I'm Not Here to Lie to You.

I sold back roughly 20 dvds today and made $18

I am now worth a grand total of $45.

There’s a rusty bridge on the north of town
Where we’d race paper boats and let our feet hang,
Every year growing closer to the water,
Closer to the mist and hum of the stream.

I could never quite reach, but you,
You would kick up waves to crush my ship
And I’d get so mad
And you’d laugh that damn laugh
While my captain drifted into the deep.

A burial at sea for old news,
How appropriate for an old sailor.

This is one of the better stories I have. If you’ve heard it, I apologize but this is my blog, so you can suck it.

(Backstory- I’m traveling across the UK and have to make it from Derby to London before my 7am flight takes off)

“Whether it was my own fault (which is entirely, and most likely possible) or someone misinformed me (also possible, I could hardly understand a bleedin’ thing most of the locals said) I ended up in New Birmingham, about an hours southwest of Derby, not exactly the direction I wanted to go, but it wasn’t too far off. Finally, after realizing that I wasn’t where I wanted to be, I get it all sorted out and end up waiting another hour for the 10 o’clock train from New Birmingham to London Euston.

I have never seen a cross-country rail as packed as the Virgin train I found myself on. We’re talking the Irish guys on the Titanic packed, and on the other side of the train first class was absolutely empty. I spent three hours standing between train cars and waiting for the train to stop.

As it would turn out, on the final stop right before Euston, there’s an Express Coach directly to Heathrow, and so like anyone ignorant of their surroundings I figured that would be worth a shot. After getting off the train and asking an attendant for directions, I walk in the direction he points me with full bags in tows.

Lets just say from this point on I’m glad I left twelve hours early.

The final Express Coach left the station ten minutes before I stepped off the train, and because I hopped off early instead of staying on for the last stop, I also missed the last Underground train towards Heathrow.

At this point, it’s nearly 1 a.m. I’m in London with a whole 12 pounds to my name, still need to make it to the airport, and I don’t know a soul within three hundred miles.

After I feel up my surroundings, I post up on a bench inside the train station until the security guard in that annoying flashing golf cart kicks me out at closing. And so, without any options I ended up spending the night on the steps outside of London’s Euston train station.

I’m just glad it didn’t rain.

After chilling out for about an hour or so this kid hops off the bus and makes his way over to the automatic doors, only they’re not so automatic anymore. He makes a few laps around the entrance before he collapses on one of the stone picnic tables that surround the station. I sit back and watch while he frantically punches numbers into his sell phone with thick, gloved sausage fingers. Finally, his urgency gives out and he just slouches there, defeated.

Another half hour or so passes before either of us actually do anything. You’d be amazed by how hesitant people are when you approach them with a cricket bat in your hand.

Ted was a tall lanky black guy with teeth that gleam “I’M NOT BRITISH.” A law student in Bletchley, he graduated high school in Manhattan and then hopped across the ocean to study. Like any 19 year old, he has no idea what he wants to do with his life, or his degree even. Oddly fitting.

Who’d figure, two American’s spending the night at the same train station in a city with hundreds of stations and hundred of steps, we ended up at the same place, at the same time, with the same problems.

Funny how God works.

We didn’t really do much, small talk mostly, shot the breeze, kept each other occupied, made the time pass a little faster and helped ignore the cold. For a while we just sat down and watched Flight of the Concords. Sometimes, you just gotta go with what you’ve got.

Finally, 4:30 rolled around and the station opened up. We spent another 45 minutes throwing super balls at pigeons before his train arrived and the Underground opened up, and then we went our respective ways.

From there on out it’s been pretty smooth, I’m currently in Toronto waiting for my 4 o’clock flight back to the Midwest. I slept the entire way across the ocean, out like a light. Who needs Zynax when you have sleep deprivation?

And then I realized I left my cricket bat on the Underground.

It would be that way.”

joyannahope:

i know that the whole “sharks vs. cats” thing is going on.
and believe me, i’m all for sharks,

but this is effing ridiculous!

A+fuckingmen.

patrickwilson:

wherethelightis:

Deal me in. I raise you a WCW as well.

“Shadows”

“Shadows cast by the street light under the stars, the head is tilted back, the long shadow of the legs presumes a world taken for granted on which the cricket trills”

I’ll call, with “In the Beginning” by Rainer Maria Rilke.

Ever since those wondrous days of Creation
our Lord God sleeps: we are His sleep.
And He accepted this in His indulgence,
resigned to rest among the distant stars.

Our actions stopped Him from reacting,
for His fist-tight hand is numbed by sleep,
and the times brought in the age of heroes
during which our dark hearts plundered Him.

Sometimes He appears as if tormented,
and His body jerks as if plagued by pain;
but these spells are always outweighed by the
number of His countless other worlds.

I’m in for a Wallace Stevens, “The Death of a Soldier”

Life contracts and death is expected,
As in a season of autumn.
The soldier falls.

He does not become a three-days personage,
Imposing his separation,
Calling for pomp.

Death is absolute and without memorial,
As in a season of autumn,
When the wind stops,

When the wind stops and, over the heavens,
The clouds go, nevertheless
In their direction.

Resume addiction.

synecdocheforsuccess:

I had a summer fling at camp with someone who is a year and a half younger than me.  He’s the frontman for a Minneapolis based hardcore band and got off tour right before coming to camp.

He’s an atheist and self proclaimed asshole who steals from department stores and lives mainly off of lifting weights and tahiatian treat.

We didn’t sleep (which is ridiculous when you have to deal with people all day) and sat on top of hale bays making out in the moonlight. We played compliment skittles, and everytime you eat a skittle you have to give the other person a compliment. We sang in my car on the way back to camp and he made up clever and obscene lyrics to my favorite songs.

It turns out he’s actually a decent guy and willing to change.

I always thought my life would make more sense than this.

What band?

(via learntherules)

So I’ve been reading a bunch of writing books, and figured I’d start making a list of the good stuff.  If you care to follow, that’s it above.