Under My Thumb.

He would have her again. That much was certain. It would take work yes, but the pain she had provided would offer endless encouragement. This was revenge, perhaps spite. That he would find vindication would be his goal. He no longer craved her touch. No longer did he seek her laughter, her mouth. This was a new goal. He would find a way to fold and stretch her to his will. Break her apart until she crumbled before him. He would have to start small. Casual dates where he would practice his techniques. It’s not hard to pretend to be human. To pretend to feel what others do. People are so desperate for connections that they will risk everything to reach out, to gamble. For what? Love? He didn’t believe in such a thing. It was an abstract, invented concept. An explanation for a god that did not exist. But he would exploit that belief in others. A smile at the right moment. A premeditated touch. A cliched saying, “Somebody really hurt you, didn’t they?” This is all it would take. He would start small, with feeble desperate minds, and work outward. Towards her.
When they began, they were perfect. He would spend all of his time wasting hers. There was no greater sanctuary than her mouth, her touch, and he explored them freely. Looking backward, perhaps the signs were always there. She had always been a private person, reclusive in a way. But that was what intrigued him. She was almost mystical in her secrets. A forbidden island, an oasis from the sea of mediocrity, and only he was privy. She never spoke of her former lovers, but he didn’t mind. In that blind rush of infant love, nothing really matters but the next fix. And he was an addict. Certainly hooked the first time she took him in her bed. The first taste of her lips. Her invitations, her stomach, the flicker of eyelids. There are no twelve steps for this kind of drug. A junkie. Even through the fights, the jealousy, the ugliness dipped in beauty. In the beginning they had ignited together like a flame, but just as suddenly, it was over, and she was gone.
And now here he sits. Across from another Jessica. Another Laura. Another somebody, nobody. It didn’t matter. To him, this was necessary. This was practice. He was punching the clock. Perfecting that false confidence, that alluring smile. He would listen. He would talk. He would reveal nothing, but hint at everything. He would drink of these girls until he was full, until he was bloated with revenge. Were these girls his victims? Perhaps. But he was blind to this fact, just as he had been blind to her.
He was almost there, and he would have her again.


The Unambitious Bucket List.

My view of life can be boiled down to one motto. “If you lower your expectations, you’ll never be disappointed.” I have used this incredibly affirming credo on many occasions, whether it was to be satisfied with a C in Spanish, or to accept a mediocre sexual performance, this theme has proven very useful in my short life. And it is with this spirit of mediocrity in mind that I now (somewhat) proudly present…
The Unambitious Bucket List!

Who needs to scale Mt. Everest anyway?
1. Eat an entire watermelon.
2. Learn how to make my bed with the precision of an army infantryman.
3. Get a partially standing ovation at a karaoke bar.
4. Work out my abs until I have at least a 2-pack.
5. Finish this blog post.
6. Perfect cooking bacon in the oven. ( I mean, it is called Bacon for a reason.)
7. Convince my partner Erica to start writing things on this blog.
8. Do something akin to faking my own death, but much less severe. Like faking back pain?
9. French a French girl.
10. Or least French my girlfriend in France.
11. Learn all the words to R. Kelly’s “Double Up” album.
12. Drop a piece of toast and have it land butter-side up.
Surely there will be more to come. Watch this space, and may all your dreams come true!

Our Sea.

She was loved but depressed
A guaranteed mess.
I was only sixteen
A fool with my dreams.
And we loved late at night
Those twilights and fights
By the sea

We held hands in the dawn
and we needed no one
made love in the hall
and cried in the fall

when the leaves turned to brown
and the sun lost its crown
by the sea…

Well I thought I was tough
but love wasn’t enough
I could not repair
my baby’s despair

and she took her own life
in the warm morning light
by the sea

well now I’m hard pressed
to think of the best
I’ll hide in the trees
tears fall on my sleeves

and I’ll stay here alone
wait for you at home
by the sea…


Inside the mind I stay
and watch the sunrise
against my gentle eyelids when they close
and reopen
their new day lenses.
The beanbag chairs sulk eagerly
and the tattoos on your tongue
taste like
Red Licorice.
It was easier then.
You’d send me whistling from your bed
and home
in the midnight sunshine of the stars.
Like a beast gorged on too much prey
still steaming in the snow,
I would slip into my own small bed
just as the light from your flesh burned cold.
The smell remained,
and it was this smell that would keep me satisfied
for a short while.
But then day would break once more.
And that day would bring with it a new rush, like
cavalry and stampeding avalanches
to my fingertips.
And later that night
it would be those same fingertips,
this time glazed with
the sweat and lust of your
I would graze upon you like a hungry hoard.
Chewing and licking
the vines and flowers from your mahogany landscape,
while our fingernails grew slowly together
like glaciers of bone
underneath our skins.