For the seventh or eighth time this year I’ve gotten another notification from Google telling me that my storage is almost full. What was holding the majority of that space? My Google Docs. I swoon with surprise here. Traveling back to 2012 when I first started using Google Docs, I introduce to you, ladies and gentlemen of the internet, to the small treasures (take the word as you see fit) I’ve found. We’ve made it through 2013. Don’t worry – I’ve spared you the college papers on American Gothic literature, Critical Theory, and some type of history class. There will be a second post with 2014 – present day in the near future, either prepare to run or keep your eyes peeled.
“Sex with someone you love” (3.3.2012)
It’s like when someone else puts on your rain boots. At first it’s awkward and uncomfortable. Your body movements are thought out and restricted. Then there is the rush and you feel yourself being pulled in. You’re surrounded by warmth and protection. You can feel yourself getting wet. Occasionally, there is a droplet of salty perspiration here or there to remind you that you are together. They are your umbrella, your raincoat, your galoshes; being with them is cleansing as standing in torrential downpour. It’s scary to be under that type of voltage—positive, negative sparks floating in the air—but it’s also a comfort to know you are one piece of a greater whole.
The opening to my probation paper for Res. Life clearly started as a work of fiction.
When “my RHD” first found my Fireside Marshmallow Candle I was annoyed at myself for not having the foresight to hide it somewhere, especially because I left it in such an obvious place. After continuing on through Health and Safety inspections I was proud to see that my residents all passed with flying colors. It occurred to me after “my RHD” and I were done with Health and Safety that I was the only one on my floor who failed inspection.
Olive was always getting remarks on her name, particularly when she was grocery shopping for the frequently used ingredient. Most of the time she smiled and played along like this was the first time this or that joke had ever been made, but sometimes… Sometimes, she wondered what the hell was her mother thinking when she named her. It was one thing when she was younger; the name was sweet and endearing, just as her mother hoped Olive would be. Now, as a soon-to-be thirty-two year old, the name was sometimes just down right obnoxious. Just don’t go upsetting yourself, she thought.
Maybe it was too late to not get herself upset, Olive had been haphazardly chucking her groceries into their assorted homes when she remember that this was a new town for her, and for these new town folks this was the first time they made such a witty remark. It was just she wanted so much from this new town, and it seemed almost disheartening to start out her first few days here the same way she started every grade after her classmates had the summer to forget about her.
Lost in her memories of middle school torment the knocking from a door was lost on Olive. A sudden wrapping on glass was enough to startle her into dropping a rather large bag of flour both on her foot and consequently all over the floor.
AA Poem (12.16.12)
Is its name…
It’s something that I cannot shake
“Write the next great novel”
They say; “write any novel”
If only they knew…
I have nothing to write.
I’m filled with nothing, nothing but spite.
Spite and a vengeance; I’m a harbor of bad feelings
My lack of caring makes the old Ebenezer seem like a saint.
My spellings atrocious,
As is my capacity to love.
The things that I want are never built on stable findings;
Just on those of needs and desires.
I’m like Sea Side, in so many ways,
My namesake is home to NJ’s biggest prison and landfill…
Much like me.
I pick up trash, criminals, and liars.
And even they won’t stay.
They’re blown by the Sandy’s of the world
And much better for her pain.
It’s a sad thing to say,
But hurricanes of death and destruction are better than what I have to offer any of them.
And these people want me to write a novel.
A novel of smut, a novel of lies, and a novel of terrors…
It would only be three hundred and two poorly written pages of my life.
My life, and the men I fuck; my life and the men that fuck me over.
Behind every story there is some form of fornication; be it good, bad, kind, or what…
It exists and we all are its slaves.
Alas, my ship has come to harbor,
And I’ll be free.
Olive – First Person Draft (12.26.12)
I’m always getting remarks on my name, particularly when I’m grocery shopping for the frequently used ingredient. Most of the time I smile and play along like this is the first time this or that joke has ever been made, but sometimes… Sometimes, I wonder what the hell was my mother thinking when she named me. It was one thing when I was much, much younger the name was sweet and endearing, just as my mother hoped I would be. Now, as a soon-to-be thirty-two year old, the name was sometimes just down right obnoxious.
Ugh, I want so much from this new town, and it seemed almost disheartening run into the same issues regarding my name during my first shopping trip that I ran into every grade after her classmates had the summer to forget their immature jokes.
What’s a Shower Between Friends? (12.26.12)
He was watching her standing there in the shower; he hadn’t seen her completely naked since before they had broken up. This was their relationship now. They were best friends who did everything together, including taking showers. She was so close to him. Her hair trailing down her back covering her tan lines, if only he could just… but he can’t. She offered to shower with him because he can’t really shower in ‘foreign’ places. She’s just trying to be helpful. Maybe he can be helpful too. Here. He gently lifted her hair carefully wrapping it around his hand and draping it over her right shoulder. He could feel the tension in her neck where his thumbs had begun rubbing. He pressed harder into her skin as he contemplated tracing his forefingers further down her clavicle so they could graze the top of her chest. While he thought of where to touch her he continued massaging his thumbs into her neck. Instead of attempting to caress her chest, he worked his hands lower down her neck, then slowly across to her shoulders. He didn’t know what he was doing. He had no plan he just knew that he wanted to touch her and was hoping that she would want to touch him too.
She wouldn’t though; she would try her hardest to resist reaching out to his scarred skin. Not because of the deeply woven wounds she knew that scarred him (both mentally and physically), but because she knew he didn’t want her to. In her heart of hearts she knew that this was because of the steaming hot water pouring over her body; the almost chilled heat scouring his hands, making him act in a way that he would only regret if she too fell in to the heat of the shower.
Between stifled moans and the slight arching of her back he could tell how much she was enjoying herself. He never forgot what scorching hot water did to her, how hot it made her sexually, as well as physically. The longer he thought about her sexual desires, the longer he became physically aroused that he was only a slight thrust away from entering her from behind. He never thought he would crave this, but having his erection so close to her, knowing how wet she was from more than just the shower water, it made him want to have more than just the tip resting, ebbing so close to her. He wanted to slip inside her and make his thrusting the reason she had her hands pressed against the shower tiles. He wanted to fuck her until she could no longer scream out his name. He wanted her, but not to love—not anymore—he only wanted her to feel his hardness, his strength over her; he wanted to remind her that he was in charge by making her weak with his sexual prowess until he was ready to explode where ever he saw fit.
If he could feel any worse he would, but he just didn’t think it was possible. If she thought anymore about what was happening her body would combust, and her soul would be scorching in Hell. He broke her heart; he broke both of their hearts while causing himself an equal amount of pain. How could she be so happy and sad at the same time; it just didn’t seem possible?
It was all that bitches fault. She would never be forgiven. He was pushed into a corner and there was no other way out. Neither of them would ever forget how much she loved him. He would know if she did love him, but he was sure he loved her—at one point.
There was so much between them; so much left unsaid, unrequited, unknown. There was never enough time to explore—everything was rushed. What were they supposed to do?
Nameless (May 2013)
I’m confused. I’m annoyed, and I would really appreciate some borderline violent sex. And maybe a large, large tequila. No. Definitely large, large tequila.
The (lack of) Correlation Between the Body and the Ocular Nerve (10.17.13)
The clit and the heart feel from different spaces in the brain. Neither are connected to the ocular nerve.
Neither can see but both can feel.
They feel pleasure; they feel pain… My heart feels the widen pressure pulling at its base; your name separating each string of tissue.
My clit feels him rubbing against its most sensitive points sending gratification throughout; his name courses through my veins.
The point where your name and his connect is the brain; a brain filled with confusion. The space you both try to occupy is too small for both. So you meld in to one identity that only stays only long enough to leave.
Beep, beep, beep: Hey
Reply message: Hi…
Beep, beep, beep: What’s up?
Reply message: Nothing
Beep, beep, beep: wanna hang out?
Reply message: Sure.
Beep, beep, beep: how long
Reply message: Be there in 15
Beep, beep, beep: ok
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Legs up; hair down…
Never glasses on.
Mediocre eating out,
Prior to the real fun,
Mirrors on the ceiling make it better than he feels.
Combine my two lovers-
The vexes of each other-
And I would die of pleasure.
For one can lick and one can fuck,
If only they didn’t despise one another.
This is a waste of energy. It’s the worst idea I’ve had in a while and it’s making me hot. Literally I’m starting to sweat, and tug at my already barely-there hair. It was bad enough that it happened, but deciding to tell people about it was just fucking dumb. Looking back to that day her energy was off. Anyone could tell. She wasn’t her normal self. Usually she had this vibe, but that day, that day she was off. I had hoped it had nothing to do with the night, before but even I knew I was wrong. Especially with how everyone kept looking at me; everyone knew I had fucked something up-again. I guess there was no harm in telling people what they already knew, but I didn’t realize it would like this.
Whatever though. For years we had been neighbors, well are streets have been neighbors, and I didn’t know she was there. Even after I met her at school, I didn’t know how close she had been until the summer. Erin had been working at the school over the summer, same as me, but she was in the office. A few of the kids had mentioned that she lived somewhere nearby to school, but it wasn’t that morning that I figured out where. The night before had been rough. The guys and I were supposed to take the bus into the city, but at the last minute everyone bailed so I went in by myself– the last time I think I’ll ever do that. Well, there’s going to be a lot of things that I won’t be doing. But it’s all my fault and I can’t have it being on her.
I had gotten on the bus out of town before rush out, and didn’t leave the city until well after midnight. My boss was being an asshole, because let’s face it, he is one… so I decided to come in late to work that day. Instead of coming in at seven, I had left the house to get there at 8. No one told me that the office girls didn’t have to come in until 8. It’s not like I knew. Anyway, I’m walking onto the main road, and I see her heading off her side street toward school. Without trying to be weird, I caught up to her, and we walked down to the school together.
He was in Heaven; her mother definitely did not think that through when she named her. Did she not realize that her daughter was going to have sex, and guys would get the pleasure of saying that had been inside Heaven?
Heaven Draft 2 (11.3.13)
The room is a dark blue. Not the wallpaper or paint color of the wall, just the glow and tint of the room. It’s a blue that makes you think of Picasso or melancholy. There’s a window with a white curtain off to the left, and there’s a bed or something of the sort off to the right. If you look straight forward you see the seam, or corner of the walls.
People are stupid. Sleeping with a girl named Heaven thinking that she’s going to be your savior is stupid; especially when she ends up being a “reformed” prostitute, and current heroin shooter. The evidence should have been blinding, but when you’re dumb and blinded by a name and heavenly looks it’s surprisingly easy to overlook.
She’s short, shockingly curvy for someone who uses smack, and uncommonly beautiful. She radiated hope, and good-will. She should have been staring in Hallmark movies and not coming in and out of rehab. In fact, the day I had met her had been a horrible day. It was the kind of day when stepping out of your room to get ready is the moment you knew you should have turned around and gone right back to bed. Mouthwash in the eye, toothpaste in the hair, dog shit on your shoes and you’re not dressed yet. Curdled milk in the coffee that you then spill on your last clean work shirt, and having the rest still at the dry cleaner. Throwing the nasty paper towels you used to absorb the mess on your interview folder- complete with resumes, cards, and a list of references you owe big ass holiday gifts to when the season rolls around. Feeling like you’ve ruined all hopes of finding a job, because you’re rushing to get out into the world. And because you’re stupid. So. Very. Stupid.
You made a list though of all the places you’re going to hand deliver your resume to (even if it’s slightly damp and rotted- almost like your  at this point). You can’t be that brain dead if you’re making big plans. That’s debatable. Somewhere between mildly hopeful and outlandishly discouraged I went to snag a bit to eat. Big mistake when the day that you’ve been having was like mine. I ordered a beef burrito complete with cheese, salsa, whatever mush they color and slab on a tortilla shell, and when I went to pay my wallet was gone. No indication that it had ever made it into my pants to begin with. In the midst of panicking I realize that this amazing girl picking through a handful of garbage with hints of change strewn in was staring at me. You know you’re in a bad way when a homeless-looking girl is looking at you with concern. Instead of continuing to be that guy I hear myself telling the lady behind the counter, “I left my wallet in my car.” I’m already opening the door when I hear myself add, “Hold on, I’ll be right back.”
There was no way I was going back in there though. I don’t even own a car. I share one- with my grandmother, when she’s not using it. I am that guy. That pathetic, sad, hope-
I snapped myself out of my  to see the change girl holding my burrito in her hand along with another burrito and napkins.
“This is yours. I didn’t know what sauces you wanted. I didn’t bring you any”
Change girl is handing me a burrito, and starting to walk away. I’m watching her ass move like a  when I manage to stutter out, “Thank you.” She stopped, and turned around with a smile spread across her face like lox on a bagel, “So you do speak?” She said as she laughed.
“Yea” She was breath-taking. “I mean I do. Thank you. You didn’t have to do that for me.”
“I know, but you needed it” She began to look down and
“Wait… Would you like to eat with me?” I managed to ask her.