Michael Jordan wouldn't do that...

When I woke up, the only thing I noticed was the stickiness. All around my feet. My arms. My chest. My fingers. Everything.

It was dark in my room. I fumbled for the switch on the lamp beside my bed. I’d kept that lamp for over a decade now. It had no shade anymore, long ago that was crushed in a move and thrown away. But the little unicorn sticker still sat there on its side. Put there by her niece one day. It reminded me that one time I was happy.

When I clicked the switch, I saw what I had done. Was I surprised? No. Not at all.

I was pissed off, however. I’d fallen asleep after doing it. After slitting her throat with my dad’s old pocket knife. I’d not have much time to clean this all up before the day got started.

Naked, I stumbled into my bathroom and turned on the shower. I felt the cold water with my right hand, turning the knob to make it a little warmer with my left. I didn’t wait for the change to take hold before stepping into the water. Soon, I was clean.

“Much better,” I thought to myself. Now I’d have to clean up my room.

She bled an awful lot. She didn’t put up a fight, but she dropped a lot of red on my carpet. This was going to be tedious.

I grabbed some old t-shirts, just plain black ones and started mopping up the mess. Squishing around, I made slow progress. These Hanes tees really did the job. If I was to start a business, I’d make Sham-Wows out of Hanes tees. Maybe Michael Jordan would be a proud spokesman in his older age. The William Shatner is to Priceline of my empire.

I smiled at the sheer absurdity of that image in my head.

“You know, Michael Jordan would never do that,” she said to me.

“What do you know? You’re just a fucking dead whore?” I pleaded with the girl I’d killed last night.

“I know a lot more than you think,” she smirked. “I know you don’t know how to love. It’s why you kill.”

“Yeah, I guess you do know more than most,” I said. “But, what did it get you?”

“Fucking filleted on your bed, that’s what.”

She didn’t talk anymore after that. Probably a good thing. I might have killed her again.

After finishing up the cleaning job, I pulled my Hyundai up to the back door and plopped all the bags of waste into the back. I drove the three miles to my boat and hauled all that stuff into it. The sun was just beginning to show signs of rising when I finished. Luckily, no fishermen had cast their lines here today so far. It always makes me nervous when they see me on mornings like this.

“Hey there!” a scruffy fisherman wearing and old El Zarape Mexican Cantina shirt yelled. “You sure do take a lot of bags out with you.”

“I just don’t want my gear to be seen,” I’d say coyly. “Then everyone would know what I’m fishing for…”

I had pretty good luck with the fish. But I didn’t really want anyone to know my bait was human. Female, to be exact.

“Well, one day we’ll figure you out, kid,” scruffy man would always say.

“When you do, I’ll buy you and your daughter a beer.”

“You leave her out of this. She’s much too smart to hang out with the likes of us!”

“You got that right, old-timer,” I said as I started my boat. “Catch you in a few!”
He stared at me as I backed out my boat. Always very slowly as I didn’t want to raise his ire about creating too much wake. He forgave a lot of bad behaviors at his docks. Even let a group of NFL players shoot up a rival coach’s boat with their 9mm’s one night. But creating too much wake, that was unforgivable.

I waved at the old man. I think he knew I was up to no good. But since I paid my dock fees in advance and always made sure to leave a few extra beers on his porch at night when I was done, he didn’t question it. Plus, I think he really wanted me to date his daughter. She was pretty. But she always wore than damn University of Florida t-shirt that said “Rowdy Reptile” on it. That, simply, was a deal-breaker for me.

Story of my life...na, na, na, na, naaaaaaa

My hands are cold. To the touch. I shuddered when I placed my palm up against my cheek. Time for a doctor visit? Things definitely could be better health-wise.

Bad teeth. Fingers with little strength. Prostate pain.

Something is going to kill me. The suspects are starting to figure out their place on the lineup card.

I guess I’m supposed to care about that. To go rushing off to the doctor. But I’m not. And I’m not. Yeah, one day I’ll regret it. I’ll fall in love. Meet the woman of my dreams. Fall into the awesome-ist job on the planet. Finally break through and actually finish something that I started writing. Win the lottery, even.

Yet, I don’t feel bad about that.

The same way I don’t feel bad about eating shitty food. Well, shitty for you food. The same why I can watch really awful movies. The same way I can listen to the same song 43 times in a row and not get tired of it.

It’s just the way I’m wired.

That line just made me want to listen to The Clash. So, I’m going to get off my ass, stop tying stream of consciousness-ly and put it in the CD player….

The same line of insanity that has me listening to Rick James every morning/afternoon when I get up. No matter what. Yes, it would have made a lot more sense for me to pick Lucero, or the already mentioned Clash. Even The Faces or Johnny Thunders or The Kinks.

Instead, it’s Rick James. Street Songs. Every. Single. Morning. Without fail.

So far.

But I usually fail eventually. It’s a given. Death and taxes and all of that.

Same as falling off the wagon. Like tonight. It happens. It will always happen. I’m my dad’s son. Nothing I can do about it. I’m also my mom’s son. Which is why I’m shy.

Fuck that right?

Fuck you.

I was told today by the city editor that I needed to stop “dropping the F-bomb so much.” After a tirade of about 10 minutes where I “dropped” it, in the parlance of our times, probably 15 times.

Why?

Because I’m sick of hypocrites. I show up to work everyday and bust my ass. And I listen to my boss bitch about all the people who don’t bust their ass. And then I watch as he leaves early. Or sends pages with multiple errors on it. Or just doesn’t bother showing up at all.

Fuck it. Fuck You You Fucking Fucks.

Yep. Borrowing from blogs that are borrowing themselves. We’re all fucking plagiarists. Except those that cite. I cite. Do you?

I wish I had enough money to get in my car tomorrow morning and drive to Memphis. Why? No idea. Maybe I’ll meet a gal that plays stand-up bass. There has to be more than just three of them in the world, right?

Just wishful thinking.

I miss this feeling. The feeling of happy drunk. The before you’ve gone too far drunk. The life ain’t so fucking bad drunk.

I think maybe things are turning. I’m still a loser. That ain’t going to change. I’m fine with that. Really, always have been. Except in high school before I ever thought of that blonde as EXTREME (inside joke, don’t read into it.) Before I’d ever think that maybe, maybe I’d go out with a girl from my graduating class.

Stranger things have happened for sure.

If only I knew how to get my teeth fixed for nothing? Send in a tape to Extreme Makeovers? Hell, I’m sure that show has gone Queen by now. And if you don’t get that shitty reference, stop reading my shitty writing.

I’m feeling a bit of deadline pressure here. I love it. It’s 11:41 p.m., oops, 11:42 now. I’ve only got a few minutes left in this Saturday. Which means I’ve only got a few minutes left to get this posted on the old writing blog.

Does anyone really care? I saw that one of the members of my all-time favorite band read it the other day. Since I wrote about one of their songs. They’ve been on my other blog before. They must think I’m a silly fan. Or a pycho fan. Or just a fucked up fan. Or a good fan. The great fan.

It really doesn’t matter. I talked to them all once. And I don’t remember what I said. I was drunk. And mad at a redhead. Ha. Story of my life.

I guess so.