Future Road

"What the fuck am I going to do for the rest of my life?"

I received this text from a friend of mine mainly because she knew that I would be able to relate to her sense of an unknown future.

So, this got me thinking (thanks a lot) seriously; what the fuck am doing with my life? I'm 26 and have accomplished basically nothing. I have friends becoming successful in careers, relationships, and I'm sitting like a rat turd rotting away in the wall.

What do I want to do?

Beats the hell out of me, I always just thought something would come along and I would figure out what to do when I grew up. Well, I'm grown up and I don't have a career, nor do I have a goal for one. I obviously have dreams to be a writer and make a living doing that, but let's face it I'm not the most talented writer to grace this earth; shit I'm not even the most talented writer I know. With that being said; can I become a successful writer? Maybe, I mean this IS America where people with no talent become successful, so there is hope for me considering I do have some talent (or I like to pretend I do sometimes). A major problem for me as a writer is my brain. It is constantly turning with new ideas for short stories, full blown novels, poems, screenplays, and other various nonsensical ramblings. This is my asset as a creative person, but it also serves as a detriment because it creates a problem sticking to a project and seeing it through. Those of you who are still waiting on the first complete draft of my kick ass screenplay “Slothcano” know exactly what I mean. This is a project which was started and over a third completed when my mind switched gears and went to another project that was less humorous and one where my mind was in a place to work on. My mind needs to be in a particular state to write something, and with it switching so often I lose the mindset to work on certain projects: “Slothcano” being the most infamous of these.

The main issue is that I have absolutely no deadlines. If I were to have deadlines I could finish any project of any length in the given time, which, I suppose, bodes well for me in the world of professional writing and editing. It’s a deadline based game and I work well under pressure, so it’s a seemingly perfect fit. As far as my creative writing there is no time table to complete anything which is why nothing of importance ever seems to come to fruition.

How can I really be a successful writer with an inability to finish a project longer than 5000 words? Beats me; I mean I can write short stories and I have posted several on this blog (Example 1, 2, 3, and my favorite 4), but they have little or nothing to do with each other thematically to assemble together as a collection. Maybe I’ll just say “fuck it” with that logic and do it anyway, but even doing that would require my mind to stay focused on selecting a group of stories, ordering them, fully editing, and rewriting them which is easier said than done. In all reality I can't really put all my eggs into that basket, because what are the odds I can join the small percentage of “writers” in this world to make it. I need to find a career; I need to essentially find myself.

Who am I?

That's an easy one.

I know who I am.

Now that we clearly know who I am I can now proceed with my post.

What am I capable to do? I can write, when I feel like it I can, believe it or not, edit, and outside of that I’m not really qualified for squat. I hate almost all people; which tends to create quite the problem in most customer service jobs. Though I am a fantastic actor and can fake the shit out of polite communication with the moronic inhabitants of this planet, so maybe my true destiny is to head west for L.A. and become Hollywood’s next heartthrob/fantastic actor.

Watch out Mr. Gosling here I come.

And in advance I would like to thank the Academy, my family, my friends, and most importantly the ultimate power that makes all of this possible: myself.

Shit, I went off topic again: this is the crap I was talking about. I just can never stay focused on the task at hand; my mind wanders aimlessly and it’s hard to find like Malaysia Flight 370. Even the writing of this short rambling piece took me over a week to get my mind on topic.

Anyway, as I was saying before I went on my Hollywood daydream is that I am capable to do customer service jobs, but it is not my first choice . . . or second . . . or third . . . or . . . you get the idea it’s just not a field I want to stay within. It’s just mind numbing and doesn’t provide me with any type of challenges.

In conclusion, as my resume bombards potential employers/rejecters I shall keep my fingers crossed that I can land a job that makes me not despise waking up in the morning, and I'll hope that it is a job outside of the realm of direct customer service. In the mean time I will keep writing and hopefully staying focused long enough to finish something that will be published for the world to read, or maybe I will finish “Slothcano” by my own self imposed July deadline and I can finally sleep on a pile of SyFy TV movie money.

P.S.

For you Hollywood big wigs reading this I want you to know one thing about me…

For All the Single Ladies. . . The Club is Jumpin' Jumpin'

I've been single for a long time now and I am reminded of it on a near daily basis. My friends will point it out by saying I should pursue this woman or that woman, (only once it being said about someone I actually had any desire to date and I should probably actively see if that could go anywhere. I'm sure it won't, but that is neither here nor there) or there will be jokes about my balls drying out and disintegrating into nothingness, which if I'm not mistaken would defy all laws of physiology, but don't quote me on that one: I'm not a doctor I only pretend to be one.

Point is this gets as obnoxious as watching back to back to back Pauly Shore movies. This is due mainly to the fact that they have been in stable relationships for a long time, which makes me the habitual extra wheel. I'm just a spare tire sitting in a trunk waiting to be put to some use on an nice American automobile. And how do some of my friends think I should get myself pulled out and hooked on to a nice axle? 

Online dating. 

I have no desire to do such anything, but I have had one say they will secretly make me a profile, set me up on dates, then tell me to meet them somewhere and then when I arrive, kablamo, I'm on a date! My reply to this is always the same: "go fuck yourself". They haven't done this yet so I'm banking on the fact that they are too damn lazy to actually go through that much trouble over my nonexistent love life. I can't knock online dating because I know a number of people whom have met someone on there; I just don't think that's for me. This is basically due to the fact that it seems like way too much trouble to cycle through all the morons, ugmos, fatties, shitheads, creepers, and skanks to locate anyone worth my time. 

But if I did find it worth my very, very, very, valuable time what would my profile look like? The goal of a dating profile is to make you seem super awesome, super duper attractive, and seem like just a plain old hootenanny. In reality I'm only one of those things (I'll allow the reader to choose which one). 

This brings me, finally, to the point of this blog post; this is what my dating profile would look like (ladies email me your numbers, and not all at once we don't want to crash Google's servers). 

 

Sup ladies,

My name is Dan: I'm 26, single and looking to mingle. I am pretty sure that is how you start these things out. It seems like a great and not cheesy at all, not in the slightest, way to draw you into the words that are typed onto this internet website doohickey.

Now after that brilliant opening I just have one question for you potential lady friends: "Would you f*** me? I'd to f*** me. I'd f*** me hard. I'd f*** me so hard."

And if you don’t get that reference, move on because you clearly are not one for me. Click over to some other profile and on your way over there make sure to go to hell, don't pass Go, and definitely  DO NOT COLLECT YOUR $200

I'm sure you see my sexy picture and want to get to know that homeless looking bearded dream boat just a tad bit more, and that's what I'll do for you! 

To date me you would have many perks, outside of the sexual of course (boom, wink face bam!!!) I cook, and my opinion pretty damn well, that is if you like Italian food, and I usually cook with pants on! I also am a tad bit anal when it comes to cleaning which is an activity I do without the aforementioned pants. Though I do both these things it would be wonderful if you cooked and cleaned as well; doing so without a shirt would be even better, but certainly is not a requirement. Messes piss me off so if you make a mess I am liable to freak out, well maybe not freak out, but I may go on a cleaning rampage. 

So, if you are sitting there, reading this, and you are surrounded by clutter please move on to some other turd on this site, because I would want to hit you with a rolled up magazine if we dated.

Now I'm a pretty damn wild person, so I need someone who can keep up with my super wildness. I love to sit at home watching sports and movies. I'm a huge movie person so if you love to hear movie quotes all day I'm your guy. 50% of my conversation is just random quotes and with certain friends that percentage increases exponentially. And I say this not joking in the slightest; I'll quote movies that range from Citizen Kane on to Mean Girls. Oh and Tommy Wiseau's classic abortion "The Room" can and will get quoted daily, so you would have to waste 99 minutes of your life watching this "film", and trust me you cannot un-watch this movie.

Oh, it is also very important to know that I wear pink ONLY on Wednesdays and I swear to god if you wear sweatpants on a fucking Monday you cannot, and will not, sit with me.  
(If that reference went over your head you had better go and reevaluate your life, because you ain't worthy.)

Sometimes I like to mix it up and quote some SpongeBob. 

Yes, I am 26 and watch SpongeBob. . . 

Daily.

Why don't you leave your stupid comments in your pocket?

There are times in the day when I will break out in random song, usually from SpongeBob, Always Sunny in Philadelphia, or just some good solid 90's tunes like Joan Osborne, because, seriously, what if God WAS one of us? Just a slob like the people who stopped reading this a few paragraphs ago? Just some stranger on a bus trying to make his way home?

I also would like to make it extremely clear that I am indeed the Dayman, fighter of the Nightman, champion of the sun! You're a master of karate and friendship for everyone! 

When I'm not watching movies, cartoons, or singing the songs that I like I'm usually reading or writing. I like to think of myself as a rather intelligent creature (though I think of myself as all around awesome, you call it narcissistic I call it being Dan Perrucci). So, please, for the love of god, if you are stupid keep moving because there is nothing in this world I can stand less than stupid people. Stupid is the one thing I hate the most in humans, other than the fact that they are people, I hate that too: I prefer cats.

As you may have gathered by my unkempt profile picture and by reading this far on this profile I also hate doing social things with other human beings. Especially ones in places where the service blows more than a ceiling fan and where the music is louder than a fat woman screaming because she found a slice a cake in a fat roll. These places make me want to rip all the other patrons’ collar bones out. That is not something I want to do, I'm getting to old do those things and go to jail. I do, however, enjoy a nice get-together at my house where I can relax in basketball shorts and wear my worn out ripped slippers. I like this because I can control who shows up and I rarely have to engage in false pleasantries with new people. Though I must say I am brutally honest I rarely try to fake being nice, except at work where I am a master and faking kindness,

And before I wrap this up I just want you to know that I make some of the most inappropriate jokes of all time and I love to make fun of people, so if you can't handle that go fuck yourself you god damn square. 

So if you like eating, reading, movies, SpongeBob, sports, inappropriate jokes and an nice healthy antisocial living give me a call and let's meet.

And please no fatties. I'm a thin guy and don't want to die by getting crushed to death because you picked a Big Mac over a salad.

Cold Winter Night

His feet stamp through the fresh white snow

giving me an easy path to stalk and follow.

The Chicago streets are empty: except for he and I.

Gas lamp after gas lamp fades as I slowly creep bye.

I know he is there;

he doesn’t know I’m here.

Catching him from behind, with a brick, I land a solid blow

and stand smiling, gleefully watch his final breath flow.

Red oozes warming and painting the powder covered street.

Solo Journey

My soul has become dark

since you walked away

dousing out our remaining spark.

I became unable to find my way,

my clouded heart struggled to beat

while wandering the world for a new flame.

Yet, reaming all alone on the moon lit street.

There is only one person to shoulder the blame;

me, myself, and I alone take the burden.

Searching within myself for a new birth,

yet I remain the same: just one of many men

searching the cold earth

lost looking for a soul mate,

but ending up having to masturbate.

'Till Death Do Us Part

A soft cry echoes from the bedroom upstairs.

The ancient chair creaks as Vic rises to his feet, “God damn, can’t a man watch a game in peace?”  His voice aches from exhaustion. His forest green Russell sweatshirt stained around the armpits from the sweat protruding through  his seventy-two year old glands; the orange glow from the droppings of Doritos dot his navy blue sweatpants. His knees crack as he takes his first step, his slippers scuffing along the hard wood floor.

Another cry of pain reverberates down the stairwell just as Vic’s right foot touches the first step. The beige carpet that lines the stairs had been worn down over the fifty-four years Vic and his wife have lived in the home. His freckled callused hand reaches to the banister, which was once painted a radiant white, but from the years of Vic’s rough hands, had been worn down to a wood pipe specked with pealing skin. Vic slowly made his way up the stairs. The crying continued and as he got closer to the top he could make the words out more clearly.

“Vic,” the voice said painfully, “please jus’ end this, I can’t.” the female’s voice was softened by the years of her pain. “Please.” She began to sob lightly.

Vic rubs his thumb and pointer finger along the bridge of his nose. He knows what she wanted from him.

As he reaches the top of the stairs, Vic stares into the dusty Victorian mirror. His brown eyes were sunken into his wrinkled face; his long grey hair splotched amongst the liver spots that dotted his scalp, his nose hair peeping out of his left nostril. It didn’t bother him. He breaks away from the reflection and walks down the faded red rug to the bedroom at the end of the hall.

He slowly opens the door.

“Vic?” the woman whispers. She lies on her back in the bed. Her golden hair was all but fallen out, her eyes blood shot from crying, her skin nearly blue, and her face covered in defeat. Vic walks over to the bed and seats himself right next to the woman. He grabs her hand and holds it in his.

“You’re freezing.” Vic pulls the comforter over the frail skeleton lying next to him. “You know I love you, dear. I can’t stand to see you like this.” He brushes a strand of her reaming hair out of her fading blue eye. He kisses her on her icy forehead and lies next to her gently wrapping his arms around her fragile frame.

Her weak voice speaks, cracking with the torture of the disease, “I jus’ can’t do it Vic; I jus’ can’t anymore.”

Tears once again begin to puddle along the deep bags seated under her eyes. Vic sits ups and wipes them away with his left hand as a tear of his own wells up in the corner of his eye and rolls down the cracks of his once smooth face.   

            “I wouldn’t know what to do without you Rebecca,” he wipes the tear off his cheek, “You are my life.”

            Rebecca doesn’t say anything just sobs gently. Turning her head directly toward her husband, she notices the anguish in his face, whereas he can see the considerably worse pain in hers.

            “Just try and get some sleep.” He kisses her on her dry lips, and lies back down with her humming gently. They lie in silence for several moments before Rebecca finally drifts into a deep sleep. Vic sits up and stares at his dying wife. He kisses her bony cheek once more and makes his way to the door. As he shuts off the light, he turns toward the bed and whispers, “I love you, til death do us part, my love.”

            He walks back down to the living room collapsing his exhausted body down into the olive recliner, the clock on the game was winding down and his beloved New Jersey Devils are winning 3-0 and on their way to hoisting the Stanley Cup once again, but Vic could not get back into the game, as an eerie feeling convulsing throughout his soul.

As the buzzer sounds he watches his team celebrate before shutting off the television. Nerved by the feeling trembling through him, he walks back to his bedroom.

He enters the room, slips off his slippers, and climbs into the bed, putting his arms around his lifeless wife. Welled up tears stream down his cheeks moistening his dry skin. Her pain has finally ended; now he can sleep.

He closes his eyes succumbing to a final sleep in hopes he will be reuniting with his wife once again.

             

Trapped Words

I think of things to say and to do,
but once it’s time to make things happen
they don’t;
I say nothing of importance:
I don’t do anything.

I think about your lips touching mine,
your body in my arms,
my hands on your ass,
but I don’t do a thing.

I want to tell you that we should
make us
into US,
tell you that you are more important
than I let on,
and to speak words that will make
you melt in my arms,
but I say nothing of the sort.

Maybe I’m nervous.
Maybe I don’t want to lose a friend.
Maybe I’m scared to hear the word “no”.
Maybe it’s a lot of things,

but I know it won’t happen because
regardless of the thoughts in my head
and the feelings in my heart
my lips will never let the words escape.

Merry Christmas

Christmas has always been a special time for my family a time when we get to slow down from our hectic lives and spend time together.

 I still remember waking up at the crack of dawn, walking out of my room to see what Santa had left. I would search for my stuff and give the boxes a shake to see if I can figure out what the contents were. I would then rush to my stocking hung on the wall by the front door and take out all of the goodies one by one; a piece of chocolate, a deck of cards, a hot wheel or two, a word search book which I would lose before completing, and a toothbrush: a standard item in each stocking every year.

I would wait for hours until it was an appropriate time to wake up our parents then we would choose a person who would do the actual waking. My parents would wake up (probably exhausted from waiting for our eyes to get to heavy to stay awake for Santa to finish the wrapping) and wish us each a merry Christmas, my dad would begin making his coffee while mom prepared the cinnamon buns. Once the smell of cinnamon and coffee blended with the beautiful scent of the fresh pine tree it was time for the gifts.

We would all find our way to a spot; my dad would bring a chair from the dining room and place it by the tree. With coffee in hand and his Santa hat topping off his outfit of shorts and a guinea-tee he was ready to hand out gifts. One by one we would each receive one, some were from Santa and some were from mom and dad. They were each opened with excitement.
Even in years where money was tight, and that was a good number of years. My mom and dad filled under the tree, I like to think it was the one time of year that they could sit and watch their kids smile. It brought us all together. It never mattered how many presents were under the tree the most important part is the six of us spent it together.

Even as we got older and Santa was no longer real not much changed. Yeah, we didn't wake up early anymore, we didn't have to wake up mom and dad, we cursed more and made more obscene jokes that probably wouldn't happen on Christmas morning in any other house, but we still had presents under the tree from old Saint Nick and the beautiful smells that made the morning special still filled the house.

I wouldn't change these moments for anything, I want to hear my dad say in his best Santa Claus voice "to Danny from Santa", and even when my dad is no longer here the Christmas traditions him and my mother have instilled will carry on to my children. They will be 26 and still on Santa’s nice list.

I'm not a religious person, not in the slightest, so Christmas isn't about Christ, not in the slightest, Christmas is more than that to me: It is a day where family can sit together and enjoy each other’s company, smile, joke, and bring joy to each other’s lives. It's not about the amount of presents or the food; it's about enjoying every second you are with the people you love the most. Now that my siblings and I are all out on our own, and my brother is starting a family of his own, things may change a bit, but I know that we will always be spending Christmas together; maybe not physically, but in each other’s hearts.

 So, to Mom, Dad, Nicole, Chris, Andrew, the rest of my family and friends; I love you and have merry Christmas.