last blog

i dont really know how to start this, but i know that i gotta get going. i wish i could at least have this blank page to come back to but for now, ill have to settle with notebook paper.

i'd ask for luck or prayers or whatever, but thats selfish. where ever i end up, i end up. and if i dont, i dont. there's been alot of demons in my past that i can't run from, or confront, or live with. who knows if i can. tomorrow will tell. if not, its been fun. playing with language, twisting thoughts, emoting. i guess thats life.

take care.

Is there such a thing as a right path?

I guess I should get used to this feeling. Rushed, unappreciated, no love, no bed, no space. Its not the most inspiring feeling though. Sometimes I just want to jump in my car, bring my dog and a toothbrush and my passion and go anywhere. This place is a grave for so many people and if I didn't have that drive to just go- it'd be mine too. I've watched parents throw away families with meth addictions, watched students exchange careers for partying, and I've watched the most passionate people in my life... become the most hypocritical. Yeah, I'll always have some memories from the Zoo. Its been my animalistic cage for 21 years. It raised me into this twisted contraption of insanity. And now I'm being freed, but not into a better environment. Its more of a forced freedom than anything. I have to do whats next. Have to.

And thats why this feeling sucks. Whats next is fear. Its utter abandonment of security. Its putting my life in the hands of government. No free will. No time to write. No women or escaping. Just acronyms, yelling, and time that ends in hundreds. Awesome.

The one thing I actually do feel good about in 2011 so far is my mma training. I went in with every intent to learn. And the other day, the trainer called me out and said 'fastest learner ever'. Which was nice. Coming from the guy who didn't have any faith in me a few weeks ago, who wouldn't even let someone punch me, who then see's me shrimping for the first time ( ya, I was confused by the term. Shits hard though, youtube it) and acknowledges that I'm malleable. That he can actually teach me stuff quickly. Theres a fight next month and everyone keeps asking me at the gym if I'm fighting. I can't tell if they're asking because they see potential or because they think I'll get fucked up, but either way... watching those cats roll around/rolling around with them is nuts. Pulling arms and wrapping legs around heads and just doing crazy shit. Stuff that I literally have to ask them to pause and tell me what to do with my body. Am I supposed to roll over? Am I supposed push your legs away from me? Or mine away from you? Ugh... if you saw my bloody shoulders and elbows, you'd understand the work I've been putting in.


Regardless, there isn't a point or a moral to what I've put on this page really. I guess this just amplifies how brain dead I feel lately. Lost, shoved, lonely, forced. I could go on. Sometimes, I wish that I could go back a few months or years and start some things, or never do some things, or never read that blog, or never fall in love with that person, or that person, or that monster... and thankfully, we're not aloud to do that. What happened .... happened. Probably with more of a reason then I want to acknowledge. Painful, yes. Horrifying, some days. But in the end... whenever that term comes to fruition, it'll make a better person. A better teacher. A better man....


In the mean time, please send me some protective shields. Preferably just in a thoughtful way, not literally. I'm taking my ASFAB next week and after that, I'll be infantry. Which means guns and war and me acting like I'm not scared while I'm shaking in my boots. It'll be tough but I've made it this far... I can make it through this too.

you can find a guy like that on sale at walmart

You deserved all of those roses. I would have sent the rest of those head cases to a cave to bicker like little children and stopped the entire process right there. Turn off the cameras, stop production, and lay outside naming constellations for the rest of the night. Locating only cliche's - the Big Dipper, and Orion's Belt... anything... would have been better than seeing you cry. Again.

You haven't tapped all your resources. There is an abundance of love just waiting for you to find it in the right place. You deserve better than that anyway. Better than you've EVER been treated. I'm proud of you and envy you for being... you. You are BEAUTIFULLY awkward. And that = total babe in my book. Period.

Somedays I wish I was your type. Others, I just wish you would find someone who would treat you right. In either case, I just want you to be loved.

"If I were to die tomorrow, I'd want to be buried in your dimples
just so i could be reborn

every time you laugh...."

I've always wondered what makes people go out of their way to be cruel. I can't tell if its for attention or because they wake up, get ready, look themselves in the mirror and say " today, I'm going to make someone cry." Is cruelty really a part of human nature?

I suppose there's circumstances I've found myself in that have brought out a mean spirit. Back in my 'think i'm cool' stage, there was a lot of horrible stuff I did. Disciplined dogs with shoes, threw gay jokes at every given chance, and robbed people I grew up with. Yeah, I was a shitty person. It's still hard for me to think back on how reckless I was with people and accept that as 'me growing up'. But even during that time, I dont think I ever purposely went out of my way to be overtly mean or rude or belittling to someone I didn't even know. Even with my reputation, I was still the sweetheart. The one who had more girl friends then guy friends because I was capable of showing emotions and could actually listen. And that wasn't just a gimmick to get into their pants either; I was the kid who said 'I'm saving myself for marriage'... mainly... because I was too afraid to make a guy-ish move on someone. I may have, and still have, a tough exterior but I've always had the heart of a pillow.

Which is why, now that I've passed that mile marker in my growth and I'm no longer doing thoughtless acts for popularity, cruelty doesn't make sense to me. Now, I know that all of us have subjective views on what we like and what we don't. Physically, emotionally, food... we all have preferences. I get that. But my question is: do you really have to voice that shit publicly? Especially at the cost of someones feelings?

I'm a pretty superficial guy, I'll admit. I dont date heavy set women or women I dont find physically attractive. I highly doubt anyone would date someone that didn't attract their eyes in someway... anyway, this standard doesn't stop me from seeing someone for who they truly are. Just because I'm not physically attracted to you... doesn't exclude you from being my friend. So yes, some of my friends are bigger. And yes, sometimes I'll make fat jokes. But they know me. They know my type. They know that I'm 5 foot nothing and skinny and a big girl would make me feel even less of a man. So they get it. But when I'm at a bar, and my girl has to ask me if I'll get embarrassed to be seen holding her hand... or when she asks 10 times if her hair looks okay... I just want to send all my love towards her and tell her she's more beautiful then she could even imagine. And no one, NO ONE - can tell her different. She has an amazing, generous soul and even after just knowing her for a few months... she's like my older sister. I love her.

A guy stopped her as we walked out of this ridiculous igloo bar last night and said something that I didn't fully catch. I heard his friends say, "I'm not with that guy, I don't know what he's talking about". And even though I didn't hear the comment, her face told me everything. I asked what he said and she told me through watery eyes- "You wouldn't want to know or you'd go hurt him". Which was true at that point. She started crying and asking why guys have to go out of their way to make fun of someone at a bar? And being a guy... I felt generalized but it wasn't my position to get defensive. My job was to be a good friend. To tell her how great of a person she is and to not worry about what some lonely frat boy has to say. Fuck him.

And fuck all you dudes out there who do this shit and make it that much harder for us nice guys to prove were nice. Seriously. Believe me when I say making someone cry makes you a dickhead... not cool. If you want to hate anyone, hate yourself for being raised to think its acceptable to make people feel like that. That is not okay.

Hatred and cruelty will come back your way eventually. How ever you put it out there; verbal, action, or even on the internet. If you know the person, and you got something negative you want to say... say it to them privately. You two can have a nice little discussion. But don't go throwing stones in glass houses meant to keep out everyone but who you approve of. The world is full of people who dont meet our standards. People who are 'too big' or 'too weird' or 'too short' or 'too tall' and to be honest... thats what makes this life beautiful. The abundance of diversity, of personalities, of PEOPLE... who we just need to embrace for being themselves.

Words for Engineers

When my son was born,
he came out of the womb laughing.
With a smile etched into his bone structure,
punctuated chuckles
and hair that reached for the stars

like his endless imagination to dance with them.
See, he and I...
well, we spent most of our time in comic books.
Drew memories out of cartoons and bowls of cereal
nerf guns, and toy soldiers
and oddly enough, during his childhood,
he was my hero.
He wore Batman pajamas
wrapped himself in pillow cushions and draped curtains over the sides
so he could hide inside his own personal
bat cave
right inside our very own living room.
See his smile-
was the universe.
Especially when he lost his front teeth. His gap
would have made the distance between us and moon
seem nonexistent.
He was everything I could have asked for,
creative clay ready to take over the world any day now,
or atleast
our living room. And thats what I miss

because there's been some changes that have made us strangers
to each other.
And after he lost his mother,

I wasn't really sure how to reach that super hero
inside him anymore.
How exactly I could reconstruct that child
into stars and endless smiles.
So I watched him search through galaxies of drugs,
through relationships that ripped more sections out of him
then King James,
and I couldn't help but feel blamed when he came home
raccoon bruised, chipped tooth and stumbling.
Taking on groups of bad guys that
he couldn't fight off anymore.
I watched his anger grow like his hair, afro into holes in the wall,
shattered bathtubs and broken nuckles.
And by that time,
I couldn't even recognize the son I once
built forts with.
So I tried giving him guidelines, borders and guidence
forgetting that heroes tend to make
their own boundaries.
Their own moral codes and I always wondered if the shows he watched
ever revealed what it would be like
if he would just
believe again.
His clay had hardened, becoming this stoned figurine of a child who breathed and ate dreams,
and now his diet was ecstasy, and lsd or anything else that could bring him back to his
bat cave.
I wanted to jump into his mind through his ears and find
that kid of mine. The one I lost somewhere along the line,
who didn't know what death looks like,
who didn't know that kemo can turn organs into
yellow skin that his mother told him

was simply just a darker tan than his.
But my nature
is to be a man.
And so when I tested his boundary and replayed
repressed images of beatings, and being jumped
he jumped into his cage
where fists and momentum is all he speaks.
And as we danced, seeing stars and police sirens and bloody front teeth,

I saw him leave my reach for last time.
Now leaving to be a number in a cell he never dreamt of.
And as much as I want to jump through phone lines and
force him down the right path again,
I can only sit idol.
Flipping through memories of comic books.
Cartoons and bowls of cereal.
Knowing that his smile

contains my universe.

One of my favorite performances from Rustbelt... Amazing.

"you are like the sun.
and we should never look to deeply into
things we cant touch."


ohm to that one.

Rolled over

Hip Hop history last night. It still doesn't seem real; I blinked, gobbled some white substances, double fisted water and beer, and then I walked crooked out the door. I haven't really absorbed that I just witnessed Wu-Tangs last show. I feel like I just watched the Beatles or The Rolling Stones or some other rarity that, even with the deaths of icons, can still tare down the walls. Can showcase their love for the fans and put on a grand finale for us. I was appreciative. I threw up the W. I was also heavily abducted by molly.

Now, this girl is fine. Usually, one of the most smile provoking, eye glistening drugs I've ever played with. She isn't a hoe like coke; getting ran through, cut up, sliced, and sold on every street corner. This chick... is in V.I.P. She sits with champagne, sequin mini skirts and arms and legs that glow in any color you choose. She is beautiful... but like any attraction or novelty... it gets old.

Last night, I kicked it with molly for a while. I still am. But I didn't follow her to her little V.I.P. sweet. I sat in a big group of big bodied, shoulder bashing, drink spilling, fight eyes and off beat white boys. With lighting that made no sense to my perspective, and with songs... I grew up listening to.. being played at such a high volume that I couldn't even make out the lyrics to 'C.R.E.A.M.' It was disappointing to say the least. Here I am, with my boys who scatter around the US in a few days, with a hell of a free drug, with the New Year starting off with Wu and what happens... oh, thats right folks- my expectations ran me over again. Expect to have that mystical, ashtray pupil experience from highschool with your boys from highschool at concert with a band you listened to invariably through highschool... well, highschool is fucking done. And I've always been glad to say that, so I dont know why I expected anything amazing. I'm 23. I'm at a major crossroads in my life. My emotions are tweaked worse then my mind right now and I thought I was going to have a blast?? I thought... I was going to induce myself into a highly emotional state and just coast into the speakers and the words... psh, I need to grow the fuck up.

Which is now pretty much my focus. I'll continue to be disappointed with molly. She will never look as gorgeous and comfortable as those first few times. Back when she taught me how to paint pictures with glowsticks. Back when a hug would send ice up your neck and music would leave echos in your ear drums.

Actually, I'm still hearing Method spitting 'Rockwilder'. So that part's still there. But all that other fancy, enlightening, unifying jazz... that's gone. Or maybe I just took too much... stupid tongue. Note to self : anytime a lunatic with a little baggy sticks their finger really close to your face, probably shouldn't keep opening your mouth. Thats the first and last time I'll ever lick another mans finger...

Regardless, Wu Tang clan isn't nothing to fuck with. And I'll write that out as white as possible because I sincerely respect those guys. Especially Meth. Shit, after the show, having all these cock grabbers shoving anything and everything up at him for him to sign. I watched about 6 feet away from him just feeling sorry that he has to have that high standard. It hast to suck a little. Fun, maybe. But all these little heathens asking for more from you... well, you gotta have a big heart or alot of dope for puttin up with that. Could I have got his autograph? yeah. Did I want to partake in that barbaric display of fan-ism? no. I love those guys but I dont want to give them carpal tunnel. They just put on a damn show; if your gonna pass anything up to them, it better be a couch and a blunt of kush.


A dude who I slammed with at Rustbelt gave me a good ol shout out on stage though. That was kinda cool I suppose, even though I didn't hear it. Out of the sea of hundreds of people... I get called out for DOING POETRY!!! If that isn't cool, then I just dont know what is.... haha imma go to bed. Glad I got this out.

Satisfaction is the Death of Desire

"So how are you doing brother?"

"I'm good..."

"Yeah? Is that because you're actually good or is that an automated response by now?"

"Essentially automatic."

"Where are you at then man?"

"Its just hard for me to receive responses from the actual person. Dont get me wrong, it gives me a lovey dovey blushing feeling when I see a response at all.. but.. its a little more heart breaking. It just reassures that all the positivity I took in last year is accurately connected to the real person, and not that crazy monster. It makes me keep wishing and wishing that someday, I could just experience a heart to heart with her.The real her. Really pick her mind.... She's just such an amazing person... truly beautiful... and I can't help but feel like I'll always be missing out on something..."

"Thats got to be difficult. I'm sorry brother. I can't even start to understand how that must feel to differentiate the two people. But...

I know this isn't going to be much consolation, but for what its worth- she's perfect in your eyes. You don't have to deal with the other side; the people who come up to us after shows thinking we have all the answers and don't get that 'we are not the poems', we are works in progress. We are a bunch of insanity wrapped in pieces of enlightenment and people who see us on stage or in shows dont acknowledge that we are flawed, messed up human beings. Even though we're literally saying it in our pieces, the audience still wants to put us on this never ending high standard. At least you don't have to see that other side to her. She is perfect right now and maybe its better that way..."

"Yeah..."

Its my turn

I woke up today to a phone call. It was some random area code, and my luck with those calls is either a.) some recorded message informing me of some product no one wants, or b.) some stalker from Kansas. Not having too much appetite for either of the two, I sat watching my show for a few seconds before finally... I just gave in. Opened my phone, and didn't say a word. I figured, if its a recording, it'll just start and I can hang up. If its the stalker, well, I got plenty of shit to say to YOU (ps. caught you again you dingy runt, stop jockin my shit and seeeeeeeeeeeriously get yourself off the internet.)I'll refer to her as you because I know YOUR READING THIS....

Anyway, there was silence on the other end. I put the phone away from my face for a minute to check if it disconnected... and nope, definitely still on the line. So I said "(insert birth name here)" and the lady on the other side of the phone said " Hi (insert birth name here), this is Sargent Amlins from the U.S Army. How are you doing today?"

Wow. The abasement of the military. Waiting outside of cafe's, scavenging for scraps of people to recruit. Dumpster diving for quotas.

I can't blame them this time though. The times before when I had been walking through parking lots and stopped by recruiters were complete soliciting. One who was clearly trying to brand me and ship me off to Kuwait right there outside of Best Buy. Or the times walking on campus and seeing the little cardboard, fabricated illusion of 'a next step' sitting in the lunch area, handing out pencils and pamphlets and hope to students WHO WERE IN SCHOOL... trying to put them in a box. I would usually walk past that little lemonade stand and grab their pencils, throw them on the ground and say " The fuck you think I'm in school for??" I was a self protester at the time, and also... heavily into drugs that would keep the military away.

This time, I asked for it. I filled out my Army app. online the night beforehand and like clock work, bam- "Hi (insert birth name here), I'm Sargent Amlins..." And there it is. My first premeditated absolute hypocrisy. I've spent so many years of my life watching friends leave to Germany or Kuwait or Afghanistan, always looking at them like it was the last time. Savoring those 'last' nights of jibbering about old memories, like there was never going to be another time for it. I would lividly try to sway them else where. I would beg them to not pick being a turret gunner and just be foot infantry...

And now, I'm going to be a pawn. I have no regrets. I have no other choices right now. Its the Army... or a shelter. I could go to school and finish but I need my own space. I need some sort of area I can call my own and base myself for thinking and do homework and study and... well, I stay on someones couch. Pretty sure even if I thought this couch, just this couch, was considered 'my space'- I would be reassured real quickly how little say I have over anything in this apartment. Oh, the joys of living with someone more oppressive then a father.

Next Tuesday. 2 oclock. That's when I get to become a number and a date. And trust me when I say I'm not going in ready to be sold. I know those salesmen are there because they have to be. They also have to recruit so many people a month. The job has to suck. It has to be extremely pushy, and fortunate enough for me... I'm an asshole. I am also doing this, not because I believe in the war, but because I need the opportunity and the life experience. I'm going to straight up tell them to give me a 5 g sign up bonus, up front. I'm going to say I want to be shipped out west for Boot Camp, and definitely put me in Co-ed. Definitely. I'm going to twirl them around my finger and not let them shove me into a moneyless pit of resentment.

Hypocrisy or not, I am embedding myself into something current. Into something relevant. And I am going to get ripped, eat alot, write alot and most of all... be the most cynical soldier in the US ARMY. I know the policies, I know the role I'll play. And play it I will. With a smirk on my face and a pen in my pocket.

I hope to use my pen as more of a weapon in this war.

Wanted: Good writing. Apply everywhere. Please.

I just recently decided to press the little 'next blog' button at the top of the screen and I was completely ready to throw my computer.

I understand that blogging is the trailer trash of literature. The gutter rat, retarded step sister of journalism. I get that. But why are 'writers' ( I am totally saying that with disdain you mother fuckers)deciding to keep giving birth to these bastard children. Leaving them for people like me to come across and feel bad for and want to give them advice and homes and raise them into actual GOOD READS. Come on, I might be taking a hubris approach but really though...

WRITE SOMETHING THAT COULD PASS AS LITERATURE, maybe... just a thought. But really I am fucking disappointed. Degenerate pigs.

I like the weird one

"our sorrows and wounds are healed only when we touch them with compassion."


Last night was a big giant dose of F.G.O. This acronym was formulated by my brothers step mom and means "Fucking Growth Opportunity" ( and this wasn't inspired by those dirty little illiterate Jersey Whores). Regardless, it was love at first hearing with that term. Its good to take a step back every once and a while, acknowledge the emotion with a feeling and not run or hide from it but take it on. Face to face, sometimes with full awareness that the outcome is going to hurt more than simply running the other way.

As I sat around my neighbors watching a show that I loathe, I oddly felt giddy and excited. I even made sure that I had the cable on the right channel, at the right time. I made sure I had no distractions. I might as well of had slippers, popcorn and tissues ready to wipe my vagina off... actually, I did have slippers. But thats not the point. The point is that I knew watching this show was going to hurt to a certain degree. It was going to touch some spots within me that aren't healed and I haven't forgiven myself for. But I had to do it. I had to sit in the judgment of others, where the elephant in the room was me and where I... was the only one getting something more out of it than mindless television. I was purposely pouring lemon juice in my eye. And even though I smiled and laughed when I saw my parallel heart dance into the scene, I was shaking in embarrassment. Everyones eyes were pointed at the T.V, but their judgment was vibrating directly in my core. I felt an unspoken conversation of " Jesus Christ, you have got to be the dumbest person I know!" and me saying " Yeah, that's possibly accurate." And then the rest of them chuckling behind hands covering mouths and throwing potatoes and rotten flowers at my feet for doing such a great job of creating a tragic show. Tragically hilarious probably. But to be honest... I didn't let that take my smile. I was happy to see her where she was. It was a good thing for her and her career and thankfully, she totally showcased the amazing, awkward, quirky enigma of a human being I always imagined her to be.

I despise the editing process of reality shows. From the first show, you can telegraph the finale. You can tell simply by the music and camera time if the person is going to be around for much longer. I was saddened that this network decided to brush over such a rare romantic... but I was happy... that she so obviously kept her foundation. She kept her humor and invasive child-like nature. She kept a smile and kept dancing. And dancing. And most importantly, she proved... to the ones that 'know her'... that she's not a damn sell out. She isn't looking for just anyone to give her heart to. And I kept thinking "I wonder why they haven't shown a single interview, solo one on one thing with her?" and I just pictured what she would have said. I'm pretty sure she would have been honest. She would have said something dorky and cute but probably nothing that proved interest in the 'game'. I loved watching her in the sides of shots. Her expressions weren't desperate. They were organic.

All of this ... is pretty pathetic for me to say. I spent the last year of my life conned into giving my heart to a face and a blog which I didn't just keep to myself about. I couldn't keep it to myself. I had to vent... and even with the support of friends.. they still judge me. But I'm learning to not judge myself.

It's not my fault that I like the weird one. I am not ashamed that I am utterly infatuated with the mind of a nerd who I'll never meet. I wasn't the one who built that attraction anyway; the spawn of Satan shoved me face first into nirvana and anyone and everyone would agree that it would be a little impossible to not give into it. The idea was beautiful. The connection I built with her words and her insights is unexplainable. And I'm completely fine with transitioning a heart break- into a respect. I suppose, indirectly and with the sacrifice of some dignity and a perfectly fine heart, this person did a great job of making me a fan of someone. (Creepiest marketing ever, though.) And I dont have to associate those feelings I encountered this year... with the true person behind the face. I can associate those feelings for the demon who brought me into such a lonely room, left me there beaten, cockless and crying. All the positivity I experienced... well, I can attribute that to the actual person. Her thoughts and wisdom were the only true butterfly moments I felt during that time period anyway. All I have to tell myself is that in another life- it could have happened. But its not a bad thing I went for what I wanted. I followed my heart. I just had a really shitty person blindfolding me. And a really handicapped heart. But I can't be blamed for wanting love... for wanting to believe I deserve good for once. I can only have compassion for the hurt little hopeless romantic within me...

keep my head up. And keep believing.

Publish Note Failed, please provide a title and a body. Title and body are required.

Most of my life
I've been gifted with good health.
I, am by all means, normal.
I scored a 26 on my ACT, I failed my drivers test twice,
I had my first toe stepping dance in the 7th grade
with someone I've never got over,
so I guess you could say

I'm normal.
But my heart... well,

my heart is a retard.

He stumbles into parties looking for the one person who can hurt me,
convinces me that THIS is what I want,
and later that night,
I realize I'm sleeping next to Hilters sister.
And she's just as old and has that same mustache and
I have to ask myself
where the fuck I found this see...


My heart
is retarded and I mean that in every derogatory sense,
gimp, one legged, made fun of by the rest, dancing to its own beat...


My heart wears overalls.
Yup, bright red and yellow Sesame Street overalls.
I've had to child proof the majority of the things in my life because
god knows,
he can really fuck shit up.
He still plays with Pokemon cards.
Trades them for emotional debts.
He has a speach impediment. Turns two syllable words int
int
into really confusing mistakes.
The same reason he has to still wear diapers when he sleeps. He
is retarded.

And that

is my hook because

I want to make it known that if you walk into it
without knowing the challenges ahead of you,
I'm sorry
but this is my formal warning.
He can bite when he's angry, cry when he's angry...
actually, he can shit himself if he's angry-
he'll do anything to get your attention and sometimes
that means
making a giant asshole out of himself.
And by himself,

I mean me.

See usually I see myself as normal,
but with a heart this dumb...

I can't even think how to end this without saying
bring a helmet.
For us both.

A 180 isn't a Trick

I've stood at the edge of this world.
Did a head stand, twirling on one hand, hoping to
fall
wherever was safe,
in blankets and empty bottles.
Hollowed out by last nights
and last nights
and tonight and
believe me when I tell you
going to those lengths
took the strength of 5 men and I

can barely count myself as one of them.

See going that far was hard.
It took discipline like a disciple
in search for reason in a pill,
like a
still painting never noticed,
like
walking without feet.
It was groundless.
It took refuge in my soul and let me know
every time I woke up that
there was always a way to give up.
Take one more for yesterday,
and 3 more for tonight,
follow this chemical diet,
this castration of the mind,
find

nothing.
But missing pieces

Always leaving space in a picture
I could erase with another step closer.
With 4 thoughtless hours of closure, inching right back to the edge,
to the painful oasis,
slip right back into abstract patterns,
connect dots between razor memories and laughter and hope that
this next time
I can actually accept the things that I've been through.

I gave up acrobatics.
I no longer look back in that direction.
See, I wouldn't call me a quitter, I just simply ran
quicker to the other side of my mind.
Rested on realistic dreams that seem
real for the first time.
And I might look back,
fall back,
end back at the edge but for now-
I like where I'm at.

I feel safe.

Where demons come out to play

Over the years, I've been intrigued with the disgusting yet humorous happenings that take place on this internet. Watching MSNBC, squeamishly laughing at the pedophiles dumb enough to attempt to try to stick their dick in a 12 year old boy and a cat at the same time. Some who show up naked. Watching movies like "Catfish" and wondering how something so insane can happen to an individual. They have to be desperate. They have to be naive. They have to be on the outskirts of society and lonely and unaware of the probability that the person they're talking to... really isn't who they believe them to be.

I've always considered myself pretty commonsensical. I can feel tension thats unspoken. I can sense someone being upset with me without being yelled at. I can tell when I'm not welcomed with out having to be told. And I'll be the first to admit that I have done some ridiculously outside of normal things, but I never... EVER would have believed that I would fall victim to an internet scam.

This place is full of monsters. Vicious, carnivorous leaches. And even though I slept in that lions den, trust me when I say that I was afraid the whole time. It was not fun. It was intensely scary, more so then facing my own mortality or being left out in the cold with no clue where to go. There was no sense of stability. There was no sense of being awake. It was one fall after another. It was a fantasy... and it was all choreographed by a sociopath. By someone who had enough time to keep up with enough details on someone else who barely has enough time for herself, let alone... actually invest in a relationship with someone like me. It was the appeal... it was the lifestyle of the actual person... it was the idea she formulated of a 'safe haven' for someone who never knew the meaning ... it was this that kept me there. Locked me behind bars of manipulation, trust issues and lies. She spun words around my ears so tight that I never would consider opening them up to an objective voice.

I remember having conversations with this person about how I felt like I was becoming delusional. Like my reality was fictional. Like dreams where I fall head over heals magically with someone who is universally a babe... don't actually happen. And the person on the other side of the phone always reassured me of how great of a person I am and how she didn't want or need anything else and those were the hooks. Those were the things that kept me from wondering or putting energy into anything else besides waiting. But my instincts were right. And they still are.

This person is smart. However, this person has more problems then I can articulate or empathize for. But this person... is one of a million. There are tons of these people out there... some who want to harm you physically, financially or in my case... just implode your heart. She didn't want my money. She didn't want to kill me. She wanted to dismantle my sanity and take my love. It was unfair. It left me empty and suicidal. And thats precisely... what she wanted to do.

She's still out there. She's still finding ways to engage conversations with me via ANY way she can. And there's nothing I can do to stop her. Legally, there's nothing I can do to stop her. With her condition, and her devotion to the realm of make- believe, she will wear many faces... and use many names... and she knows my type so well that honestly, she could continue trying to sink those hooks in forever.

Yeah, I'm lonely. Yeah, I like my solitude. But I know now that those can't be reasons to let go of my instincts. That those shows- aren't just to point and laugh at... those shows and news casts and movies... are meant to tape your eyes open to the reality that there are some barbaric, negative beasts out there.

I know you read my stuff. I know your trying to take more time away from me. Its not gonna happen. I've already caught you once. You were sloppy and invasive. You left bread crumbs big enough for google to find.

You can beat an animal only so long before they bite you back. I'd recommend just letting me be. Get help. Be yourself. And leave me THE FUCK ALONE.