"Hey Elvis!"

"Mmmmmm... It tastes like early death." She said as she took a drag from her freshly lit cigarette. I thought
to myself, well, so does breathing or eating a sugar cookie, I'm sure. I guess the point I'm trying to get at here
is to do whatever makes getting through the day easier on you, whether it be eating fruit or drinking poison. She
sucked the smoke into her lungs like she was in love. I had woken up at 8pm that evening, still drunk on rum and
beer. I had received good news the day before then. I got hired at a book store and I guess, because of it, I had to celebrate
real hard. Too hard.
The first night my friend James and I drank a 60 of rum. When I woke up at 8 o clock the next
evening there were already people coming over to his apartment. His brother Andre had purchased some CLIT (as we
called it all evening) Coors Light Iced T beer. What a treat. The only thing I could really fight down and I blabbered on drunkenly
about why my Iced T was beer flavoured. James got another 60 of rum. I almost vomited every time I watched them all take shots again and I could hardly stand up straight when I went out for a cigarette. Piss poor shape.
I went at the thing dreadfully. Choking down CLIT after CLIT and making wise cracks at how I was going to pass out and
expire if I kept this up. 6 down. Music on. Buzz getting strong. Line up the shots!
Flashback!
8:00am that morning.
James' hand was on the back of my neck and he was holding me up straight by the collar of my shirt. We were
staggering down a busy street by a high school. Kids were getting ready to go to class. Some were outside
talking to each other and gossipping, and trying to smoke, whatever high school kids do. James and I were
still awake and yes, oh yes, we were more intoxicated than most people should be if it were a Friday night
and it was your birthday. I needed a coffee, or so I had thought. So we decided to carry each other to the
nearest Tim Hortons while I tried to order a cup of coffee without throwing my guts up standing there in line.
We made it. I was wearing sunglasses so as not to show anyone the shifty black holes that had exchanged
places with my eyeballs. The entire place was spinning. There were high school kids all around me and I could feel them all staring at me. Giving me these horrid looks. I felt clammy and ethereal. James was talking to some girls behind us and I jolted around to say something. The words never came. So I stared at them for a bit, wobbling and swaying and trying not to drool
before I turned back around to figure out what in the hell the reason was that I came into this place for.
I thought about it for a while glaring at a case of soda and attempting to hold my legs stiff.
"Hey!"
"Hey Elvis!" I heard faintly in the background of my thoughts.
"Hey Elvis!!" One of the employee's was yelling at me to place my order.
"Hmmmm?" I mumbled back.
"What are you having?!" she yelled at me.
"Mmmmm Uhhhh Mmmmm regular..." I replied.
She laughed and poured me a coffee not knowing what size I had wanted. I actually don't quite recall how I even
paid for the thing but I got it and it was mine.
I toppled my way out of that store like I had just held it up at gun point.
"James! ... James... Hold my coffee man, Just... Just hold my coffee for me." I couldn't keep the fucker straight for the
life of me. I had managed to spill half of it all over my hands and shirt.
So there we were... Walking down the street at 8:00am in the morning. James' hand on my collar holding me up straight
and a coffee in his other hand while I stammered over figuring out the mechanics of my lighter to get my
god damned cigarette lit.
"Uuuuuuhhhhhhhh" I proclaimed as I slammed back another shot.
This was no longer drinking for fun. This had become drinking for sport. I had more rum in my body than blood.
But sometimes this is just what we do instead of eating fruit, ya know?
Why do I do these borderline psychotic things to myself?
Why do we?
Its like anything else, really. Its an experience. Something to live through. I could write to you all about beautiful things. I could write about how wonderful
the hot sun felt today beating down on my face. I could write about the happiest times and the portions of my life when
I had been completely content. When it comes down to it, I find a concrete sense of realism in the nitty-gritty. I find
truth in the muck and that getting covered in mud only means you'll have to find someway to get clean again. This isn't about solving world hunger, or an in depth perception of our world's politics and greed. This is about the other guy. The guy just getting by with what he has. His art, his drink, his music, and his stories. This is blatant
beauty. This is the only rose in my garden....
She exhaled and coughed a little as the second hand smoke poured back out of her lungs. She looked at me and her face cringed
just a little bit.
We both shared a good laugh...

The Happiest Time of The Year

                  Tuesday October, 23 2012. Tell me you don't feel that cold. That hard driven wind.
The birth of winter. Who in their solid mind's enjoy opening their eyes to this?
I'm somewhat of a summer guy. A real reptile. I'm savvy with the idea of sunglasses
and bikini's, patio's and shirtless walks down the main drag. Drinking mickey's on
sandy beaches. Sun burns and hot sweat. Maybe the sunshine state is the place for me.
A place where I can sleep on rooftops all year round. Yet here we are Canada. Frosty
cold! It reminds me of Rachel...
                  Around this time last year I tagged along with a few good friends of mine to a party
deep in the heart of Gatineau, Quebec. I went with very good friend's of mine Dan and Mandy,
an inseparable couple, something rare, and my big ol' teddy bear of a native man, Lewis.
It was a friend of Lewis' birthday party. I can't say I quite recall his friends name
but once this thing is all typed out and read over the reason for that should become
blatantly clear. We got there and had a drink. After that drink we had another and
after that one, another and this of course went on in succession for some time. The
socialising cracked through the room like thunder and the time dragged on. Then
she arrived.
She showed up with one of my best friends Busey and her friend Jessie. The very moment she
strolled her stuff into the party she had immediately sucked the adoration and
attention of every swinging dick in the room. I asked Dan who this girl was.
"Uh, I don't know man! Ask Busey!" he replied in good spirits.
Fuck it, I thought. This is neither the time or place to be giving up on introducing
myself to a beautiful girl. But I had to make an impression. I had to let her know
that although she could have any guy in the room she wouldn't be able to find
one like me. I walked to the fridge and cracked open a beer. I finished that one and
opened another and I walked on over.
"You are fucking beautiful."
She lit up like fireworks.
"I just wanted to let you know that." and I walked away slowly to make sure that this
mysterious facade I had encompassed for myself held strong.
I heard her say "Who is that guy?!" to Jessie as I walked away.
"Oh, That's Jaden. He's a real cutie that guy."
I took my beer into the kitchen and started up conversation about music with a few of
the guys standing in there and I glanced over to asses the damage control.
Without hesitation, she stood up, waltzed into the kitchen, looked me straight in
the eyes and said "I'm Rachel."
She grabbed my face and shoved that tongue deep into my mouth. I moved with the thing.
I was adored and hated by every guy at the party and I could feel the excitement drain
out of their bodies like a flushing toilet. I didn't care. I had won. And not a single
fuck was given by me.
We kept going outside to have a 'smoke' and we would make out harder and harder every
time, moving closer to the big game. We went outside again and Jessie kept on coming outside
to make sure I wasn't taking advantage of her friend, which was highly understandable.
But this wasn't going to stop us. No... Not us. So, when she went back inside we kept going at it.
I moved my hand down her inner thigh and she pulled back. She looked at me and said
"Before we do anything I need to know one thing..."
Fuck. I mean. I thought everything was going alright here or maybe I was completely
misjudging the situation.
She slammed me up against the wall. Her hand shot down my pants and wrapped around my cock
like an Anaconda. My fiery red haired amazonian woman...
"Find out what you wanted to know?" I asked with grave hesitation.
"Oh... Yes I did."
She slammed her face into mine again and our tongues moved in sync. She had a firm grip on it
and she gave it a few tugs. I mean, she really had a hold on things, pardon the pun.
She took her hand off of my cock and pulled it back into the cold night air.
"My place or yours?" I asked.
"Yours."
Dan, Mandy, and Lewis had already left and I asked Busey if he minded driving Rachel and
I back to my place. When we got back to Ottawa Busey's car broke down right in the middle
of Elgin street. Right there in the cold. We thought we were done for. Police everywhere. Booze on our breath. A real terrible vibe. Rachel and Jessie jumped out of the car and flagged people down in the street. I mean who wouldn't want to stop for two smoking hot damsel's in distress? It worked. They had caught the attention of a car full of good ol' boys. They jumped the car and got us out of
our hell for a pack of cigarettes and a hand shake... Good ol' boys.
        Rachel and I got back to my place. We fucked for hours. A fuck to be proud of. We woke up the
next morning and I watched that ass and we went at it again. We went out for coffee, shared cigarettes, exchanged numbers and Busey picked her up and drove her home. That was an evening! I thought. Real grit.
   After that night Rachel and I hung out every now and again. She would go over to Busey's and message me and I  would walk over to see her. She would come back to my place and we would fuck and I was getting  used to it. Over time she stopped messaging me as much and I would do stupid things like buying her gifts, things like a copy of one of my favourite books, One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest and she would come over and pick it up and leave. One day I had asked her what she had done after visiting me and she said she was with Busey and Lisa. My brain shot to a previous conversation I had had with Busey a day or so earlier.
"Man! You wouldn't even believe what happened to me the other night bro!" He exclaimed excitedly.
"Let me guess. You had sex with another gorgeous girl?"
"Not just one Jaden.. Oh no. Not just one." and he chuckled to himself.
Busey was and is the master of all that is getting laid and picking up women. Don't let this at all discredit the person he is. He is one of the most caring and trustworthy people one could know and he is a true friend. But this is how things happened.
"How in the flaming hell do you do it man?!"
"I DON'T KNOW!" he laughed.



"You fucked Busey and Lisa!"
"Uhmm. Yeah. It was alright. No big deal or anything." She replied.
         What a raging cunt I thought but I did one of the most unintellectual things I ever could have done and I shrugged it off. Like a pushover. Like a little bitch.
         Valentine's day rolled around and for some reason I thought to myself "Hey! Why don't I do something nice for this girl." But as we all should know now nice guys finish last, folks, every god damn time and this will always be a constant reminder of that. I went out and I got her what
any girl who has an attraction to me would admire. A book, a bottle of whiskey and a pack of cigarettes.
She told me she would be at my house for 7:30pm. 9:00 rolled around, and then 10:00 and then 10:30. The messages got subtly cruder until finally the last message read something like "I'm hanging out with my friends! I can do whatever I want."
         Fuck it. I had lost all admiration for this girl. I had exhausted every morsel of kindness left in my body. I called my friend Dunlop over. We drank the bottle of whisky and smoked the pack of cigarettes,
and hell... I had a nice new book to read.
We went to the bar after that and we had a beer and I threw
up and had another beer. I went home and I changed as a person. I became something else. Something stronger...
and hey! That's alright. Wisdom is bred of experience. Knowledge is harvested from inhibition
and unintentional stupidity. Life is only won by warriors. Warriors who have been through it all.
Shed blood and spilled it. Immortalised forever in literature and film, and in statues and song.
Soul-diers.
         Damn this cold. I went outside this morning bundled in multiple layers of clothing. A long sleeve shirt,
sweater, jacket and scarf to shield my cold blooded interior from the savagery of the weather. I put on
my sunglasses and wore them like a memory of a time when it was warm. That one time of the year when I
am happiest.

Hard Times for Hard People

Its dark in here. The moon is again hovering somewhere in the sky, hiding itself on and off behind deep black clouds. There are no birds chirping and the wind has
been rolling over the outside of my bedroom window with a strong determination to once again turn frigid and Ive suddenly gotten used to it. Its very quiet here.
I stood outside in the backyard to have a cigarette and I could hear the tobacco and paper slowly succumbing to the process of heat. It made a sort of crackling sound.
With every drag I took I thought to myself "Hell. Its quiet here."
and I don't think I remember the world ever being that quiet. I tip toed around the back yard so as not to disturb its innocence and I gave the earth one night
to itself. I finished with my cigarette and I heard it bounce off of the dry leaves on the other side of the fence. I wondered, If the thing ever did catch fire,
would it even make a sound?
So. Now.
Here I am. Wide awake in my room. Telling myself yet again that sleep is good. Repeating it over and over again inside of my head as if I were subconsciously
trying to cheer lead myself into slumber. It doesn't work. It never works and I let that thought sneak its way into my wannabe optimistic bedtime banter and
I'm wide awake again. Counting to ten used to help. I'd start with a solid rhythmic pace and as my eyes began to weigh themselves closed and my body became progressively
more like a large mound of dough, I would count each number slower in my head. Onnnnneeeee... Twwwwwwwooooooooo... Thhhhhhrrrreeeeeeeee...
And into the sleep. Maybe I'm just not used to the quietness of it all. Maybe I just need a drink.
These are hard times for hard people and word's are only word's if you do not live and feel them. In this isolation, in this soundless place, I feel them the most.
I used to live in the city and who knew that noise could cover up other noise? I can't say I did until now. I can almost hear all their drinking and rambling from here.
All the people sitting alone or with friends in the bars on a Monday night telling themselves that one more drink is all they'll have and by the end of the night
they'll have sucked six more down. In the morning they wake up hungover and late for work and they cradle the notion that they will never do that to themselves on a
Monday evening ever again with pride-less integrity. When the work day is over they do it again. An endless cycle of easing boredom. Hard people. Hard souls. Hard
like me.
That is just the world we live in now. Too loud or much too quiet. No in between. Purgatory for all of the real people with aspirations of grandeur and when
that cognitive time bomb finally does pull back and fire off, we are all doomed. Doomed to realise that there is no pushing forward from this and that contentment
is just a cup of coffee in the morning or a cigarette in the back yard. Or maybe it's just that sleep is a time killer only meant to single out the weak and the
tasteless and the ones void of any real insight into these strange lives of ours. Oh yes... I feel the words now.