're probably thinking that I must have a real shitty family to be writing all of this, but that's not the case. Besides the fact that most of my extended family are about as useful to me as a broken refrigerator, my immediate family + a few others are great. 

It doesn't matter to me that 

my dad killed a goose with a pitchfork

or that my mom screams "WHORE" at burnt pork roasts

or that my brother eats peanut butter in the bathtub

or that my sister shaves her knuckles. (just kidding)

There's no hidden Scarlet Letter message in this blog that's trying to convey hatred for my own family.  

But I do think that's it's unfair to generalize family as "the most important thing in the world," when really there's a lot of kids out there who don't come home to nice, stable, loving people. 

Don't tell a diabetic that chocolate will be there for them at the end of the day

Don't tell an amputee that the only thing they can count on is their legs.  

Don't tell someone who is family-intolernt that family is the most important part of life. 

Cause maybe what's most important to a someone is their dog

or work

or a garden

or a doll collection

or rock collection

or stamp collection

or toenail collection.

And for the people who don't understand, they may think that a family of collectables is a materialistic filler for the immaterial family a person missing. But as for the collectors, they may think that family is an immaterial filler for the materialistic family of dolls and rocks and stamps and toenails that the family man is missing. 

At the end of the day, all you need is yourself for substance, maybe another good guy for company and a weird hobby for entertainment. And for some people, this is family. 

Dance: A Fart-Form.

For fifteen years, I partook in an activity that I absolutely hated. Once a week, for a decade and a half, I was shoved into Ms.Barb's dance studio by some sort of invisible mocking hand. Armed with three pairs of dance shoes, two left feet and zero friends, I was rather ill-equipped to handle the hour and a half session. So what was it that made me so unappealing in the eyes of my fellow "dancers"? Was it my signature Oscar the Grouch face and ominous glare? Was it my ripped tights, too small leotard or my inability to remember to wear a bra during jumping exercises? 
Dance class gave me an ultimatum. I could continue to take the low road and embarrass myself and the other 29 members with my bad attitude and poor dancing, OR I could become, one of them. If you've ever seen me dance in a club, in a bar or in my shower, you'll understand that I took the low road. I jump up and down and wave my hands around in the air. My dancing looks similar to the scene in "My Girl" when the little boy is trying not to get stung by bees. The only difference is that I don't die at the end, (although I'm sure a lot of people on the dance floor wished that I had.) But it's not all bad news for me on the dance floor. For all of the guys who think that 'dancing' means sneaking up behind a girl and trying to sodomize her through her clothes, my dancing comes in handy. My up and down motion transforms me into a lethal weapon. I head-butt anyone who comes within a 2 foot radius of me. 

Not once in my fifteen years at Ms.Barb's dance studio did I ever wish to be like the other girls. There's  nothing worse than a bunch of white suburban bitches trying to dance with the same intensity of a black woman to Will Smith's, "Miami." There's something unnatural about a white girl from Guilderland doing a body roll and booty shake to one of Ms.Barb's family friendly rap songs. Adding to my uncomfortability in the dance studio was the fact that the entire room was like one big bad acid trip. Ms.Barb's obsession with penguins was evident in the bathroom, changing room and dance room. Hundreds of fake penguins lined the shelves and the floors. 30 girls in black tights and leotards jumped in line. Their hair whipped from side to side with the wind created by their spins. The small container filled with ponytail holders in the corner was never quite what it seemed. There was a hologram on the top of the container and if you glanced at it, it looked like a huge caterpillar. But if you really studied it, you saw that it was actually a group of ballet dancers clothed in white satin. As if this wasn't bad enough, the room always had the same odor of farts, B.O and cheap perfume. This dance studio is the only place that I know of where you enter sober and exit fucked up without the use of drugs or alcohol.

So why'd I do it? The group of girls I danced with would be referred to by nice people as "Chatty-Cathy's." Fortunately, I'm not very nice. I just choose to coin them with the term, "C U Next Tuesday's." I think that half of me wanted "danced for 15 years" written on my college resume. For all that the college knew, I could have been the best dancer in there. I could have been the assistant teacher. But I think that the other half of me wanted to see how long I could last there. I wanted to test my mental strength. The obligation I felt to go to dance class was no different than the obligation I felt about emptying the garbage or taking my dog for a walk out in the cold weather. While many girls cry during their last recital, I found myself leaving early to beat the evening rush at Subway. I didn't want to dance, but I had to prove something to myself. It was my own self-induced chinese water torture, only the taps I heard weren't from water, they were from shoes. A far worse punishment if you ask me.