I felt a breeze in a windowless room.

It had only been four hours, but it felt like we were driving all night. Headlights, tailights, billboards and exit signs seemed to create this blur of redundancy that caused my eyes to feel heavy as the sounds of talk radio echoed in the background. I was just happy that I got to share the car with my best friend, and it made the whole trip worth my while.

I guess now would be a good time to fill you in on why I was driving in the first place. Death caught my friend Javier by surprise.

I wasn't suprised.

Javier was driving his '63 Pontiac Firebird in Portland. Javier loved coffee, so he decided that he would drive from Portland to Seattle before work to get a good cup of coffee. The problem was that Seattle is three hours from Portland, and Javier had to be back in an hour. Javier liked to drive fast, so he made it to Seattle in an hour. 170 miles an hour, and Javier survived. I was in awe when he called me to tell me, but I had to ask. " I thought you had to be back in an hour." All he said was that it was a "damn good cup of coffee". He hung up the phone and I never heard from him again.

They found Javier's body crashed into a tree on I-5. The car was still in tact, and although the tree was pretty banged up, it wasn't excessive speed that killed my friend. I guess he forgot to ask for soy milk. Javier was deathly lactose intolerant, and there wasn't an epi-pen anywhere to be found in that firebird. I think he'd laugh pretty hard if he knew how he died. And I thought he'd fall off of a cliff or something... the damn barista needed to get his head out of his ass. I'm inspired. I'm going to write a book called "The Great Coffee Murder".

I guess I was supposed to be sad about Javier, but I just couldn't get my mind off of my best friend and our alphabet game. She won, but I'll get her next time.

It's alright to cry, the night is still young.

I walked into oblivion Wednesday.

I thought that it'd be a great idea to cook up my mom's famous spaghetti for Janet, and as easy as it sounds, you can't play around with strings in olive oil with an open flame. This was supposed to be our romantic getaway.. a chance to take a breath of fresh air in a clouded week. It was Valentine's day, and instead of chocolate and roses, Janet got a house fire.

The first thing that I decided to do (the genius that I am), was grab my beer from the counter. I yelled at Janet who was in the other room and pushed her outside. I unplugged her new television and dragged it outside with me as the kitchen erupted in flames. I went back in for a second load, which included my favorite tablecloth, a few great Paul Simon albums and the chips that were sitting on the living room table.

Somewhere in the mix, I decided that my cell phone was weighing me down, so I left it inside the inferno. I gave Janet a nod of approval before I realized that it was my damned Spaghetti alla Carbonara that was burning down her house. I reached in my pocket for my phone to call the fire department, but then realized that i had lost it in the blaze. Crap.

I really didn't understand Janet when she told me that she didn't want me to call her anymore. And I was doing so well!

you're already tired?

Friday comes so quickly. Just when you think time has slowed down just enough to savor, something comes around and everything speeds up again. Friday has always seemed the same. Just another day. Another flip of the word calendar. Another collared shirt. Another necktie. Once in a while, on special Fridays, I would even be so bold as to leave the necktie behind. Today is Friday, tomorrow is Friday and yesterday was Friday. Yesterday is tomorrow, tomorrow is today, today is yesterday and it all runs together like a blender full of Mondays. God knows I hate Mondays.

I got a call from an old friend on a Friday and time stood still. It's the song that you've written a thousand times even though it's not your voice on the radio. The song that makes you cry. The song that makes you laugh. The song that makes you dance in the street when no one is around. This is how time feels when you can live in it. I got a call from an old friend on a Friday and I lived in it. Everything slowed down until it stopped and with each twirl of the cord, I felt a little more alive. We talked for what seemed like hours until the line went cold. We talked for what seemed like hours until my fingers were tired from their twirling. It's moments like this where time is like cream in coffee. It's sweet. It's immortal. It's whatever the hell you want it to be, but it surely doesn't feel like Monday and it's been Friday for twenty two hours. God knows I hate Mondays.

I called an old friend on a Friday and there was no answer. I called an old friend on a Friday with my fingers wrapped around the cord. I called an old friend on a Friday and Monday seemed closer with each ring from the other end.I called an old friend on a Friday and there was no answer. Another collared shirt. Another necktie. Another flip of the word calendar. I guess I'll just have to wait for that phone to ring again, but Friday comes so quickly and it feels like a blender full of Mondays. God knows I hate Mondays.

Trying to add numbers that don't exist.

She waited for sixteen hours. For sixteen hours, she stood outside my door in silence. She gave me sixteen hours, and then moved on.

I awoke to the smell of burning paper. Suprise, suprise. It was eight fourteen and the clock had been going off for twenty nine minutes now. I was late for work. Again. I looked out my apartment window. The sky was overcast and the streets were littered with scraps of glass. Three men were huddled around a trashcan furnace and a fourth was drinking from a brown paper bag about twenty feet away. There was blood everywhere. I reached for my towel, undressed and walked into the bathroom. Mold lined my ceiling and a leaky pipe dripped onto my toilet with a persistant "plip clop" about once every four seconds. I turned on the shower and looked at myself in the mirror. I looked at my hairy chest and stared at the fat that it covered. I looked at my dirty feet that were peeling and at my toes that were laden with blisters. I laughed. I am not attractive. I don't care to be. I'd rather wear a paper bag over my head than be happy when I look into the mirror. Right. I scrubbed as hard as I could for an entire hour, until my skin was red. I turned off the shower and stood naked in my bathroom for three minutes without moving. I just stared at my pathetic body and wondered what it would be like to live in a home that was more comfortable than this. I thought about what it would be like to be in love, to be confident or happy. I walked around my apartment naked for at least ten minutes, in which time I ate a biscuit and drank my morning beer. I put my clothes on and walked to the door. KNOCKING and I hear "Open up!" I hadn't had company in quite some time. I opened the door and was suprised to see Janet.

I loved Janet. She had snuck up from nowhere and had commitments to keep. Janet loved me. Janet was beautiful and stable. Janet could read and write, and Janet could sing. Janet loved me because I was me. Janet looked past the fat and the blisters. Past the hair and the dirt. Janet gave me time, which I needed. I wondered how long it would last. I sat silently and she sat with me. I stood and escorted her to the door. She stood outside.

She waited for sixteen hours. For sixteen hours, she stood outside my door in silence. She gave me sixteen hours, and then moved on.

I heard the familiar knock next door and listened as a new story unfolded.

Joe loved Janet. She had snuck up from nowhere and had commitments to keep. Janet loved Joe. Janet was beautiful and stable. Janet could read and write, and Janet could sing. Janet loved Joe because he was Joe. Janet looked past the fat and the blisters. Past the hair and the dirt. Janet gave Joe time, which he needed. I wondered how long it would last.

Wait a moment, it's all coming together!

This is a writing session of creative energy (which means it's got nothing to do with me).
As a matter of fact, the only reason I'm writing this anecdote is because I'm feeling weird.

It's incongruent. Parallel. Prestigious. Dark. Ambigious. I can't find the words to tell you how I feel. There's something in your soup and it's making me uncomfortable. Spoon. SPIDERS. SNAKES. Sunsets. Tablecloth. Soup. You're right here with me and that is much better than your soup. I tried to exit through those doors in the back of the coliseum, but they were locked. I looked for security, but only found an old woman in a green dress. Knives. Rubber Gloves. BILLFOLD. Car. River. Vaccuum. Scrub brush. Television. Bedroom. Notebook. Pen. Keys. Doors in the coliseum. I heard a knock on the door. One. Two. Three knocks and you were inside. I was hoping you'd bring my favorite casserole. Peaches. Cinnamon. Marshmallows.. Chocolate and Graham over a large fire. Gasoline. Baseball bat. Clothes pin over my nostrils. Ashes. But you didn't. I was hungry, so I asked you to get me something out of the refrigerator. Something salty and something sweet to wash it down. Roast beef and Coca-Cola. It's perfect. Let me have the powder. Credit card. Elementary math. Parallel lines. Nostrils. Burning. Gasoline. BASEBALL BAT. Clothes pin over my nostrils which are burning so good.

Thank God.

You came inside only to find me a wreck, Savannah. I was trying to tell you that I didn't mean to impose upon your time, but that I was hungry and I needed to see you. I needed to touch your face and know that you'd come if I needed you. I did need you. You didn't make my favorite casserole or Peach Cobbler, but I knew you wouldn't, so I put some in the oven. The roast beef was just an appetizer.

I called you to tell you that I've been doing poorly lately, Savannah. I killed that old woman at the theatre, and threw her in the river. I cleaned up the mess and made it immaculate. I wore a suit of rubber and a wetsuit on top of that. I bathed myself in vinegar and alcohol after I put the first suit on, and did the same after dawning the second. I did this all outside. It was a knife that took her life, and it wasn't that she did anything wrong. I thought someone was following me and called for security. She came from behind a corner to help, but it was too late. My knife pierced her stomach. I couldn't watch her suffer, So I slit her throat. I placed her in a meat cooler in my trunk that I kept for emergencies, and took her to the river. I removed her billfold and her license and threw the cooler in. My suit was covered in blood, so I removed it at the river and placed it next to the cooler, which had situated at the bottom. I wrote a note on my office label maker and placed both the label and the maker on the cooler. Water covered about twenty inches of the cooler, but another foot remained above water. Rocks on all sides prevented it from moving.

I drove to the address on her license, making sure to abide by all traffic laws. I pulled up to the house around sunset, and the crisp air started to cool down. I started to notice smoke rising from chimneys on the street, and knew that in a few minutes, this house would light the same flame. I exited my car and walked to the window, where I could see an old man sleeping in a chair. I walked into an unlocked door and walked toward the oven. I blew out the pilot, and turned the gas on high. I shut all the doors and put socks under them and made sure all the windows were closed. Then I took off the rubber suit that touched my skin and placed it at the doorstep. I watched with binoculars from down the street as the man shivered awake and walked toward the furnace. With a flick of the wrist, a spark emerged and flames shot from every window on the door and he was no more. The suit I left at the door was incarcerated and I was on my way home.

I called you, but you didn't answer. I turned on the television, and quickly left the news to watch Nickelodian. I was hungry, so I called again. And Savannah, I'm still hungry.

Another Chapter has Begun.

I tried this blogging thing a few months ago, only to find that I could only continue for one day. I read my own story months after writing it, and thought about how much has happened since those words came into my mind initally. This is a rant.

I'm in college now and so much has changed. I have become somewhat of a neat person; organized and punctual, while at the same time more free spirited and fun to talk to. I have developed a respect for those of lower financial status, as I worked in manual labor this summer. I know what it's like to work hard for your family, because college is expensive and my parents can't afford it. Seventy two hour weeks are never fun in the construction business. I know what it's like to feel like you've failed at a relationship, because I have failed over and over with girls that are nothing short of amazing. I have had experiences with tobacco, alcohol and near death depression. I drive with the windows down while singing at the top of my lungs. I have had great kisses and horrible ones. I have fallen in love and have been heart broken. I have been fat, ugly and unacceptable. I have been called stupid. I have been called a pussy for not being afraid to cry. I have cried in sadness and in laughter. I cry often. I am legally blind, but I think it's kind of cool. I have been a missionary, a youth pastor, a councelor and an accountibility partner. I have been a liar, a thief, a cheater and hypocrite. I have been an atheist. I have been given eternal life by a savior that discourages denomination and encourages love. I have been pulled out of a pit of darkness and been given life.

I'm sitting in my dorm room trying to sort things out, but my mind is going at 500 miles an hour and I can only type 100 words a minute.

At my desk, a half empty bottle of water sits underneath a lamp that is lightly covered in dust. A roll of toilet paper sits on a pile of cd's I've been listening to lately. I ran out of tissues. Death Cab for Cutie is playing in the background and I am content. This place has become my home and a safehaven. My phone is filled with numbers of people who I have lost touch with and people whom I love. I feel so constant. I feel accomplished. I feel good. Really good. Talk to you soon.

There's a Love that Transends.

This is my new and improved blog page. I used to do this all of the time, but I poured too much about me when I originally intended to use it as a way to let out my creative energy. This is the rememdy.

An old couch sat in my living room. From years of constant use, the cushions were flattened in the middle with broken seams and protruding cotton held in place by golden painted safety pins. Across the room, an old upright piano sat next to a window of stained glass and cobwebs. It had been quite sometime since I had cleaned this place. The doors were nailed shut and the only entrance was by window. An access ladder lead to this window, but some climbing skills and faith were necessary to enter. I didn't have many guests. I guess "clean" is only relative to the audience a room satisfies. Today, I was going to host a concert. A concerto in Eb. The room was packed with unwanted guests already, and quite a congregation had gathered on my unoccupied couch. The windows were covered with large brown sheets, so I pulled them aside to bring light into the otherwise gloomy room. The piano was heavy, but I managed to drag the heap into the middle of the room. Light hit the keys in a manner that caused the old scrap wood around them to shine like the day it was assembled. I sat down on the bench, which had no wear or signs of aging. As long as I had lived here, I had never stuck a key on this piano. It sat next to the window for as long as my presence had graced the apartment. The window adjacent always made me paranoid that someone was watching, so I'd sit for hours on the couch looking at the piano in anticipation for the disappearing window. Windows aren't very good at making themselves go away.

READ ON TOMORROW.