Why is everyone so fixated on celebrities?  I think it’s pathetic that people are so bored with their own lives that they have to look into the personal lives of the rich and famous.  Have I offended you yet, I certainly hope I have, if not, just keep reading.

To answer the question proposed earlier (“Why is everyone fixated on celebrities?”): because people love to watch their rise, and especially their fall.  Look at Britney Spears- there’s more coverage of her than the President of the United States.  Whether it be up-skirt shots, or dropping a baby, drug use, divorce, or her going to Starbucks for god’s sake.  People know way too much information about her.  She has no personal life, and she’s entitled to one.  The girl needs help, and I personally feel bad for her.

Imagine having the world gossip about you.  Have any of you had a roomer go around about you in school?  Do you remember how painful that was?  Then how do you think these celebrities feel when they have the world talking about them?  In my opinion certain lines shouldn’t be crossed.  I don’t care if they’re the most popular celebrity in the world, if a mother or father are with their children, have the common sense and the common decency to leave them alone, and let them try to raise their kids in a normal setting.  They may have chosen this celebrity life style, but their family hasn’t.

The problem is that “regular” people don’t look at celebrities like people.  They see them as product, they see them as an occupation and not as a human being.  So many people want to be celebrities.  Can I ask you why?  Look at them, they’re a mess.  Most of them can’t hold together a marriage (well, most people can’t for that matter, the divorce rate is higher than the marriage rate), half of them go to rehab, they constantly have people back stab them, and their personal life ends up in newspapers.  Does this sound like a good life to you?

And you know what?  A lot of ”regular” people have done the same mistakes as celebrities: abused drugs, cheated, went to jail and so on.  The only difference is that our mistakes aren’t publicized over the media.  I think a person like Britney Spears would be better off (in terms of health), if wasn’t for her celebrity.  The constant exposure, lack of privacy, pressure, and drugs that surround the industry, have had a large affect on her behavior. 

If Alanis Morissette was ever to make a remix of the song ”ironic,” it would include celebrities.  They can’t wait to be noticed and once they are, they can’t wait not to be.  A celebrity wearing a disguise is the ultimate paradox.  It’s kind of like women who are stared at by men all the time when they’re young, and are very annoyed by it because it makes them uncomfortable, but by the time they get older, the amount of stares diminish and they miss the days when men use to stare at them all the time.  I think we all don’t know how to appreciate the ‘now,” until it’s tomorrow.

 People loved to watch her rise, and they love even more to watch her fall.  And because of her fall, when/if she rises again, fans will love that the most.  Me personally, I really don’t care what this or that celebrity does, I just don’t.  But what I do care about is: Seeing a person rising from obstacles.  I love to see the under dog make it, it inspires me and makes me think: If they can do it, then so can I!  Who doesn’t like to watch a boxer get his ass kicked for a bunch of rounds, and then come back some how and win the fight? 

So for anyone who’s fallen . . . enjoy the climb, and climb and climb until you reach the top.  And I know it’s easier said then done, but try to appreciate the “now,” most likely . . . you’re going to lose it.   

Have you ever became more attracted to a person after you broke up with them?  Well, I have.  I broke up with my girl friend and we still hung out as usual like nothing ever happened, but she didn’t want to do anything physical anymore.  The fact that she had guards up and wanted to have sex but made me work for it, made me more attracted to her than I ever was when I was with her. 

She doesn’t want to get hurt and that’s why she doesn’t want to have sex, even though she does want to have sex, but she doesn’t want to open up; women have emotional connections when it comes to sex.  Men do to, but not nearly as much.  I want to have a friends with benefits type thing, but she wants more than that understandably. 

My problem is is that she has had experience, whereas I have not.  I would like to see what else is out there, to have a means of comparison.  When I broke up with her, I didn’t have girl in mind to replace her.  A lot of times when a person says “let’s see other people,” they have some one in mind or they are already seeing that person.  I had no other person in mind.  I’m thinking maybe I should get back with my girlfriend, but I don’t want to hurt her again.  This was the third time I broke up with her, she’s broken up with me too, but still, maybe I should just move on.  What do you think? 

I’ve been writing for so long I think I lost my mind.  Can you please help me find it?  It has some wrinkles, the last place I left it was my skull, and it answers to the name Josh.  All your help would be much appreciated.  BIG REWARD for whomever finds it.  You can contact me at 555-6754, and thanks again. 

possibly, no chance.;.;

can i have a dollar.

fabricated genuine realness’

gargoyles like to fly out of my nose through a hose

lick my toes and play in snow.

but seriously, did you hear about them yankees<

I don’t know how to go about making my blog popular.  My writing is good, but it doesn’t matter how good it is if nobody knows about it.  I have to find a way of advertising without paying; there’s always word of mouth, which can be a very powerful tool.

 The more views I get, the more likely I can get an advertiser to pay me to be on my blog.  That seems unlikely as of right now.  But I’m going to keep writing and I’ll see what happens.  No matter what the result… I will continue to write, it’s my medication which I prescribed to myself.  You know how they have spin doctors, medical doctors and son on?  Well…. I am a ink doctor. 

                                              Write two to four articles a day

                                                and take with food and drink.

There’s no needles, pills, or nasty tasting liquids; there’s just me and the computer screen, that’s all the medication I need.  That’s why… I am INKABUSER!

I hate poker, I use to love it, but emotions can determine your appetite.  It irritates me that some one can be absolutely horrible at poker and still win.  Yes, I know it’s gambling, but there is a lot of skill involved, and this is proven through people who consistently make a living off it, like Daniel Negranu, or Doyle Brunson, or Annie Duke and so on.  When it comes to something like football or any other sport not anyone can play it and beat the best.  I guess that’s the appeal of poker, you can be the worst player on the planet and beat the best player on the planet.  Some where a long the line, this notion  started to anger me; more like the experiences angered me.

I was playing at this game in New Paltz and I raised four times the big blind pre-flop, I was under the gun, and there were seven people after me; I had pocket kings.  I figured I would get one call or everyone would fold because I was playing tight that game, so I knew people would take the raise seriously.  I didn’t want some one to limp in with an ace seven and beat my kings, so I thought if I raised four times the big blind, it would scare away any ace rags, and it did.  But it didn’t scare away this idiot named Gary who re-raised.  so I re-raised all-in and the moron called me with 4 2 unsuited.  And guess what… the moron got a straight. 

It just bothers me you can do everything right in poker and still lose, and on the contrary, you can do everything wrong and still win.  It just doesn’t seem right.  It reminds of life too much.  When I play a game, I want to escape from life, not be reminded of it.  This is where my hatred of poker is rooted.

 Should I still play the game that when I lose I’m absolutely miserable and have a skinnier wallet?  And on the opposite side of the spectrum: should I not play the game that when I win I’m absolutely ecstatic?  I could play less, which I have been doing anyway since I graduated from New Paltz.  Only time will tell, but until then, I still have a hate/love relationship with poker…. come to think of it, why did I think poker would be different from anything else?

He wrote a poem about murdering some one.

The poem was published in a well established magazine

and read by many.

He was just trying to vent his frustration at a person who pissed him off

through writing, but some one who read this poem,

took it a whole different way.

The reader thought the poem was speaking dirrectly to him,

even though it was meant to be read by many, he still thought:

“this writer… is writing to me. He wants me to kill, that’s it, it’s a sign!”

He rubs his face on the page

like a cat pressing its face against your leg.

He then proceeds to rip the page out of the magazine,

fold it precisely, place it in his shirt pocket,

and just sit at a table and plot.

If only you could just see him: his head tilted down, but his eyes are looking up

leaving a gruesome shadow under his face, the page in his pocket, he feels it pressing

against his chest… he thinks it was written for him.

His head tilts like a dog who is confused.

Let’s call this troubled fellow: Derrum, that’s a fitting name, instead of the pronoun “he.”

After sitting for a while in the badly lit room, on that chair with rips on the cushion, a plan starts to materialize. Derrums’s eyes glaze at a knife on the counter like he fell in love with it, like it’s hypnotizing him. A small smile grows on his face, he feels the paper on his chest… he abruptly gets up and grabs the knife, yanking it out of its holder so hard that the knife holder is flung in the air. Before he knows it, he slicing his own face open and laughing. The laughter sounds like crying, or maybe its crying that sounds like laughing (what do I know, I’m just the narrator).

“I’m going to kill you,” he said out loud, in a firm, decisive, no changing his mind type manner. “Once you get home, you are dead.” The paper rustles in his pocket like its alive. His head tilts agian and he starts to drool. Derrum’s eyes wave over the light, everything becomes a blur, and he passes out.

A sound of a key probing a hole

finding its mark, and then turned.

A turing of a shiny, polished, door knob

and an opening door.

Derrum wakes up…

His wife Evas is startled by his demeanor

and the cut on his face.

“Honey, what happened,” she asked with surprise, fear, and concern.

“You happened,” he said with anger and muderous thoughts in his voice,

“you happened,” he said again in an even louder scarrier voice.

She stood there not knowing what to do. A shine caught her eye

and she noticed the kitchen knife on the floor. “How did you get that cut on your face.”

He smiled like the devil himself and said, “I did it.”

“But why.”

“Because… I wanted some practice!!!”

He lunged at her like a tiger, grabbed her by the neck

and started to squeeze her neck like a boa constrictor does to a rat.

Her eys started to exit their sockets, her lungs wondered where all the oxygen was, and her brain was shutting down.

He stared into her eyes

and stopped immediatley,

“the poem made me do it, I didn’t mean to

he,” he said in a depressed, suicidal voice.

Evas still in shock, and trying to recover

sees her husband grab the dry blood stained knife off of the floor…

and put it to his throat. “I love you Evas, that’s why I have to do this.”

“What’s wrong, why are you doing this.” “The poem made me,” he chanted away, “it was all the poems doings.” He extracts the poem from his pocket and rips it to peices, then proceeds to pound on the peices that fell on the floor.

His eyes start to drop tears freely. “I don’t want to live anymore Evas. I’m so sorry what I did to your neck, I didn’t mean to, it’s just the poem, the poem, po_” “What poem Derrum,” she aked in a calm, intrigued, inquiring voice. “The one I just ripped up.” “A poem made you do all this Derrum?” “Yes, evas, it did.” “We need to get you some help.” ” I know Evas, I know.” “So why don’t you put the knife down honey, we can talk this out, don’t worry about my neck, I’ll be ok.” “No, it’s too late for that, just too late.”

His fingers grip the knife, he lifts his head high like his neck is getting measured by a tailor, and slices his throat. Blood splatters all over his wife. She stands there in a trance, blood gushing all over her work clothes, paper and blood are everywhere, blood drips in her eyes and she doesn’t even blink. Her husband is laying on the floor with a puddle of blood just oozing out of his neck. “What poem,” she thinks. She gets out of her trance and goes into a new one. Evas picks up the knife and thinks about taking her own life. she imagines what it would be like to live without her husband who was normal up to that point. She puts the knife to her her neck, puts the point in slightly and then abruptly throws the knife to the floor.

Evas wipes her husband’s blood off of her and calls the police. When they asked why did he kill himself, the only answer she could give them was; “he said a poem made him do it.” It turns out that derrum was in a bad car accident, which wasn’t an accident at all. He was trying to commit suicide but was not successful. As a result he had major mememory loss, and that poem he read… was written by him. It was his suicide note before he tried to kill himself. But the second time he was more successful. Her husband was a writer.

Your skin may wrinkle

Your bones may become weak

You might lose all your hair

But your eyes will never wrinkle.

You may go deaf

You may have no control over your bowels

you might die soon

But your eyes will never wrinkle.

That light in your eyes, no matter how old you are

can’t be touched by the hands of time,

no matter how long the fingers are,

Your eyes will never wrinkle.

Your eyes are like a glistening rain drop

on a leaf with the sun shining on it.

Your body may look like (and I know you don’t like when I say the number)

94, but your eyes look like your in your twenties

because eyes

Never,

wrinkle.

I started this blog to get my writing career started.  I was hoping many people would visit my sight so I could get advertisers to pay me.  And start to live out my dream: to become a professional writer.  But it doesn’t matter how good your writing is, if no one knows about it.  

I have no idea how to advertise my blog.  Apparently writing well isn’t good enough.  You have to know people, and you have to sell yourself to them.  I’ve tried telling people about my blog, but they don’t seem interested.  When you’re starting anything it seems a lot of people doubt your potential, exceptf or a few people.  Dont’ let this discourage you, a matter of fact, let it inspire and empower you.  It’s time to prove them WRONG! 

I will not give up.  I will make this blog so great people will have to pay attention.  I’ll write so much language will feel abused!

For anyone out there feeling discouraged… remember, to overcome something is a great feeling because you had to struggle to to get there.  If it had been easy you wouldn’t appreciate the outcome as much.  So cherish the struggle and cherish the success even more.

Men lean on polished wood bars.  The seats have no backs, so you have no choice but to lean forward.  There elbows are placed on the part of the wood that is about two to three inches higher, than the part of the wood where they place their drinks.  Glasses are lifted to mouths, lips are placed on curved glass, and the drink is tilted; directed… into the mouth of the consumer.  There eyes look down as they drink like they’re reading, or look up as if they are listening to the liquid pour down their throat.

The lights are dim, the music is loud, and the whole bar is focused on the bottles lined up like glass soldiers waiting to be emptied.  The bartender is a legal drug dealer, pacing behind the bar, going back and fourth like a human pendulum, dealing to her fiends.  She’s heard it all… she’s become numb, or likes to think she is.  She watches these men  drowned their body and mind, and then serves them another.

This is what I see when I go to a bar.  I see people drinking lies.  I don’t see people having a good time; well, at least I don’t at this bar.  This bar was a bigger dive than a submarine.  

People went there to drink, to escape.  But some escape traps you more. 

And there I was, writing it all down, capturing the moment.  I had one drink like the character from Babylon Revisited.  And now I’m serving you my drink; writing.  But my drink doesn’t come in a bottle.  It comes in ink.   Here’s a taste. 

Can you see the place?  Can you see that middle aged man leaning over that shiny wood bar pounding down beer?  His face is unshaven, and looks rough.  It looks like he hasn’t taken a shower in three days.  He sits there like a pro.  His shirt dangles over his pants showing an inch of his hairy, pale, fat stomach.  His stomach sticks out with pride; how ironic considering how ashamed he is for having a beer gut.  Can you see him?  He’s looking at you right now with those vacant glassy eyes.  His pupils are as big as nickels, and the wrinkles in his face remind you of paper that’s been wet and then dried.  He orders another drink and finally notices I’ve been looking at him.  He looks back at me tilting his head slightly as if he knows why I’m looking at him.  What -chew… lookin at, he mumbles.  Nothing sir, I said, and then avoided looking at him for the rest of the night, but he glanced back at me a couple times, and I had to resist the urge to look back.  when some one’s eyes are on me, I can feel it, so I tend to look back. 

How did this man get to this point , I wondered.  Maybe, if he had another form of pain relief, he would be better off and not drink so much.  Like me, I have writing, a positive addiction.  We all need some form of outlet to get by.  I just don’t want to end up like that guy.  For me, my bar is a page, and the drink is life.  And each drink depends on the situation. 

And Now that you’ve tasted my drink, would you like another?