My city celebrates something called Mifflin Street Block Party every year on May second.

May second is not a special day. No one important died on May second, no great battle was won, the weather doesn't really change and it doesn't have roots to any Pagan Holiday I've ever heard of so why anyone needs to drink in the street in front of state police on May second is beyond me. A hundred and forty people we're arrested this year and my state newspapers are touting this as a success. Last year four hundred were put to the ticket while seated overnight in wet vomity paddy wagons.

I haven't participated in Mifflin-idiotry since I was fourteen because I know better. However I have to remember that these "playboy man babies" haven't harvested huge sweeping cuts of life achievement like I have, thus, do not become bored of beer that resembles in both color and bubbles to a plastic cup of animal piss as easily as I do.

I miss beer. But when I had beer, I always made sure it was local, costly, cold, and served in a fucking glass. Like a man. Not from a tube. Like a hamster.

The music is also shit and I have since decided that I hate eighties music that was also shitty in the eighties and is still in circulation because irony has taken over "your momma" jokes for this generations soft core source of humor. Make no mention of any "...that's what she said" jokes either. I won't kill you for it but I'll sure as hell think about it.

More fun eighties facts:

Fake tits, big cars that legally achieve their engines potential three percent of the time they are driven, big plastic sun glasses, straight men wearing pink, collars without ties, and metrosexuals.

I have to work right by Mifflin at both my jobs and am spared no moment of calmness.

A beautiful thing happened because of this cesspool of an event though not unlike like a tulip sprouting outward from the tip of a land fill.

Straight out of a film noir private investigator stereotype, this wet-eyed dame clobbers her way through our glass door saying the cops can't help her.

I have a thing for crying women so I let her talk.

Her cell phone fell deep into a hooded storm drain and she hysterically wants to know if there's anyway I can help her.



There are several ways in fact!
Utility grabber
Telescoping magnet or similar adhesive
Crowbar

But I've had experience with hooded storm drains. They can be lifted up and moved by two men comfortably but most people never think to try because it looks suspicious. I had to save a smoking pipe for someone in a similar way outside the Cardinal months ago, but a woman's cell phone is nobler quest I guess.

I abandon the Hardware store. She points to where it was lost and it is in the danger zone of the party, right next to a circle of surplus cops.

I begin to worry that by doing what I am about to do will land me a disorderly conduct ticket again compounded by the fact that I never wear a work uniform they might not believe me when I tell them I'm at my job and not fucking about.

I confidently avoid eye contact with the officers until I'm at the evacuation point.
Under the watch of hundreds of revelers, the police, an old fireman, and a crying blond broad, I grip into the the bars of the drain and lift. For five seconds of pulling the drain stays fixed but slowly begins to give way as my veins push abnormal amounts of blood to my forearms. The drain is steadily lifted to my waist and I walk it away from the hole then jump down seven feet to a half puddled hole.

I find her cell phone, it's battery, and back cover in the dark and begin to climb out when I am suddenly pulled in assistance by the back of my shirt collar like a scruffed cat.

I see a pair of policeman's shoes and pants as I panel my vision upward.
It's not a policeman at all though, but the old fireman laughing through his white whiskers.

"They all tried!" He chuckles pointing at the ring of shamed cops. "None of them could do it and you lift it like it's nothing! Y'oghtta be a Fireman!"

My heart explodes.

I tell him I tried to volunteer at Shorewood but couldn't because I never learned to drive. He tells me as soon as I do that there's a place for me within the city department. This is a highly coveted position among firemen.

The cops are less amused. I salute them and one cop says, "She must be a pretty good friend of yours." Like it's an insult.
Like I wouldn't go out of my way to help a stranger.
Funny huh?

I had the honor of visiting and speaking with my granfather two days before he expired.

To get an idea of my genetic makeup, here's his obituary

My Great great grandmother had a few husbands.  With her, my great great grandfather made great grandpa Lloyd and another great uncle who had killed a man at fifteen.  

The police threatened to arrest Lloyd as well because he was half Cherokee and racially prone to violence.  They had some backwards beliefs at the time.

Instead of jail he was allowed to fight in the war in China right before it became communist China.  Photography exists of my young Great grandfather beheading Chinese looking pleased with himself.

Lloyd went on to marry 'Lizbeth, my GGM, and apparently she was a whore. 
My grandfather was one of three children that can be assuredly of Lloyd's loins but there were two other relatives made from other men. 

Lloyd was mercilessly abusive and permanently injured my grandfathers leg as a baby.
Two of Lloyd's children committed suicide. 

Despite these setbacks, my grandfather his sister, and Lloyd junior his half brother continued to greatness and proceeded to never beat thier children which helped to ensure I grow up unabused as well.

At the same time, I will bode knowing I came from killers and whores. 
 Hopefully this clears up a few things about why I do what I do when I do it...

Everyone loves Atari Tar-Tar baby pupu.

I wake up for my last day in Wisconsin.

I don't eat or drink anything in my downtown second story flat and it's five thirty in
the morning because my parents assure me I'll need the extra time to get through
airport security.

I make love to Bunny and smoke the last of the marijuana that I wouldn't dare
smuggle into LA and she drives me to my parents.


My mother is hysterical.


"You're going to be robbed and murdered.  The airport in not checking in your
weapon board.  Why Nicholas, why LA?"



She always does this. 

She thought I was going to be robbed and murdered on my first day of middle school.



"Why do you have to write about your father dying?  Why did you climb the side of that building?  I don't understand you."


Her throat sounds sore and dry. 

She just discovered my Internet presence a week ago and has since decided that
I am incapable of surviving independently, worries photographers are going to try
to drug and rape me or that I'm going to join a gang.


Bunny calms my mother down, she always does, and my father delivers me to the
Dane County regional airport.
I love airports. 

I also love train stations, harbors, subway tunnels, and bus hubs.

Traveling and the methods therein fill me with an unparalleled excitement.

I love the suited business women and men, the militaristic airport
staff, the regal winged badges adorning the pilots...  All of this
ironic considering how terrified flying makes me.


I go through the motions common to boarding an airplane, security lets
me through effortlessly despite the huge screwdriver, ratchet set,
bladed multitool, and flashlight within my carry on luggage and I am
flying.  I sit alone tensely gripping the armrest on either side of me
through the take off and landing.



I leave to Minneapolis and from there to LAX airport.





The weather blankets me and I see living plants for the first time in half a year.


My skatesword is chipped along the blade and not how I packaged it
leading me to believe one of the baggage crew took it out for a joy
ride.


"I need to buy spray paint."  Are my first thoughts.



All the children and parents curiously stand around me making eye
contact with the sun reflected metal of the boards surface and ask me
if I'm famous. 

I tell them I'm only a journalist and wait outside for my friend Robin to pick me up.



While outside two old jocks approach quizzically and ask to see me
ride.  I do a lap in front of apathetic security and I am then grilled
for answers about who my agent is. 


They identify themselves as talent scouts from ESPN2 and that they are doing a
show about new sports, longboard racing being one of them.  After being assured
with credentials that they are in fact not gay porn directors, I give them my phone number.





Robin's late.




Twenty minutes pass and she's rolling up alongside my heavy luggage in a
monster truck, it is navy blue and the cab is filled with dead leaves.  I
open the door as empty bottles spill out, it smells like a a fresh cut
lawn inside and the radio is broken.




Robin is very happy to see me and informs that we are going straight to
her dads apartment to smoke medical grade "Jack the Ripper" sativa
marijuana in her bathroom. 


I clap my hands excitedly.


The truck, without warning begins shaking violently in the middle of
gridlocked traffic!

The shaking turns into rattling, both Robin and I
are scared and confused so she makes an illegal maneuver out of
traffic. 


The car suddenly corrects itself before we die and Robin and
I sit, wide eyed without explanation.

We finish the drive to her dads quietly.



Her dads apartment is small but filled with entertainment devices,
giant flat televisions, video games and stereos. 
Her little brother
lives with them as well and his presence is accompanied by anarsenal of paintball weapons that reflect in design real world M4's,
pistols, Kalashnikovs, and grenades.



I get an idea of what parenting in LA details.


We smoke and it's brilliant. 


I meet her father after the smoke clears
and he's huge in every dimension; length and width and depth.

He suggests we change the oil in the truck.


I get a call from my Aunt Esme and she's ecstatic.


"Nikki you're in LA ohmygawd!  Do you need a place to stay?"


Originally I intended to sleep in Robin's truck so the offer is music to my ears.









She works until seven pm so Robin and I decide to pass the time skating
through Venice beach. 


Everywhere I go people from every walk of life stop me to talk about my board. 

Tired business men advise me to sell it, Mexican single mothers tell me they want
one for there son, other skaters ask me where I bought it and can narrowly
believe I'd built it myself.

Venice is filled to its eyeballs with muscle men, capoeira fighters,
jugglers, tourists, Mexicans, stoners openly smoking, girls
longboarding, vendors, and small dogs. 

Every stretch of grass is bespangled in the shit of small dogs so I learn quickly to
stay on pavement which only occasionally has the smeared shit of a homeless
person.

We skate all the way to an Oceanside with high rocks saturated with zebra muscles both living and dead. 


I catch a glimpse of a scuttling shelled creature disappear into the
rocks and I scream, "It's a giant ant?!"  investigation reveals it to
be a crab and I am relieved. 


Giant ants would be a huge threat to humanity. 

Luckily, crabs keep to themselves. 


Robin and I navigate around the posing Mexicans being photographed by thier
girlfriends, climb to where the water of the waves barely misses us and smoke.  Star fish with arms as big as mine cling motionlessly nearby. 

I'm wearing a tie and sweating slightly. 

Our paid meter is running out so we leave just in time. 


Walking through the sand is not unlike walking through snow. 
It holds you in place and you can feel your thighs exerting themselves in order to move.

I joke "In Wisconsin we call sand 'hot snow'."  Robin laughs for the first time.

I am delivered to my Aunt who hugs me deeply and comments on how much alike we look when we smile.

Robin has clubbing in mind so we park expensivly and ready ourselves for the night life.

I get into some huge boots after sundown, sash up my kimono covered in
red medic crosses, (a favorite design of mine), adjust my hair and we
go out dancing.

People ask me where I got my outfit from and it dawns on me how much taller I
am than everyone around.

When people ask me about Wisconsin, I tell them it always snows and I'm
famously Wisconsin's smallest adult man. 
Everyone has beards even some of the women. 
If you don't have a beard you're not a man. 
If you want to be a paid artist your options are taxidermist, opera singer, or
polka musician.

Robin and I are surrounded by curious short natives for the rest of the night.

I dance alone and avert advances toward me from both men and women by telling them of my beautiful virginal blond fiance'. 


I tell people my reasons for traveling are modeling with Jamais Vu and
they look me with amazed disbelief.

I find he is a big deal among the LA goth community which further fuels my excitement for the coming days. 

I sleep for the first time in forever and dream about Bunny.

The next day I go to Hollywood Boulevard without knowing anyone. 


Tourist take pictures of me among all the professional impersonators
who are photographed for profit. 

People ask me if I'm famous and I lie about being Criss Angel for fun.

I skate constantly and drink expensive things until Robin evacuates me
to an apartment near Compton where the new drummer from London After
Midnight lives. 



His roommate who at the time was working on video game
music for Sony owns a legitimate purchasers card for medical marijuana. 

We smoke many many things.

Robin replaces her now absent supply of "Mr. Niceguy" while I pick up some premium "King Kush". 

I get so high that I can't feel myself breathe. 

I'm so high from smoking that I can't smoke anymore and then we
vacate from our new friends for more adventure. 

I bring two skateboards to keep Robin from slowing me down and we kill
time downtown until my Aunt takes me out for experamental sushi.

Everyone at the restaurant knows my Aunt by name and we are cleared for
seating despite the other waiting customers. 

It begins to dawn on me that Esme is a big deal around town. 

She's a professional party coordinator who spends all her time with famous people worthy of franchise.

It is revealed I'm working for the Nickelodeon Kids Choice Awards as
her personal assistant and even though I hate all the celebrities I'm going to meet, I
am excited.  I decline invitations to popular goth clubs in lue of needed sleep.


The KCA is a sea of humanity. 

Four hundred people work for my aunt, and five thousand guest are expected to
fill a green slime themed circus tent. 

A huge lit dance floor is revealed before my very eyes and within hours there are already too many people.


I have to hand out shirts to all the workers waiting in line. 

In an attempt to minimize my efforts I loudly announce:

"I have large t-shirts on my left arm and extra large on my right.  You need a shirt to work today, when I come by, take one."

I then go down the line to offer shirts and every group of adult men and women ask disappointed "do you have a medium?"


...


Seriously.  Everyone even the chubbier ones want a medium t-shirt to accentuate their figure.



I stand back again and loudly announce "Just because you are wearing a large sized t-shirt, does not mean that you are fat."

They all look among one another in mutual epiphany and proceed to get
shirt without further interruption. 

Some girls begin asking for XL shirts with big smiles on their faces.

Seriously. 

Why worry about looking good at the KCA? 
The audience is eighty percent children and the other twenty is owned up to the parents.


It's eight PM finally and I am delighted to inform you that I am taller than:

Usher

Chris Rock

J Z

All of the Jonas fags

The Twilight fags

The Fags of High school Musical

And the heterosexual Rock is just a hair taller than I.


Esme's movie friends are smitten with my small town humor and accent
which is good for my prospective future in acting.

In fact, the entire time I was PA'ing, I felt as if I was being groomed for fame, and this was without my board which I largely attribute for all of my notoriety.

It's good to know I can pull my weight without it however.

I turn down more clubbing that night for sleep.


The next day I purchase a unique metal pipe with a built in refillable
lighter so you can smoke one handed. 


I get a huge discount from the Mexicans working because they like my board and I wheel around LA by myself, enjoying the opportunity to be alone finally.

I meet and become fast friends with Logan Stiles. 

He skates fast, has amazing hair and reminds me so much in appearance and
mannerisms to my Wisconsin friend Blake that I call him Hollywood Blake which he loves. 

The first thing he asks me is "Hey do you have a hair straightener I
can borrow?" and I still laugh at loud about it to this very moment.


We skate forever, bomb some serious hills and smoke more King Kush. 
I begin to worry I won't finish all of my pot before having to go home
and then laugh about how silly of a responsibility that it is.


I tell him he's hanging out with me and two female models today and he can't do
anything about it.


The two models of which I speak are Shairre and Robin.


We take the subway to Universal Mall in time for the lights to come out
and I make them watch an awesome street performer talk about his funk
and then dance accordingly.


My favorite dance move being the "Lissen to yo' Mamma!"


We eat Chinese, the Asian guy serving us is named "Man" which Hollywood Blake abuses to no end.


"Thanks Man"
"Hey Man"
etc.

I crack a joke to Blake in front of Man saying "That's great, he's probably never heard anyone tell him that ever.  You're the first Blake."


Man laughs genuinely and open mouthed.

Shairre is beautiful and gently social. 
I've only met her online but she was just as trusting and unique in person as I'd imagined her to be.

Blake uncouthly asks how old she is which annoys her.

I spend most of the day trying to correct his bad behavior of
spitting, swearing in front of children, yelling at people from moving
automobiles, and not letting his mouth hang open when he's not
speaking.
Asking a lady her age is no exception
She asks us to guess her age and we go around the table.

"25"

"27"

"22"

She holds up her fingers to indicate the decades and we stop eating in awe.
A gentleman doesn't type such revealing things about a lady but god we should all be so lucky.

Shairre gets us to Hollywood and Logan/Blake, Robin, as well as myself go skate smoking the rest of the night.


The next day is the day of my shoot with Jamais.


I'm so nervous. 

He tells me we are not shooting today, he only wants to see my wardrobe and jewelry. 
I don't do anything to my hair and Robin and I leave almost late.


We need gas which Robin has me pump.
I watch the counter as I fill the tank.
It begins to act full at three gallons which is impossible. 
The gas back flows out and all over the side of the car while some annoying bum pesters me for gas money. 

He looks young, goth and defeated. 

His story sucks and I don't listen but I welcome him to all the gas I spilled and I freak out about the car blowing up.

We're late.

Robin tells me to stop panicking and wait in the car while she cleans my mess.

We leave and I'm so grateful that the car does not explode like I worry it will.

I call Jamais (I never learn his real name) and hear his voice for the first time. 
He speaks in one word sentences but doesn't sound mad. 
Just very even and direct.

I still think he's mad at me.

We arrive seven minutes late and he's waiting outside dressed completely in black.

He's short even by LA standards but I treat him with respect, shake his hand earnestly, and enter his apartment with Robin.

His house is clean and white like a hospital. 
Huge expensive symmetrical photo equipment line his living room appearing ready to shoot at a moments notice. 
Lights flash on an off signaling life within the devices.

"Let me see your things." He says flatly.

I show him my jewelry and kimono and mention I'd like to do a "skateboard samurai" themed shoot. 

"It's nice."

"We will not be shooting it."  He states in monotone.

He then goes upstairs and produces a costume like I have never seen before.

"This will fit you."

"We are shooting today."  He says, contradicting everything I had previously thought about out about our engagement that day.
I ask for hair gel to fix my mess and Robin helps me into my armor.

It's uncomfortable hard plastic covered in fake dials and indicators
with clear tubes running in every direction it makes me think of a
futuristic Frankenstein and hurts to move in. 

It's also hot.


"Now we wait."  He says.

"For sunset."

We watch bad TV in abject silence until the light goes away and begin to shoot.

He directs and shoots remarkably but sounds bored the entire time.

Robin stands behind him and watches the images he captures on his view
screen with an excited face that I hadn't seen on her for the entirety
of the trip.

She flashes me enthusiastic 'thumbs up's as I pose both with and without the board.

I don't see any of the images and won't until another month from now.

When we leave I almost hug him and we talk about male model Perish as
it seems to be the only common ground we have.

I thank him but am all together glad to leave. 
He was very intimidating, but I am grateful for the experience.

Robin leaves for Wisconsin and I am left with Hollywood Blake for company.

We spend the day skating and I am finally bored of it.

"Lets make some money." He announces like it's something that you can simply materialize.

Afterwords I make numerous prostitute jokes at his expense.

His idea is so genius I worry it'll get us arrested.

He helps me to become a true hipster. 

We make our hair gelled to impossible perfection and I borrow a black shiny shirt of my aunts from the seventies, not "seventies looking" but historically seventies. 

It fits perfectly and we look gay, but awesomely gay. 

We then print out dozens of fliers for a popular dance club simply called "Dance." 


It costs twelve dollars to get in but only five with the flier.

Hollywood Blake says we sell them to people in line for two dollars
because people forget to bring them or have never been to the club
before.

I still don't believe him.

We skate there close to night time and sure enough there's a block long line of people waiting for the club to open.

We work the crowd hilariously and have sixty dollars within thirty minutes.
People thank us and since Logan knows -Everyone- we don't even wait in line.
He blows his money on E and we go dance at Dance.

I happily turn away women who want to be with me because I have so much
better waiting to marry me at home, but instead of getting laid, I make
friends.

Everyone is excited to meet me and hear about the Kids Choice Awards. 

Some people live here for months before meeting a celebrity and I
already had a list.


I never got along with Wisconsin hipsters but LA scene kids are so
energetically awesome that I had no choice but to love them. 

We stay till close and I skate home alone.
The next day I prepare to leave.
Esme orders me a Town Car which is basically a short Limo.

I spend the rest of my last evening with Logan and Rex (from my photographs) and promise to come back in June.

The Russian man helps me with my bags and I'm off to where it all started...

Suddenly from out of nowhere, I have a three hour layover in Vegas,
lose sixty dollars on slots and then get threatened to be arrested and
fined if I try to leave the airport for reasons which are still unknown to me.

I'm home now and I'm happy to be with Bunny. 
I spend all of her free time with her and live happily ever after.

The end.












...






At least until June...

Leaving the plane after arriving in LA I am approached by two old Jocks with tucked in polos identifying themselves as representatives for ESPN 2.
They ask if I want to be on a show and I say "ok".

Later my aunt asks if I want to work on the Nickelodeon Kids Choice Awards and I say "ok".

It hasn't even been 24 hours and I have already paid for my trip.

I need to make a "card" because everyone keeps asking for my "card" and I don't have one.

I promise I will never have plastic surgery done to me.

I'm going skating.

I'm visiting this month from March 25th to March 31st!
Last time I was in LA I had a blast and now two years later I want to go again.
I'll be with my friend Robin (-Puck-) and I'm bringing some long boards. 
Sword variety and otherwise.
 
If there's anyone reading this from LA and you want to hangout or show me around, I can pay for myself and am tons of fun.
Feel free to contact me from now until my leave date about kickin' it.
9lives

I've decided to begin a working massage practice from my own home.

I'm well versed in Swedish massage, athletic massage, and cross fiber friction with an understanding of temperature treatment.  I have a table and laundered sheets at all times at my house.

Call me anytime at 1-608-516-6810 to schedule an appointment for an hour long treatment.  First time appointments are always free but returning customers are expected to pay only twenty dollars.  Half hour sessions are available for ten dollars as well, payable by cash or check.

I'm not certified until four months from now, after certification my rates will have to increase by law so it's in your interest to cash in on this now.  I have testimonials and feed back that I am fucking awesome at massage.  You got some problems with your back, legs or shoulders I WILL fix you.  Besides, you were probably just gonna spend your money on drugs or booze or whores so really.  Really.  Do yourself a favor and give me a call.

Beginning January First I made a resolution to smoke more cigarettes.

Thank you.

 

 

You are directly responsible for all the confidence, swagger, and satisfaction in my life.

If it weren't for you I'd probably be fat, idle, and easy to kill. 

You're the reason I exercise, read, shower, invent, and wake up early.

When I die either old and riddled with tumors or young and artistically spattered across a windshield like an errant stag, the ensuing memories that surface in my final moments, my "life flashing before my eyes", will be of you and I and our time together no matter how brief or how personal it had been.

Some of you are pretty, others beautiful, more still are gorgeous and there have been a precious few who can only be explained as wanton sex goddesses that visit me in reacurring dreams although they now live in Mexico City where they tame wild horses hundreds of miles away from roads, phone lines, or hospitals. 

I am at a point where I can only love equally.  If maybe you had left me or we separated on bad terms you should know if you ever read this that I can't resent you anymore.  I have truly come to understand now what it means to be happy we existed instead of being sad that we are over.

To any of you now with other men, it is my hope that they treat you right and appropriately satisfy you because it is what you deserve.

 

I'm getting old.

I was very lucky to be a handsome young man.  I don't think we would of carried on as well otherwise.  I will be ugly soon though.  My ever fading appearance from cruel thieving age is certain.  One day my skin will turn to tree bark my back will misshape itself and I'll be deaf. 

I hope I one day discover a way to compensate for this in order to keep you.  Life isn't worth living without you.

If you're wondering why it has been two months and a fortnight since my last entry, it's because I have been frighteningly occupied. 

Outstanding circumstances at my both of jobs pigeon holed me into working above seventy hours a week so I'm simultaneously rich and in-fucking-sane. 
When rich people get insane they invest in some weird shit. 
I'll spare the details beyond to say that there's a vintage Japanese pachinko machine in my room, I have more functional death-boards then the Russian military and I have eaten nothing but sushi for longer then most samurai living or dead.

My new house is large enough raise a baby elephant in. 

There are two living rooms and I have the greatest roommate/surrogate big brother.  Ever.

I was supposed to go to my girlfriends mother's house for dinner last Sunday but failed miserably by sleeping through the occasion and crudely sending her away when she arrived to pick me up.  I sound like a terrible boyfriend, (I am), but my constant mistreatment of Bunny seems to only make her more devoted to me than any other girl I've ever dated in recent history. 

With other girl friends, being attentive and involved only made me come off as clingy and emotional inevitably collapsing the relationship under the very weight of "feelings" where as being a self indulgent prick somehow transforms me into a desirable mysterious sex god that must be trapped, worshiped, pleased and held onto for dear life lest it escape.  It's a new feeling for me and I like it.

I start pathology in six days and I can't wait.  Anatomy is to necromancy as chemistry is to alchemy and this stirs my gothy bones in good directions.
I lost a photographer under tragic circumstances.  I miss her dearly but I also wish to work again in pictures soon.  I have a stunning new skatesword built named Meredeth and it craves documentation.  That's basically an invite to any budding local photographers who are interested in the pursuit of art and culture with myself. 

Over the winter and fall, I want to write a book, or at least a good short story.

I want to be the front man in a rock band again.

And I want to learn how to sew.

This is my "golden age" per say and I must embrace it.

I have lived through my golden birthday, thus no longer burdened with milestones I take solace in knowing I've crested like the tidal wave and can begin to live on borrowed time.
Which means it's time to care less about my appearance, limit my emotions to irate or satisfied, make a fuck ton of money, and then never share it with anyone while having my trail of bastards compete for my approval.
Did anyone elSE HAVE A GREATFUCKINGTIME THIS WEEK.

I went to Six flags, Noah's ark, drank and fucked in the down time, snuck into a bunch of movies, fell in love, made hundreds of dollars, saved someones keys from a sewer drain at bartime, and lost weight.

My right ankle is way too swollen. It doesn't hurt but I diagnose it has something to do with skating Everyday for three years in any season on a weighted board while dehydrated. I think it's not so bad but when I pull down my sock to show people they freak out. Babies.
So I'm in a wheel chair...


Not really. Haha. I bought a bike. But I call it a wheel chair because I think I'm just so damn clever don't you? I swear I'll fucking kill us both.

Biking is fun and I get everywhere blitzkrieg fast but the best part is that my bike, affectionately named Manfred Von Richthofen, was made in the seventies so it has this ancient pant guard designed to keep my mean flair Bell bottoms from ever being in that chain for any reason.

I'm building a new board and it's going to scare you, but only for a second, and then it makes you feel sexy.
P.s. I'm never sleeping again.

School is almost done...

While everyone else has been enjoying themselves I've been indoors carving my hands into amputees, geriatrics, people living with aids or diabetes, the pregnant, and the -truly- fat.
Not like the forgivably chubby or even jolly sized but rather the people so huge that their very life gets irreparably rearranged because of it at age thirty three.

Chapter ten is adaptive massage. "What to do when your client is different."

Colostomy bags.

...

I miss the cadavers...

I had to give this one lady a massage and every part of her that I pressed into with my fingers left a dent in the skin for a few minutes before reshaping itself. Wow.

"You should go see a doctor."

"Yeah been thinking about it. You can draw a smiley face innut huhuh."



.




..




...I didn't.

Ewe grosss. Fuck you guys who thought I would do that.

Ich ben ein Busy.

I work at Knuckleheads and yes, it is cooler than where ever it is you happen to work by a margin of at least twelve.

Unless you are a rocket surgeon underwear model.
If you were a rocket surgeon underwear model than I really just can't fuck with you now then can I?

I'm done with school in a week. Good.

I have to try not getting high before going to class. I'm always under-slept to begin with, compounded with no coffee and six thirty in the morning leaves me susceptible to hypnotism among other things.

I went to the bathroom once and sometimes I don't use the urinal to pee.
Sometimes I like to pee in an enclosed space like it's a litter box.
I still pee standing up, just in a stall. Not a urinal.
And there's nothing fucking wrong with that.
Fuck you dad.

It's morning. And it's summer. But downtown campus still has plenty of folk in it.
Thus far no one else has opened the door to use the facility so I decide I'll change into my scrubs only without taking my shoes off.
Like.
I thought it'd be faster to get my legs en-pantsed and ready to move if I left my shoes on through the whole process of pants-changing but that's the wrongest assumption to ever make again. Because I've tried this before.
I think it only works if you're wearing clown pants and even then, only if you're changing into a different pair of clown pants.

I give up and take my shoes off, change, and decide to wash my hands arms and elbows, then a splash on the face. I've been undisturbed the entire time, like ten minutes when I see a condom machine.
But it's like a 'medical' condom machine.
It's all white with no bright colors and it sells tampons.
And it doesn't sell condoms at all.

The delayed synapse in my brain fires up and I realize I've spent all this time in a giant public woman's restroom on the first floor. I bolt, and by some act of Odin no one sees. I should have noticed there were no urinals, but I just HAD to pee in my enclosed space.

And even though I get out of school soon I'm way back in there beginning august.

I haven't been able to make jewelry in a month but I did manage to make a board different from my winter board.
It's got tread plate!
And the cross is stained at the top with human blood.
My blood, yes, but I floor waxed it so it will stay red forever like the good people displayed at Body Worlds.
And if aliens or future generations dig it up they can clone me.

The inferno was good.
I got blotto way too fast and wore a cowboy hat very, very, Very well
I blacked out most of the occurrences from midnight to the after bar but I remember drinking whiskey out of a car (that reads funny) and then there was this short hamster of a drunk mohawk in glasses with 'LETS FUCK' tattooed on the inferior boarder of his clavicle.

"Devil board! Lets head butt!"

He says.

"No."

I say.

"Aww c'mon."

I hate him but when people say shit like "c'mon" I'm powerless.

"Ok."

I pull my head back and then I'm in the future.
Apparently the head but commenced but through the miracle of brain damage,
I time warped.

I was still standing unhurt in the kitchen and dude had disappeared.
Within my fifteen minute long alcohol concussion, he managed to get ousted for head butting out some glass door windows after shouting "I'm going to head butt out these glass door windows!" excitedly to the rest of the room.
Maaaan.

Why some goth kids into club drugs?
Don't do that shit.
I walked home bare foot through the in the warm rain at around five am.

I wake up with a ringing phone in my hand. It's Bunny.

"Yessshhh...?"

"So did you kiss enough girls last night?"

"What'reyooo talkingbough?"

"Mandy saw you with two sorority girls last night."

"No way. I headbutted that guy. We didn't kiss."

"Carl saw too. I'm not breaking up with you I'm just really disappointed and we're having a talk when I get back from Kansas."

I don't remember kissing anyone but to be fair, I don't remember much. I have what looks like a hickey on my neck but I'm going to get it tested soon.

God. Kidding.

So I'm drunk now. Very. Drunk. Because all of my new co workers are enablers... I drink and I smoke and I don't give a dman shit hell about checkingmy spelling or going to bedx ontime oir using this grammar or puctuation.

So I'm skating down east washington at two in the morning the morning at top speed in the3 left lane and the car in the slightly righter lane decides to honk at me and flip me off.

That's soooo cute. The drivers are pretty girls. So I chase them into a red light . It's after six o'clock so theytake a right turn at the reddy to avoid me and park because I'm telling them off at every stop sign they hit so theypark and three beefy white guys get out. And I'm smasssshed. One does this thing where he leans his fgorehead into mine like we're bulls and says "hit me" over and over again like he's a submissive at the 'ferno every third Sunday.

I realize something.
These are white priviliged arrogant dicks who fear the jail I know well like Hell itself so I don't hit any of them but defiantly ask in my man voice why they'd honked at me till dudes girl friend comes up and apologizes for honking at me and thather boyfriend and friends were driving drunk, so, tactfully I ask "so you don't hate skaters?"

"no I don't hate skAters".

"so you love skaters?"

"i Love skaters".

I am Hitler and I have -just- built the nuke first."

"you HEAR THAT?" I yell "ShE LOOOOOVES SKATERS!" I announce. with totally that many 'o's.

The three of them start sprinting at me on foot almost on cue with my comment and I'm already
ten feet ahead. I skate a gingerly pace so they can keep up with me but just so out of reach that I can talk to them the entire time.

I also perform the cheekiest dance while in mid ride in the history of being infuriating.

I Say "You wish you had a skate board so she'd looove you to!" and other drunk ballsy things while they stay a whites-or-their-eyes pace awaybreathing too heavy to retaliate.

These three dips chase me allllllllllllllllll the way to the crystal corner before they're too out of breath to even crawl.

Then I stop.

I tell these panting idiots that they've left there girl;;friends, like, a five minute jog away from themsleves at two in the morning and that driving intoxicated, however glamorous, is a felony and they stare at me with these sad silent pitiful broken hearted puppy dog looks. They had to go back to their pissed girlfriends with no blood on their hands like a bunch of dopes and totally probably not get laid tonight if not make for a truely awkward night for the whole lot of them.
Karma is soooooo sweet.

Knuckleheadsarulz!!!