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"Hello" the voice on the other end of the phone was female, that was a surprise. Somebody answered the phone, that was the bigger surprise.
"Hello" the feminine voice on the other end asked one more time before hanging up the phone.
Five miles away, in the center of the city Bruce's curiousity was piqued. He had been calling 482-3488 for the last 5 years, every day there was no answer. It seems that cell phone companies have a mandate to suspend a number for 2 years prior to re-issuing a phone number. They leave a good chunk of time for the person who gives up the number to get it back.
The number in question had belonged to Bruce's young wife and the fact that somebody now had the number assigned to them and that that somebody was female set the wheels turning in Bruce's head.
-Flashback-
It's 1998, Bruce is at a dimly lit bar with his unnamed college buddies. He's intoxicated, but he's earnestly purusing a cute, blonde co-ed who has not had nearly as much to drink as Bruce has.
"What's your drink, I want to buy you a drink."-Bruce said to the blonde co-ed, who had a drink in her hand.
"This is a Cosmo and I appreciate the offer, but I'm stil working on this one and I'm trying to pace myself. Wouldn't want to be too impaired to recognize when a cute guy was hitting on me, or too drunk to hit on a cute guy for that matter."
"If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were talking about me."
"You don't know any better, but that's okay because you've got the cute part down."
With that she was off to the other corner of the bar where her friends were waiting for her. She told them the story, they giggled, they noted how cute Bruce was.
Bruce, sensed there was something special about this mysterious blonde, somewhere a little voice in his head told him that this wouldn't be the last they would see of each other. On the way out they caught eyes, neither had any desire to talk, but their eyes said all that needed to be said between the two.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Tuesday, September 02, 2008
It was a Sunday Morning
“I guess if we’re being technical, it was a Sunday morning, sure, but to me I call the day by the time I go to sleep. So for me, it was still a Saturday night.” James, a high school senior, well not technically a high school senior anymore, see not two hours earlier .“and that’s the last time you saw her?” asked Detective Maroney, as he leaned further and further into the young man’s personal space.
“Yes, for the last time yes. Are you guys sure I should be talking to you without a lawyer?” the question was both condescending and sincere all at the same time.
“Lawyer’s are welcome, but let me ask you this.” Detective Dalee took saddled up to the side of the new grad. “If you’re so sure you’ve got nothing to do with this, why do you need a lawyer?”
James turns to Detective Maroney, “Do they do this, do they partner up young cops with retards, I mean are you like a special education unit or something.”
This sets Detective Dalee off and he grabs the teenager by his cap and gown and pulls him in.
James is rattled, “Hey man, what are you doing? I’ll have your fucking badge over this.”
“No, you won’t.”
“The fuck I won’t.”
“The fuck you will, you see, Mr. Smartass, two weeks ago you turned 18 and not only does that mean, that we can fuck with you all we want, it also means that when you do get what’s coming to you, and you will get what’s coming to you, that means you’re up for the needle.”
James regains his composure, remembers that these two Detectives are playing for keeps, “Listen, gentlemen, you’ve got to realize that although I just graduated from high school, I’m not one of those fucking idiots you see on CSI Miami whose too fucking stupid to ask for an attorney.”
“You aren’t huh, well then, I guess we will just have to get you a phone, but ya see, the phone’s all tied up right now, so that’s going to be a minute.”
The Detectives flank him on each of his sides. “Yah and when you do make that call, well the attorney’s they always take so long to get here, you never know what were liabile to make you see, err you’re liable to say in that time.” Maroney said.
“He’s right, I can’t even count the number of cases I’ve put in the black in that 2 or 3 hours it takes to get you a phone and get a lawyer down here.”
“You think I’m as stupid as you fucking look, don’t you?”
“Yuck it up now you little picece of shit, by next month you’ll be tricked out and blowing dudes in the shower.”
“I bet you’d like that wouldn’t you Officer Marricone is it?”
Officer Maroney takes exception to this and backhands James as he sits in his seat.
“I’m going to tell you how I’m going to get the fuck out of here.”
“How’s that, you going to call your father, Mr. Big Time Attorney? You wouldn’t want to do that, now would you?”
“You see, you stupid, stupid bastard, I’m going to use one of three things god blessed me with but left you asking for, a brain.”
“What are the other two?” asked Dalee, walking straight into a punchline.
“A set of balls and a dick you fucking idiot.” James had thrown all regard for the law right out the window with that line.
“Well Brainiac go right ahead.”
“Okay, well give me the fucking phone and I’ll play Houdini and make these walls, those bullshit charges and your badges disappear.
Thirty minutes later, James Paddington was waving goodbye to Detectives Maroney and Dalee.
Sunday, August 31, 2008
My Mother Once Told Me
“This is great, my mother once told me, well she sat me down and you know turned down all of the lights all of them but that one above the kitchen table. She looks me dead in the eyes and she tells me “you’re going to have your call to arms, you are. Men in your generation will be tasked with shouldering a burden unlike any this country has ever asked its sons and daughters to endure.” Who the fuck was I, I was sitting there thinking she’s talking about the depression or maybe even a civil war.”
“Ahh fuck are you kidding me with that bullshit…”Martin, an ox of a Marine sitting in the back was saying.
“Swear on my fucking mother’s grave, she sat there and she rambled on about how I would see my best friends, kids I grew up with dying right besides me.”
Suddenly from the lower bunk Coltrane, an 18 year old private not so coincidentally from Thompson’s home town chimed in: “Well did your mother, also tell you that you’d be stuck in fucking Fiji, humping playing the Saxaphone for the USO, did her premonition include the rum we drink every Wednesday night prior to us trying to get lucky with an island girl?”
The entire room erupted in laughter.
“Well, maybe she got a message intended for a neighbor or something.”
“Yeah, but now there’s some fucking poor kid lying dead on a beach in France whose mother told him she saw him on a tropical isle.” Coltrane again had the room in stitches.
The three men were getting ready for another night on the town, they were headed to the local bar and it would be packed with sailors just like them, well not just like them, you see these men were all members of the Navy’s marching band and that isn’t exactly where they put the studs. In fact if these guys were what most of the guys at the bar called “dweebs.”
“Ahh fuck are you kidding me with that bullshit…”Martin, an ox of a Marine sitting in the back was saying.
“Swear on my fucking mother’s grave, she sat there and she rambled on about how I would see my best friends, kids I grew up with dying right besides me.”
Suddenly from the lower bunk Coltrane, an 18 year old private not so coincidentally from Thompson’s home town chimed in: “Well did your mother, also tell you that you’d be stuck in fucking Fiji, humping playing the Saxaphone for the USO, did her premonition include the rum we drink every Wednesday night prior to us trying to get lucky with an island girl?”
The entire room erupted in laughter.
“Well, maybe she got a message intended for a neighbor or something.”
“Yeah, but now there’s some fucking poor kid lying dead on a beach in France whose mother told him she saw him on a tropical isle.” Coltrane again had the room in stitches.
The three men were getting ready for another night on the town, they were headed to the local bar and it would be packed with sailors just like them, well not just like them, you see these men were all members of the Navy’s marching band and that isn’t exactly where they put the studs. In fact if these guys were what most of the guys at the bar called “dweebs.”
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Write about a dangerous ride.
Should have been fun, should have been having a good time. In fact, we were having a good time, just laughing, living, and loving one another. But that can all change, from the minute you put yourself in a situation that you have no business in and that you have no control over.
It was a beautiful spring night and snow was on the ground. The entire town was a pure and beautiful shade of white that only happens for maybe a week out of any given year, if at all. It’s not like we knew each other forever, but what we knew of each other was enough. I had met Abigail one morning while I stepped out of my office for coffee. She worked in the building next to mine and I had seen her around. A woman as lovely as here is hard to miss.
Tonight was our third date and while I could feel the chemistry, that feeling of deep attraction, definitely physical and hopefully more than that, tonight was the night I was going to find out. I had the entire night mapped out, I’d pick her up at 9:00 and we would head over to a bar out in Harlem where we would see John Coltrane play as we ate dinner and danced. I figured if Coltrane couldn’t help me close this deal nobody could.
When I picked her up at her apartment she wore a short black dress, that looked as if it were sewn directly on to her body. The dress alone was enough to make my mind wander to the end of the night, in fact I had to make sure that I kept my tongue in my mouth when she opened the door and I caught a glimpse. The thing is a woman like that knows exactly what she’s doing when she dons a dress that sexy. As we arrived at the restaurant I liked my chances.
As we arrived at the restaurant it felt like all eyes were on us, well mostly on her, but what the fuck did I care she was my date, not theirs’. As we sat down to order we discussed the politics of the day and to my pleasant surprise not only was this dame beautiful, but she also had a brain. We hadn’t even finished our first drink of the night when I thought to myself, if there happened to be a guy selling engagement rings in the bathroom, I’d buy two, one to ask and another just in case she said no on account of not liking the ring.
Our dinner was perfect and when Coltrane came on afterwards we hit the dance floor. The heat generated by John Coltrane’s saxophone was enough to melt the ice in every freezer on the block. The musical heat was somehow overpowered by the temperature on the dance floor. Picture 30 or so people all dancing to the melody as if they were making love. The movement of the dancers was hypnotic and sensual, every couple acting as if they were dancing alone to a private concert in their bed room. If some poor schmuck in the audience didn’t get laid that night, I’d like to meet him and punch that wet blanket in the breadbasket.
“So, what went wrong?”-asked the police officer whom was talking to Thomas while he lay in a hospital bed.
“I wish I could tell you, but officer I promise I don’t know.”
“You’re the only one left, both Abigail and the cab driver are dead, you have to know something.”
“I know this much pally, whatever happened I blame that cab driver 100%”
“Just let me know everything you remember from up until the accident.”
“I thought that is what I was doing.”
“Continue.”
“Okay, well the thing is we danced to that jazz man until the wee hours of the morning and while we were doing it we didn’t have a shortage of alcohol, drink after drink after drink. But we had to keep going; we were powerless, slaves to the sax.”
“Understandable, but get on with the story,” the Officer pressed Thomas, eager to get done with this investigation and on to things he deemed more important.
“Well when we got outside, we decided to hop a cab back to my place, so we hailed the cab and hopped in.”
“That’s right you hopped into Mr. Duckworth’s cab.”
“Listen pally, I didn’t ask the guys name, frankly I was too involved with the dame and she was getting involved with me, if you get what I’m saying.”
“Fine, get on with the story.”
“Well we got in the cab and let me tell you pal, this woman was hot for me. I was trying to calm her down and get her to my apartment but that wasn’t happening. Call it the alcohol, call it the music, but if you ask me I think it was all of the above. So we were hot and heavy in this cab and the last thing I remember seeing is the scumbag driver’s eyes in the mirror. Then I woke up in here.”
It was a beautiful spring night and snow was on the ground. The entire town was a pure and beautiful shade of white that only happens for maybe a week out of any given year, if at all. It’s not like we knew each other forever, but what we knew of each other was enough. I had met Abigail one morning while I stepped out of my office for coffee. She worked in the building next to mine and I had seen her around. A woman as lovely as here is hard to miss.
Tonight was our third date and while I could feel the chemistry, that feeling of deep attraction, definitely physical and hopefully more than that, tonight was the night I was going to find out. I had the entire night mapped out, I’d pick her up at 9:00 and we would head over to a bar out in Harlem where we would see John Coltrane play as we ate dinner and danced. I figured if Coltrane couldn’t help me close this deal nobody could.
When I picked her up at her apartment she wore a short black dress, that looked as if it were sewn directly on to her body. The dress alone was enough to make my mind wander to the end of the night, in fact I had to make sure that I kept my tongue in my mouth when she opened the door and I caught a glimpse. The thing is a woman like that knows exactly what she’s doing when she dons a dress that sexy. As we arrived at the restaurant I liked my chances.
As we arrived at the restaurant it felt like all eyes were on us, well mostly on her, but what the fuck did I care she was my date, not theirs’. As we sat down to order we discussed the politics of the day and to my pleasant surprise not only was this dame beautiful, but she also had a brain. We hadn’t even finished our first drink of the night when I thought to myself, if there happened to be a guy selling engagement rings in the bathroom, I’d buy two, one to ask and another just in case she said no on account of not liking the ring.
Our dinner was perfect and when Coltrane came on afterwards we hit the dance floor. The heat generated by John Coltrane’s saxophone was enough to melt the ice in every freezer on the block. The musical heat was somehow overpowered by the temperature on the dance floor. Picture 30 or so people all dancing to the melody as if they were making love. The movement of the dancers was hypnotic and sensual, every couple acting as if they were dancing alone to a private concert in their bed room. If some poor schmuck in the audience didn’t get laid that night, I’d like to meet him and punch that wet blanket in the breadbasket.
“So, what went wrong?”-asked the police officer whom was talking to Thomas while he lay in a hospital bed.
“I wish I could tell you, but officer I promise I don’t know.”
“You’re the only one left, both Abigail and the cab driver are dead, you have to know something.”
“I know this much pally, whatever happened I blame that cab driver 100%”
“Just let me know everything you remember from up until the accident.”
“I thought that is what I was doing.”
“Continue.”
“Okay, well the thing is we danced to that jazz man until the wee hours of the morning and while we were doing it we didn’t have a shortage of alcohol, drink after drink after drink. But we had to keep going; we were powerless, slaves to the sax.”
“Understandable, but get on with the story,” the Officer pressed Thomas, eager to get done with this investigation and on to things he deemed more important.
“Well when we got outside, we decided to hop a cab back to my place, so we hailed the cab and hopped in.”
“That’s right you hopped into Mr. Duckworth’s cab.”
“Listen pally, I didn’t ask the guys name, frankly I was too involved with the dame and she was getting involved with me, if you get what I’m saying.”
“Fine, get on with the story.”
“Well we got in the cab and let me tell you pal, this woman was hot for me. I was trying to calm her down and get her to my apartment but that wasn’t happening. Call it the alcohol, call it the music, but if you ask me I think it was all of the above. So we were hot and heavy in this cab and the last thing I remember seeing is the scumbag driver’s eyes in the mirror. Then I woke up in here.”
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
In the Backyard
In the Backyard
“Grandpa did you have a backyard when you were my age?” asked the young boy. “Sure, well, you see we grew up on a farm, so it wasn’t so much a back yard as it was just a yard.”
“Grandpa did you get into hijinx when on your farm?”
“I’m sure I did, but that doesn’t mean you should think it’s okay to get into trouble in your backyard. You’ve got to understand that your parents are just trying to raise you to grow up into a respectable man, just like I did with your daddy, just like you’ll do with your son.”
“Tell me about your farm grandpa; tell me all about your farm.”
“Oh, you want me to tell you a story, do you? Hmm, let me think about a story, it was so long ago, I’m not sure if I can even remember that far back, it seems like forever.”
Thomas Bailey, a veteran of the Second World War rarely thought back to his time on the farm. It’s not that he had a bad relationship with his parents; the truth of it was he loved his parents dearly. He probably would have stayed on that farm forever had the Japanese decided not to bomb Pearl Harbor, but they did and soon he found himself on the safe side of the Pacific Theater, playing the Tuba in the USO band to troops that were in the thick of the action. He graduated from a class of 20 students, and all 12 boys in his high school class joined up the minute they graduated. The end of the war, brought allied victory and also brought Thomas Bailey from the farm to the big city, and well, once he got there life sort of took over, he met a woman, fell in love, had children and suddenly the farm became a place to visit as opposed as a place to live, so now when his grandson Tommy asked him about the farm, while he told a story about running free through open fields, playing with livestock and enjoying a swim in a pond on a hot summer’s day, his mind was focused on that last night in town and the life he left behind.
For a second Thomas allowed himself to imagine what life would have been like if the war had never happened and he stayed on the farm. He saw himself married to Jean Johns, they weren’t quite high school sweethearts, in fact, prior to the service Thomas hadn’t as much as kissed a woman on the cheek that wasn’t his mother. But Jean was 2 years his junior and also played in the school’s band. The two were friends and Thomas always sort of had a thing for her from the minute they met and first played together.
Thomas and Jean were married in a ceremony at the church that had recently been rebuilt in the center of town. The ceremony was simple, beautiful and filled with joy. The couple had two boys and those boys grew up on the farm and both ended up leaving one for college, the other for the war in Vietnam. When Thomas’ mind’s eye told him that his youngest son James didn’t make it back from the Vietnamese jungle he actually felt a bit of sadness. The older of the two boys Robert became a successful lawyer in Kansas City and visited Thomas with his two grandchildren Tommy and Robbie every year for a month in the summer.
“Grandpa” Tommy tugged at his grandpa who had finished his story of being young on a farm and now was sitting dumbfounded on the steps staring out into space.
“Earth to Grandpa, are you there.”
This snapped Thomas back into reality. “Sorry Tommy, your Grandpa’s an old man, I must have dozed off.”
“Dozed off?” Grandpa you were telling me a story the entire time, you just went silent for the last minute or so.”
“Hmm, well then, maybe I just got caught up in the moment, let’s go inside and you can show me some of those videogames you’re always telling me about.”
The End
“Grandpa did you have a backyard when you were my age?” asked the young boy. “Sure, well, you see we grew up on a farm, so it wasn’t so much a back yard as it was just a yard.”
“Grandpa did you get into hijinx when on your farm?”
“I’m sure I did, but that doesn’t mean you should think it’s okay to get into trouble in your backyard. You’ve got to understand that your parents are just trying to raise you to grow up into a respectable man, just like I did with your daddy, just like you’ll do with your son.”
“Tell me about your farm grandpa; tell me all about your farm.”
“Oh, you want me to tell you a story, do you? Hmm, let me think about a story, it was so long ago, I’m not sure if I can even remember that far back, it seems like forever.”
Thomas Bailey, a veteran of the Second World War rarely thought back to his time on the farm. It’s not that he had a bad relationship with his parents; the truth of it was he loved his parents dearly. He probably would have stayed on that farm forever had the Japanese decided not to bomb Pearl Harbor, but they did and soon he found himself on the safe side of the Pacific Theater, playing the Tuba in the USO band to troops that were in the thick of the action. He graduated from a class of 20 students, and all 12 boys in his high school class joined up the minute they graduated. The end of the war, brought allied victory and also brought Thomas Bailey from the farm to the big city, and well, once he got there life sort of took over, he met a woman, fell in love, had children and suddenly the farm became a place to visit as opposed as a place to live, so now when his grandson Tommy asked him about the farm, while he told a story about running free through open fields, playing with livestock and enjoying a swim in a pond on a hot summer’s day, his mind was focused on that last night in town and the life he left behind.
For a second Thomas allowed himself to imagine what life would have been like if the war had never happened and he stayed on the farm. He saw himself married to Jean Johns, they weren’t quite high school sweethearts, in fact, prior to the service Thomas hadn’t as much as kissed a woman on the cheek that wasn’t his mother. But Jean was 2 years his junior and also played in the school’s band. The two were friends and Thomas always sort of had a thing for her from the minute they met and first played together.
Thomas and Jean were married in a ceremony at the church that had recently been rebuilt in the center of town. The ceremony was simple, beautiful and filled with joy. The couple had two boys and those boys grew up on the farm and both ended up leaving one for college, the other for the war in Vietnam. When Thomas’ mind’s eye told him that his youngest son James didn’t make it back from the Vietnamese jungle he actually felt a bit of sadness. The older of the two boys Robert became a successful lawyer in Kansas City and visited Thomas with his two grandchildren Tommy and Robbie every year for a month in the summer.
“Grandpa” Tommy tugged at his grandpa who had finished his story of being young on a farm and now was sitting dumbfounded on the steps staring out into space.
“Earth to Grandpa, are you there.”
This snapped Thomas back into reality. “Sorry Tommy, your Grandpa’s an old man, I must have dozed off.”
“Dozed off?” Grandpa you were telling me a story the entire time, you just went silent for the last minute or so.”
“Hmm, well then, maybe I just got caught up in the moment, let’s go inside and you can show me some of those videogames you’re always telling me about.”
The End
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
The early lessons.
"Punctuation and structure are the lessons that we're going over again." said the older man at the back of the room.
The younger man at the back of the room had heard this before, its always the same, punctuation and structure, every lesson seemed to be the same ever since he started working with the author he meant to be his mentor. Daniel's youth is what made him think: "When are we going to get to the real projects", the writing of the stories that he had been crafting in his mind ever since he was a young child.
Most writers start out young, maybe writing at age 8 and sending off their stories to be read by others and hopefully published in a writers journal or something of the like. Practice, practice, practice is the message that was being sent at him every day. So he did, going through the great authors, reading Thoreau and Shakespeare, even delving into the new school writers like Rowling and King. Daniel had grown up in a household of artists. His mother was a art teacher and his dad wrote for a popular business journal's opinion columns. The arts and writing were all he ever knew but his parents didn't press him into doing anything, so when he was 7 and he declared to his parents that he wanted to be "an author" they said "okay" but only went as far as buying him books by authors like Rowling and Blume.
At first Daniel didn't understand why they told him to "read first" but as time went on his appetite for reading grew and grew and he forgot about the writing, so when his fifteenth birthday rolled around and his mother told him about the special present she got him, he was curious? He didn't remember requesting writing lessons from the english composition professor at the private school she taught at, but he went nonetheless. The first two weeks were tedious, it was all about learning the craft, the structure, building the toolbox. Daniel stuck with it and kept plugging ahead. But three weeks into the lessons he finally asked "When am I going to write something on my own."
"Do you feel ready?" asked the instructor
"Well yeah, I think I mean that is what I'm here to do right?"
"Yes, you are here to learn how to be a writer."
"And how am I supposed to do this if I never write anything?"
The conversation that ensued got into toolboxes and that day Daniel learned one of the most important lessons that any writer should know by heart, the more tools the better the craftsman.
The younger man at the back of the room had heard this before, its always the same, punctuation and structure, every lesson seemed to be the same ever since he started working with the author he meant to be his mentor. Daniel's youth is what made him think: "When are we going to get to the real projects", the writing of the stories that he had been crafting in his mind ever since he was a young child.
Most writers start out young, maybe writing at age 8 and sending off their stories to be read by others and hopefully published in a writers journal or something of the like. Practice, practice, practice is the message that was being sent at him every day. So he did, going through the great authors, reading Thoreau and Shakespeare, even delving into the new school writers like Rowling and King. Daniel had grown up in a household of artists. His mother was a art teacher and his dad wrote for a popular business journal's opinion columns. The arts and writing were all he ever knew but his parents didn't press him into doing anything, so when he was 7 and he declared to his parents that he wanted to be "an author" they said "okay" but only went as far as buying him books by authors like Rowling and Blume.
At first Daniel didn't understand why they told him to "read first" but as time went on his appetite for reading grew and grew and he forgot about the writing, so when his fifteenth birthday rolled around and his mother told him about the special present she got him, he was curious? He didn't remember requesting writing lessons from the english composition professor at the private school she taught at, but he went nonetheless. The first two weeks were tedious, it was all about learning the craft, the structure, building the toolbox. Daniel stuck with it and kept plugging ahead. But three weeks into the lessons he finally asked "When am I going to write something on my own."
"Do you feel ready?" asked the instructor
"Well yeah, I think I mean that is what I'm here to do right?"
"Yes, you are here to learn how to be a writer."
"And how am I supposed to do this if I never write anything?"
The conversation that ensued got into toolboxes and that day Daniel learned one of the most important lessons that any writer should know by heart, the more tools the better the craftsman.
Thursday, June 01, 2006
Chess Entry
What piece on a chessboard do you most resemble right now?
I guess it really depends on the relationship and what I’m trying to get done. With certain people, its easy, I can be the King on the board..protected and strong. Touch me and its game over. With other’s I’m a pawn. They decide when and where I go and I move in a limited manner. Sacrifice me in an attempt to set up others for a bigger and more important life victory.
As I type this I guess what I’m saying is that we’re all queens, no not those kinds of queens, but the piece. It’s arguably the most powerful piece on the board, moving any which way it chooses and it is used as the primary attack piece. But sometimes your queen has to be reserved, can’t attack too early, but can’t be held back too long.
Just like in life you have to pick your spots, maybe today you got into a fight with your girlfriend or wife or whatever, maybe you were too mouthy or said the wrong thing, so you jumped out onto the board ready to control the game but found out that you needed to retreat when your opponent ate your knight and left your queen exposed. So you retreat and hope to pick a better spot, a spot where you can once again get out there and attack; hopefully win this time around, but you don’t know.
I think the most important thing to remember is that you can’t live your life day to day, you have to look several moves down the line. Sometimes you sacrifice a piece here or there in order to achieve the great victory down the line. But life isn’t about the one game or the one battleFUCKTHISSUCKS, SUCKS, SUCKS…WHO THE FUCK AM I TO SIT HERE AND TYPE OUT WHO OR WHAT MY LIFE IS IN CHESS SPEAK…WHO GIVES TWO FUCKS.???
I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’m getting tired from writing this bullshit, I need to start writing stuff I like…stuff more on the creative side and not on the I’m going to bitch about all this stuff just because I like to hear myself bitch (please don’t point out to me the irony of me bitching on this blog, I get it and its killing).
It’s time for it all to stop. The next shit I write in here is going to be creative and not a bitching .
I guess it really depends on the relationship and what I’m trying to get done. With certain people, its easy, I can be the King on the board..protected and strong. Touch me and its game over. With other’s I’m a pawn. They decide when and where I go and I move in a limited manner. Sacrifice me in an attempt to set up others for a bigger and more important life victory.
As I type this I guess what I’m saying is that we’re all queens, no not those kinds of queens, but the piece. It’s arguably the most powerful piece on the board, moving any which way it chooses and it is used as the primary attack piece. But sometimes your queen has to be reserved, can’t attack too early, but can’t be held back too long.
Just like in life you have to pick your spots, maybe today you got into a fight with your girlfriend or wife or whatever, maybe you were too mouthy or said the wrong thing, so you jumped out onto the board ready to control the game but found out that you needed to retreat when your opponent ate your knight and left your queen exposed. So you retreat and hope to pick a better spot, a spot where you can once again get out there and attack; hopefully win this time around, but you don’t know.
I think the most important thing to remember is that you can’t live your life day to day, you have to look several moves down the line. Sometimes you sacrifice a piece here or there in order to achieve the great victory down the line. But life isn’t about the one game or the one battleFUCKTHISSUCKS, SUCKS, SUCKS…WHO THE FUCK AM I TO SIT HERE AND TYPE OUT WHO OR WHAT MY LIFE IS IN CHESS SPEAK…WHO GIVES TWO FUCKS.???
I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’m getting tired from writing this bullshit, I need to start writing stuff I like…stuff more on the creative side and not on the I’m going to bitch about all this stuff just because I like to hear myself bitch (please don’t point out to me the irony of me bitching on this blog, I get it and its killing).
It’s time for it all to stop. The next shit I write in here is going to be creative and not a bitching .
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