Then he hit me with a left hook to the chest and every inch of me hit the floor choking on the pot smoke I'd just inhaled.  Needless to say, they were all laughing.  I did, too.  Only, my laughs were more just dry-heaves, really.  I later found out that this was all some sort of initiation into their gang of sorts.  They were called the Smith and Wesson Gang.  They were cool, though.  I never had to do any crimes with them.  Aside from smoking pot.  I felt good.

I felt as if something were coming over me and I could do anything I wanted to.  That was the formaldehyde.  They called it "Wet".  "Wet" is what they called pot, mixed with formaldehyde.  Potent stuff, I found.  I never did it again, but on this particular day, I was reeling from it.  I remember we were watching cartoons from the 50's.  In the show, ants were carrying an entire picnic away.  One of the gang members thought it was particularly funny that they made the chick-ant a black chick. 

They had said it would come as a surprise, the feeling.  It did.  All of the sudden, I was melting into the couch and I vaguely remember someone saying, "doughnuts", but, other than that, nothing.  I think it was the formaldehyde.  I couldn't feel my eyes, if that's possible.  This is the problem with serious drugs.  They don't allow you to positively express yourself.  Until the doughnuts mention, I was operating under a series of grunts and head nods to communicate what I was thinking.  Under the circumstances, I was doing good.

College.  Night.  Waking up on a couch on the other side of the dorm and I have this note pinned to me.  "TAKE ME TO THE HOSPITAL"-written in permanent marker on cheap printer paper.  My glasses were missing, as was my shoe (one shoe).  As was feeling pretty refreshed, so I didn't go to the hospital.  Instead, I just avoided the friends who put me there, as they did me.  We both know to this day what pot and opium mixed together can do to an alcoholic, adderall-sniffing, drunken, nightmare-kid.

Apparently the one of the only girl comics I find funny is from my hometown.  I'm slowly falling in love with her.  She's Irish and Puerto Rican.  Her name is Aubrey and she went to the same grade school I went to as a kid.  She's gorgeous and she's so funny I know she's smart enough to realize she could do better than me, but hey!!  That's why we have dreams.  She's my dream.  I'm aspiring to be with her in real life though.  I don't care what it's going to take.

Can you imagine waking to find you've been buried?  I can.  I'm used to being pissed and scared at the same time!  I'm American.  It comes with the territory.  I think that's why many people hate.  They don't know what it is they're up against because terrorism is by it's very nature, sudden and cowardly.  It leaves no room for reaction.  That's what's killed our troops over in Iraq and Afghanistan.  Cowardice.  How many shooting deaths of our soldiers have there been compared to bombing deaths.  Yeah, enough said.

Listening to M. Ward right now.  Guitar music mixed with haunting vocals and mysterious sounding percussions.  I like this guy, though.  Because he fueled my engagement to this girl once.  His music is what kept us together for a long time.  I think it's the lull in his production of albums that did us in, single-handedly.  That bastard.  I guess I don't like that guy.  Forget it.  I should have said I liked Bob Marley, instead.  His music is timeless and eternal.  He never let anybody down.

Went out with my friend the other year.  We were at the New Year's Eve-thing.  In the city.  I ended up kissing a girl I would go on to date.  6 months we kissed, hugged, and fondled each other.  Still, I think the first kiss was the best.  This was when "GOOD WILL HUNTING" was in the theaters.  Hell, that was 15 years ago, just about.  Sharon.  So hot.  So nice.  So captain of the tennis team-athletic.  Sharon was my first real girlfriend over 6 months.

He went on to eat dog food out of a little bowl we had on the ground.  Wet dog food, too.  Gross.  He was stumbling around like he was drunk, then he saw that food.  He rushed over to that food like he'd never eaten before.  Gross.  His face was covered in it.  He looked like a garbage disposal, the way he ate that food.  Later, he pooped on the ground, right in front of me.  Everything he did that day was gross.  Best dog I ever had.  Dylan.

M. Ward said in one of his songs,"This love.  This light between you and I...is older than that burning ball of fire up in the sky."  I like that.  That's how you should talk about love.  As something elemental.  Not just mental.  That's what buying diamonds from conflict dealers is for.  Murderer-helpers, that's what "Jared" is, you know?  They help murderers sell their ill-gotten gains.  I can't believe people still deal with the atrocities that diamonds inflict on the world.  Fuck "Jared" and all that shit.

"I Let You Down", by Dave Matthews, is one of my favorite pity-party songs ever!  I was just listening to it.  It's a tale of how this guy fucked up and let this girl down.  It also has this great line in it..."I have no lid upon my head, but if I did, you could see what's on my mind...and oh, it's you!"  Brilliant.  Another song for us romantics who aren't successful in love/ life.  Misery comes to mind.  Thank you so much for the song Dave Matthews. 

So there is this lesbian friend of mine who I would like to date.  I'm a guy, yes.  But she's really nice.  She's hospitable and very good looking.  She just doesn't like guys.  I can forgive her that one minor flaw, I think.  I mean, I don't like guys either.  See.  Right off the bat, we have something in common.  I can't wait to bring this to her attention.  I have a hard time just talking and hanging out with her because she's so good looking and everything. 

I'm listening to an old mix that I made for my ex.  It's good music.  What can I say, though.  I'm a cliche of lonesomeness now that I've been left to squalor in the wastelands of Love Lost!  I can't wait to see another person in this place.  I'm walking like I've nothing to lose, but that's because I've lost everything.  Poor me.  I think I'll run.  It would make me kill off some of this Love surplus you get from sharing Love for six years.  I'm feeling fat.  Bitter.

Son of Sam was a killer.  Rambo was a killer.  Weed is killer.  Beer is killer.  James Bond definitely is a killer.  Hang nails are killer.  So many things are killer.  I've never been a killer.  Except on video games, that is.  I kill the shit out of things there.  I wonder if I'm just a video game that my video game killer is playing.  You know, where EVERYONE is a killer, you must play video games of boring ass life shit.  They're probably bored when I'm asleep.

Can you imagine the power of St. Michael the Archangel of the Lord.  He must be a beast.  I guy with wings who can fly and has a flaming sword!!  Awesome.  Just awesome.  I think if I had that sword though, I'd probably sell it on E-Bay for a small fortune to some private collector in Des Moines, Iowa.  This would allow me to buy a place of my own.  I don't think God would be very happy, though.  I think he'd probably be pissed at St. Michael and smite me. 

Can you imagine being stabbed?  That would suck.  It would bleed, actually.  It would mess up your good clothes.  It would get all over your hands as you try to stop the bleeding.  The assailant would probably stab you multiple times, too.  So if you only have two hands to stop two punctures, you'd need other hands to stop the other punctures.  This could get tricky.  Because you'd have to convince the people to get THEIR hands bloody.  That would suck.  It would bleed more.  Then you would sleep.

I'm an artist.  When I draw something, it's my mind on paper/canvas forever, or until it's destroyed at the very least.  My brother and sister are bankers.  If the internet infrastructure crumbles at it's foundations, only my stuff will last.  That and my ability to play guitar, sing, and fight will survive the cyber-fallout.  I'd like to find a way to tell them this without hurting their feelings, like they hurt mine when talking about their "successes".  Other things, too.  Like shooting rifles/ handguns/ knife-fighting...that kind of thing.

If I was going to be any fictional character I'd be Remo Gaggi, from Casino, that movie.  He's a mafia don in the movie.  He says things like, "I want to know the names of everyone he had there with him and I don't care what you have to do to get them, you understand?!"  I really have always wanted to say something like that.  It's so commanding.  So boss.  Even if that guy was just a GM at Target, he'd have that command of people, I'll bet.  Some people are born bosses.

Listening to Tony Bennett always makes a time traveler's moment happen for me.  I've never lived in the 1940's or anything.  Maybe that's why.  I've never lived during the good ole days.  What many refer to as their harsh times.  When it was hard to get a job and there was war.  Oh, no shit.  I forgot; yes, I have.  That's these days.   Harsh times.  Can't work.  And when you get back from War, no jobs either.  Good luck, Captain America.  You are so fucked, pal.

I was at my ex-girlfriend's the other year, and her father's friends were over.  These are the type of friends he smoked pot with around minors (My ex-girlfriend and me).  Well, we were already drinking, so...whatever.  Then things got cool because they passed the joint to me!  No pressure, I took it.  Then, my ex (let's called her Simone) and I got "tired".  We were "going to bed".  Well, we went to bed alright...and fucked.  Anyhow, the window to her room was above where the old people were.

I always thought that it would be good to experiment with new tameable animals as pets.  Let's say there was this big ghetto-superstar walking a pit bull.  What kind of pussy would he look like if I strolled by with my pet wolverine!!  I'd be like, "Fuck your pit bull, fool!!"  He'd say, "Oh, yeah?"  Then he'd reach for his gun and I'd say to my wolverine (let's call him Little Tony Bennett), "Little Tony Bennett!!! ATTACK!!!"  It would maul that pit bull on the way to it's owner!!! That guy'd be fucked!!

If I was a "mob guy", I'd go by the name "Sweets".  It would all be because I was known for making people feel good, then violently break their teeth!  "Sweets!! No!! Please!! You don't have to do this!!"-They'd say.  Then they would be reminding me of my job by calling me "Sweets".  If they called me "Colin", I'd then get pissed because they were using my Christian name.  I'd say, "Only my mother calls that...a son-of-a-bitch screw like you can call me 'Sweets'!!  Now open wide!!"  Awesomeness.

Hi!  You've reached Don Colin's answering service!!  I'm not here now, so go ahead and feel free to NOT leave a message.   That's right.  Do not leave a message.  I recorded this message to tell you not to leave a message!  Do not fuck around.  I hate responding to people.  It means I've then listened to an entire idea of what someone considers brevity.  I hate this, because they always abuse this unspoken rule.  Well, I'm making it now, bitch.  Don't leave a fucking message, punk. 

Wouldn't it be cool to see a Hippopotamus fight a Giraffe?  Not impressed with the Giraffe pick?  Have you SEEN a Giraffe?  They could jab the Hippo with that reach they have on the Hippo.  The Hippo can't even make a fist.  Giraffes have fucking hooves.  It would be like Thomas Hearns fighting Butterbean.  Google it.  It makes sense.  Thomas Hearns was lanky, but deadly.  Butterbean is deadly, too...but, very slow...like the Hippo.  See!  With all that being said....my money is on the Hippo, dumbass.

I think of God as real.  But, he's real like a guy who has too many dogs and lets them shit all over the neighborhood without no intention of cleaning it up.  An asshole.  He probably just lost control of all the dogs after awhile of trying to train them to be good dogs.  He probably got too lazy to pick up after them.  Every dog starts as a puppy, too.  So, it may have been easier for God once.  Until, that is, we shat on everything.  Now he's just surviving us.

Had a dream before they started talking about it on the news.  A precognitive dream.  That's when you dream a future event.  It was me and the rest of the people in the desert outskirts of Tehran.  The moon was the only thing besides the neon lights of a gas station lighting our way through town.  Just then, a purple-light blue strike lit the sky in front of us.  Tehran was then an explosion of light. Finally, a boom sound.  I smoked a cigarette in anticipation of the fallout coming. 

"Crutches on my speech, her looks are disarming me." 
Just a poem about a girl. 
Clever lines, syntax errors...you know, obviousness. 
I think I even might beg for my way in this poem. 
"Hopefully, she's charitable...with love". 
All that shit. 
But, if all else fails, I think I'll guilt trip her. 
Right? 
Yeah, THAT will work. 
Guilt works wonders on the pity switches of YES and NO. 
See. 
Clever line. 
Check! 
"I hope you, wish you to love me". 
See, syntax errors.
So pathetic.

I'm a marauder of Love
I seem to accost people's affection
In this Wasteland
I kick ass at it
I wear spiked shoulder pads
I step over your climax on my way to another town
I walk with sunglasses to protect my eyes from the fallout
In this Wasteland
I never feel pity
I never feel shame
In this Wasteland
I'm frenzied when woken
I'm fierce, but controlled
I've got some hard bark on me, alright
In this Wasteland
I combat depression
I reel in it's defeat
I like some whiskey with my pills
I cut my teeth
In this Wasteland
I'll never escape this place
I'll never fight against being here
I am nasty
I'll spit in your eyes

"I know what I'm doing", I said.

 "Well, what the fuck ARE you doing because it LOOKS like you're getting ready to stab yourself." He said.

 "Just got to break the skin, first...then it'll come out." I say.

 "That's just gross."  My friend says.

 "What's gross is the way it looks, not the action.  I'm saving myself some trouble in the future." I say.

 "What? Like NOT getting stabbed?!"  Harvey says.

 "Well, if it's so gross then why are you watching?" I ask.

 "..(no answer)".  

 "Almost got it...done",  I say.

 "That's gross.  All for a bullet".  He says.