I Did Smoke Gummy Worms Once, But I Didn't Inhale...

I have not been a smoker for long. In fact I wouldn't really call myself a smoker at all, seeing as how I have no more than three a day, unless I get drunk. (We will ignore for now the frequency of that.)
Yet as anyone who smokes anything (dope, crack, meth, gummy worms wrapped in computer paper, ect...) even just socially can tell you Bic lighters have powers. They are gregarious by nature it seems, but hold no loyalty to those who purchase them. They hold no loyalty to those who painstakingly use their knives to remove the idiotic child-safety mechanism after one too many drinks. They hold no loyalty to those whose rescue them off the street or pocket them off the back stairs. No, a Bic lighter will jump ship on you at any moment, for any reason. And not even a good reason. They don't end up in the purse of the girl with the most cigarrettes. They don't end up in the pocket of the guy who has the weed. They don't leave you for greener pastures and funner parties. They just go, and you will never, ever, ever know to where.
As for them being inherently social, its true. To other Bic lighters. One day you look down into the cupholder of your car and you have five. A true goldmine of portable fire that could change the course of history if they were sent back in time far enough. But the second you remove one and begin to use it the integrity of your stash is lost. You will lose that first lighter and when you go to get another from your car the other four have disapeared into the either. Presumably to join their friend you have just lost.
Some people might just think that its the normal way of the world that small, cheap, oft lent out things have a way of disapearing. Those people should go to fucking hell. I'm not even fucking around here, go to hell. I want no part of your shenanigans. Point is something is going on.
Maybe they migrate to have sex and give birth to those tiny little Bic lighters. Maybe they are drawn on a molecular level to congrigate in out of the way places and rarely used purses. But fucking something is going on here and I want to know what.
If you have any information about this drop me a line please.

It's Not That Life Is So Short, It's That Your Dead For So Long

Off the cuff:
DC>Madison>Kemmerer>LA>Bejing>El Paso
Talk about the long way around...
Oct. is gonna kick ass.

Vervet Monkeys On St. Kitts. Look Them Up

I don't know the purpose of life. I don't know the point or even understand it. But I love it, even when it kicks my ass.
I used to know a guy, the Hon. Rev. Sludwig (I swear he was an legit minister.) who once told me he loved being hungover. At the time I thought he was insane, or at the very least a glutton for punishment. But now I think I get it.
A hangover is your body trying to tell you that alcohol is a poison. It is harmful and it kills you and you had way too much last night/afternoon/mid-morning (why should my state of inebriation depend of the time of day?).
Yet despite what some of us might say on Saturday mornings we know we're gonna do it again. We're going to head back into that breach once more dear friends and drink ourselves stupid. We're gonna drunk-dial and lose our keys. We're gonna charge 3 large security guards at Best Friends Day and we're gonna hook up with not-so-pretty people.
And that's what I love: that despite the overwhelming argument against drinking and drunkness starting with how stupid it makes you and ending with your body physically telling you to stop we just don't give a fuck.

Good Luck In The Navy

Fuck it. Make me the bad guy. I'll take it. Every fucking ounce. Forget what I said, forget what I meant. Hoist it onto my shoulders; I got this.

I become stronger in response to what I have to carry. I always rise to the occasion. Stab me, shoot at me, blow me up. Choke me, punch me, beat me the fuck down. Break my ribs and bruise my soul. I'm gonna be here. I might bleed on your carpet (sorry Finch) and I might be fall-down drunk (sorry Finch plus everyone I know...) but I'll be alive.

This Has Nothing To Do With Elton John

Nathan Lane just saved my life.
Super drunk. We're doomed...

Tuesday's Gone...

Thank you.
Thanks for the Mix CD's and the couches to crash and the booze. Thanks for listening and thanks for my shit. Thanks for the drugs that have been offered and good times provided. Thanks for forgiving me when I did not deserve it. And thank you for listening.
Thank you to anyone and everyone who trusts that one day I'll be more than what I am today.
I've been weak and I've been dumb, but I am going to do better and I will be better.
We all fuck up and we all have to deal with shit. If we're lucky we have people there to help us and forgive us when we're selfish bastards. And we have people to tell us that they love us.
I'm lucky. I'm very fucking lucky.

I'm too drunk to taste this chicken. But trust in those who you have always trusted.
M. Nappi is gonna be alright.

Captain Jack Will Get You By Tonight

Have you ever been homesick for somewhere you've never been? Instead of a place its more of an idea; a concept of a time and a place where everything is sunshine and roses, pizza and blowjobs.
In my mind I strive for someplace where everything is not just ok, but wonderful. When I was a child it was adulthood. When I was a teenager it was college. When I was in college is was Real Life. When I was in Iraq it was America. And now its college and Real Life again. Talk about a terrible cycle.
One day I'll find it. One day everything will be ok. One very fateful day I'm going to find that Bannana Farm we always used to talk about. I'll hack my way through the underbrush and appear into the clearing and there it will be.

She Was A Cool Chick, Even Though She Lived In McClean

A few years back I was riding the Metro home from DC. It was a Sunday afternoon in late November, the sky was clear and sunny but it was cold. I had come from Union Station and before that Richmond. I had been in the RVA for Sid's 19th birthday, which was well worth the trip. It was around that time though I was teetering on making the biggest decision in my life: if I should join the Army. And as anyone who has stood on the precipice of life-altering choices can tell you it tends to occupy your mind. At the time I was well practiced in masking my thoughts when I had a mind and despite that fact that I was amoungst the closest people to me in the world there was enough going on (READ: Sex, Boose and Weed) to keep them from prying into my pysche; therefore my preocupation went unnoticed and kept at bay.
But on the trip back to V-Town reality set in with the strength that only lack of sleep and soberity lends. Thus I found myself lost in thought as I boreded the Orange line and slouched deep into my seat. It wasn't until halfway through the ride I noticed a woman noticing me. She was mid-to-late 20's, attractive in an elementary-school teacher way and was with an older woman. I can't say why but I could tell after five seconds the older woman was her mother. I made eye contact with the young woman (Which was risky I know. Eye contact on the Metro can be a form of assualt in some people's minds.) and she smiled at me. (Which could be interprited as attempted murder.) Before I could even manage a feeble, worn-down, hungover half smile she asked me if my sweatshirt said SHIP. I responded with suprise that yes it did, it was short for Shippensburg University in PA. She told me she knew it, she was an alum and we fell to talking. We talked about where we lived, how bad the football team sucked, how renovations were going and our favorite places to party. Her mother looked awkwardly on.
In the course of our conversation I explained how I was no longer a student there and when asked what I was doing now I gave a response I had never given before. I told this young woman, this stranger who knew all about the CUB and Bard and Maxie's and Naugle that I was about to join the Army. I told someone I didn't even know the name of something I hadn't ever said out loud before. Something I wasn't until that moment sure I was going to do. My family had no idea, my friends had no idea, my lady at the time had no idea and I spilled the beans first to a random woman and her mother on the Metro.
I don't know why I told her. I don't know why I didn't talk about NOVA and Culinary Arts. I guess it was because as much as I knew nothing about this random woman I did know some. She knew how Ship smelled. She knew Naugle was the ghetto and Richard St. had had a riot. She called me a ShipMate. For some reason right then shared experience counted for a lot.
In the end she and her mother got off at Falls Church East and I rode to Vienna/GMU. I walked the half mile to Nottaway where I'd parked the Green Monster and drove home as the sun went down. And as I walked up the driveway to the house that wasn't home anymore that held the family who would look with disaproval on my unkept and obviously strung-out appearience I wasn't as tired as I had been. I felt a little bit lighter and a little more certain of myself for the first time in a long time.

I'm Going To Lose Some Sleep Over This

They say Pride comes before the Fall. Or rather the Bible says that. While I concur that Pride can hurt you sorely, sometimes its all that matters. When a person takes pride in what they do, how they act, what they say and believe, this is not a bad thing. And when a person professes to be something, to believe in something and stand for something its a matter of pride that when push comes to shove that they do what they said they would do, they are who they claim to be.
Some people, many people I think, don't see it that way. They think that our only obligation is to ourselves, or at least our first. I don't know how I feel about that, but if you can't stand to live with yourself knowing you did nothing when you should have done something then maybe you are looking out for Number 1. What I mean is that if you do nothing out of fear or common sense or self-preservation or just about any old reason besides you think its the wrong course of action then how can you stand yourself? How can you look at yourself everyday knowing you failed in your obligations. Your obligations to others and your obligation to yourself to be the kind of human being you can respect.
I'm not saying we have to be perfect. Better than some I know how deeply flawed we are. What I am saying is that because we're all flawed its that much more important to do whatever it takes to be better. To have courage and strength and not back down when real shit is on the line.

As Dear JPo Would Say: "Shambles. My Life Is In Shambles"

I dislike how everything I write now stands in contrast to anything written before I left for Iraq, or during. I dislike the idea of periods in my life because they very rarely feel like periods when I'm in the midst of them. Its not until some silent and massive door swings shut behind me that I realize things have changed. And while I think its true of everyone's life I also know I have a penchant for burning bridges while I lament the fire.
In any event Life Goes On and so shall I.
I've been drinking a lot. SUPRISE! Its hard to describe how I am in full understanding that I drink too much, yet am not bothered by this revalation, but that's where I stand. All I know is that it helps.
When I'm bored it gives me something to do. When I'm tired but can't sleep it puts me down. When I'm beaten down by my own life it picks me up. When I feel like being anti-social and alone it sends me into conversation with rando bar girls. When I feel like shit it makes me feel like gold.
And some people (most people?) think that't not ok. Army therapists, R&K and so forth cast stones. I'm ok with that; cast away kids. We all only understand our own lives; our own shit. No matter what anyone thinks they know about me, or you, they don't. They know them and guess at the rest. And they may be right; they may know what works and what doesn't. They may have proof and numbers and rational thinking on their side, but who gives a fuck? Call me a product of my enviroment but I'm young, dumb, strong and American. And just like most of us I've got an underdog complex. We love Rudy and Rocky and grew up learning we were born as a nation facing the odds. We play the Lotto and don't give a fuck. We think anyone can be President, and we all can change the world. So who can tell me I'm an alky? Who can say I'll die of cirrhosis of the liver, or that when I do its a bad thing? Who can say that my life has to be long to good? Who the fuck can tell me that growing old, shitting myself then dying in my sleep is a better end then buying the farm while robbing a bank? Or driving a motorcycle or fighting in a war or a monkey knife fight?
Alright I admit I went a bit off the reservation just there. My point is society pressures me to be who they want me to be. Sober, well-adjusted, monogamous, responsible, ect. while all I want to be is me. And all me wants to do is what ever the fuck I want to. And as long as I don't drunkenly stab you (and you didn't deserve it) then who gives a shit?