Claude was one of the best friends a guy like me could ask for. Sarcastic, honest, nerdy, freaky smart, really funny, and weirder than me. I would have said AS weird as me, but the man shaved pink pigtails in his head. Me and Claud went to a charter school together and immediately became best friends, trading CDs and mixtapes, and doing a lot drugs together. Not like the horrible mug people for the money to fuel the addiction drugs. More like the, let's eat these and stare at the stars drugs. We liked hallucinogens...a lot. We liked X...a lot. Most of all we liked doing them together.
It's rare for me to find people I like to trip with. People freak me out to begin with. I've been diagnosed with a social anxiety disorder. That means people make me nervous. Nervous and hallucinogens don't mix. That sends you into what they call a "bad trip". A bad trip means living your darkest nightmares. It also makes you examine everything you hate about yourself, but ignore. Bad trips make grown ass men cry. Like snot bubble in the nose cry. But Claud kept me comfortable when I was tripping and I did the same for him. We fucked with each other. But it was ok because it was us. With him around I could drop acid at a crowded party and be just fine.
Claud wanted to have a get together one night. Five friends and a bottle of GHB. You know, kid stuff. Just me, him, Aaron, Ari, and some girl who's name I don't remember so I'll call her steph. Aaron and Ari are two other people that I had fun doing copious amounts of drugs with. Steph was a girl from subway that gave us free subs. Steph asked if a couple people could come with her. Given what we decided the night would be, Claud said "sure, why the fuck not". What could go wrong?
They invited two friends, and they invited two friends, and so on, and so on, and so on, into infinity. This, by the way, is pre everyone having a cellphone. Getting people together was trickier then. You had to actually catch people while they were home. Me and Ari had gone to his house to get his turntables then we got a call from Claud. It went something like " holy shit there are like a hundred people here! Get here now!". We did. He down played the number of people there. It was maybe 10:30 and there were at least 200 people people in this three bedroom house. This would be the calmest point of the night.
First Ari set up his tables and started spinning. At the time Ari was a hardcore, gabber, and jungle Dj. The crowed apparently decided that this would not do. The crowd produced a new set of tables, more sound, and a schedule of djs that did not include Ari. This pissed us off. We said nothing. The crowd was alive. The crowd was large. The crowd could turn. We didn't want that. To be fair, there were some impressive djs there. No idea who they were...but they were good.
The crowd grew. People from all walks of life were there. Bloods, crypts, skin heads, ravers, punks, goths, and pretty much any other group that existed in the mid 90s. It was beautiful actually. They all came together, no beef, no fights, no tension. They all just had one goal. Ruin Claud's house and life forever. And in many ways, they did. A window was kicked out to steal a DVD player (DVDs were new and fucking valuable), a bottle of wine his mom was saving got poured down his stairs, neighbors were bothered, and property destroyed.
All the local and not so local dealers found out about the party and came a knocking. The dealers were so flooded with people buying at once that I would just walk up to the crowd, put my hand in, and the dealers assumed I payed. They were all acid dealers. I got puddled every time. A puddle is were an acid dealer just squirts some acid out of the vial into your hand. A hit is about one drop. A puddle is somewhere between five and ten drops....maybe fifteen. I got puddled about five or six times using the just put my hand in tactic.
I started feeling pretty good. I was going through that tingly, the space between my shoulders is lighter than air, feeling of LSD kicking in. I felt like I had to sit down. I head out to the back yard to sit down on some patio furniture. Holy shit there was a chair open. Holy shit it was next to Aaron. We sat, we chuckled, we talked about Claud. A girl at the table asked who the fuck is Claud? I said, hey cunt, who's fucking house do you think you're in? Before she could give her reaction to being called a cunt by a stranger, a guy ran out the back door screaming "cooooooooops!", followed by a wave of, I shit you not, five hundred people jumping his fence at once. That is our actual and realistic estimate of how many people were in, and then suddenly out of, Claud's house.
Aaron and myself decided that watching everyone run was more interesting than running. And it was. Pure chaos and uniformity combined to make this violent wave of people climbing and fighting over Claud's back fence. It looked like a school of sardines trying to confuse a predator. And then the cops came running out after everyone, grabbed some of them, then turn to see me and Aaron calmly sitting and laughing. "Evening officer. Is there a problem?"
Everyone who didn't run or who were caught were sat down on the couches in the living room. They ran our IDs and those of us that were under 18 got our parent called. Mine could not be reached. But at least I got to watch the show. Claud was openly mocking a female cop for being terrible at her job. "Can we get a man to handle this? This little lady seems to be in over her head." This was funnier than my acid soaked brain could handle but I was struggling not to let out a laugh that's too "acidy". That weird fear was going through me that if I go with any natural impulse then the world will know I'm tripping. This was unacceptable in a house filled with cops...it was also hilarious. I kept giggling, and Claud kept giving me reasons to laugh, including critiquing the cop who's photographing the houses technique.
"Do you smell smoke?" Beep beep beep beep. Smoke comes billowing out of the oven. The girl I'm sitting next to screams "my tomatoes!", and runs for the kitchen. This girl went to a party, never met the host, and the bitch just started baking his produce....tomatoes. She slices up her baked tomatoes and throws Claud's hot sauce on them...a lot of it. This was some of that one drop for a pot of chili hot sauce. She bit into that thing and the look of pain and horror was right out of Texas chainsaw massacre. I was laughing so hard that I was making dolphin noises, and I wasn't the only one. The cops were dying laughing. She finally was able to explain that she didn't think it would be that hot, blah blah blah, and the black gentleman on the other side of her takes a bite and give a "meh, it's kinda hot".
Parents are picking up their kids, more people are going to jail, and my mother still can't be found. Tomato girl leaves and one of the cops asks "who got her number?" In unison all the guys in the room said "FUCK!". The cop said "I'm disappointed in all of you" looks at Aaron "especially you". Aaron gives a "what the fuck?" Hand gesture. The cop gets a copy thinly look on his face and checks Aaron's ID again.
"You're 18"
"Yes I am"
"You know you can leave right?"
"Do I have too?"
"......yes"
".......bye"
And Aaron was free...against his will. Watching him leave was like watching an old Eskimo woman being set out to sea on an ice flow. A look of fear, rejection, and duty was set on his face as he walked to the door. And Aaron was gone. I'm sure it was an epic journey, especially with the hundreds of drunk teenagers that were out driving that night. But to sum it up, he lived.
The house was now just me, Claud, and the cops. "We can't get your mom on the line". Those words, in Littleton Colorado, mean that you're about to get quasi arrested. They take you to the juvenile assessment center. This is a place were you sit on a fluffy couch, drink Capri suns, eat animal crackers, and take a bunch of physiological surveys. While walking in I can feel the acid approaching its peak. The cop takes off my cuffs, takes my backpack and hat, and then, from my perspective, was eaten whole by a security camera.
I drink my Capri sun, I eat my animal crackers, and I explain to my interviewer what I mean by justifiable homicide. They found mommy. Mommy picks me and Claud up. Mommy makes fun of me when she realizes I'm tripping my face off. Claude screams "fuck!....the bottle of G never showed up"....that was probably for the best.
So the house was trashed and we did our best to fix it. A random party goer showed up with a professional grade steam cleaner and that got all the wine up. I think the guy was a football player from columbine that was fallowing Claude around acting as a bouncer. Good guy. We didn't keep in touch. Anyway, the house for the most part was still wrecked and Claud's mom made him move in with his dad then sold the house and left the state. Some might call it an over reaction but you didn't see the damage. I'm surprised that she didn't just burn it down and start over....that's what I would have done.
Thursday, November 28, 2013
Friday, November 22, 2013
The Wizard
The Wizard
Before the story of the wizard, I have to explain homeless Dave. Homeless Dave was not, in fact homeless. He lived with his parents in their lovely suburban home. Homeless Dave got his name because he constantly had homeless people secretly living with him in his basement. Sometimes they were runaways, sometimes friends down on their luck, and sometimes it was some wack job transient who was old enough to buy cigarettes and booze.
The wizard fell into the last category. He wasn't crazy in the "hey that guys crazy, he drinks too much and fights" kinda way. No no reader. This guy believed he was a prophet of the one true god. This one true god, by the way, granted his true believers the power of magic....imagine lightning striking and an organ going ba baaaaa right there. Dude was off his rocker in a scary way.
Homeless Dave was always around so whatever homeless person he was housing was always around too. When that person is constantly explaining heavens currency system to you, it's a smidge uncomfortable to say the least. You try to chat up a lovely young lady, and he's right there to describe her aura to her and let her know that the two of your souls are destined to meet in the apocalypse. You try running any sort of game under those circumstances...you can't...unless she's really turned on by fear.
Whenever we thought we had ditched the wizard, there he was. He got escorted off mall property (I think it was because of his smell), and he came back a half hour later with his head shaved in patches and speaking in a horrible fake voice. He said he was in disguise. He also had gone into the fine food store of the mall and filled his pockets with olives to mask his scent. He explained that it was an ancient ward spell that god taught him while he was sneaking back into the mall.
Once we thought we were completely rid of him. He was mugged (so he later said), so he busted out some sweet moves that he learned from street fighter 2. I do, in fact, believe that he did emulate street fighter 2 in an effort to defend himself. This would be the least crazy thing he'd done in the short time I knew him. After he'd fended of his would be attackers and sent them running back to their lair, he got in touch with the police to let them know he was doing their job for them. Police arrived on scene, he gave his story, he let them know he was a prophet, he let them know of his magic, and we didn't see the wizard for a while. Now, this is about fifteen years ago, so I can't remember if it was two weeks or two days later, but he's back around. He tells us his story of epic battle and then kinda leaves off what the cops did with him. I'm guessing he was in the nut house for a spell, but later when pressed he said that a church was giving him sanctuary.
Now we were back to the old routine. Listening to crazy shit, listening to his attempts to convert us, him claiming that he did it whenever the weather changed, and I think he baptized homeless Dave in his sleep. Then he felt something wrong in homeless Dave's home. A spirt. A little girl. Well guys, I don't know about you, but when we realized we were stuck with crazy, we went all in. It's seance time god damn it. We've got to help her move on, give her peace, find her murder, ward the house against future ghost. I mean, getting rid of one ghost creates a ghost vacuum and could displace other ghosts, making it so never finds peace....could you live with that? Could you?
So we had ourselves a party. We called it a seance. The wizard walked around saying we were doing everything perfectly, the energy was right, we were all naturally gifted wizards. I was on a fun little combo of purple gel tabs and snake charmers...so...I was inclined to believe that I was a gifted wizard. But with the chemical cocktail tickling my brain nothing pleased me more than watching spells and enchantments being cast. Eventually the wizard solved the murder. That was when I got bored. I went down into the basement where my good friend Ari was mixing some tech house. I sat on the floor. I took it in. It was good.
According to Ari, every time he looked up from his mix I was a little bit closer to the speakers....until my face was touching them. 90's X was no joke. But I guess the ol' wizard wasn't done doing his thing and decided he'd have to purge the ghost with fire...yeah...he lit a bonfire in the basement with me in it. The rest is a bit blurry as adrenaline and acid don't mix well. Shit gets weird. My next memory is standing outside the house, some smoke coming out the door, and me deciding that I have zero interest in staying at this party.
Never saw the wizard again.
Before the story of the wizard, I have to explain homeless Dave. Homeless Dave was not, in fact homeless. He lived with his parents in their lovely suburban home. Homeless Dave got his name because he constantly had homeless people secretly living with him in his basement. Sometimes they were runaways, sometimes friends down on their luck, and sometimes it was some wack job transient who was old enough to buy cigarettes and booze.
The wizard fell into the last category. He wasn't crazy in the "hey that guys crazy, he drinks too much and fights" kinda way. No no reader. This guy believed he was a prophet of the one true god. This one true god, by the way, granted his true believers the power of magic....imagine lightning striking and an organ going ba baaaaa right there. Dude was off his rocker in a scary way.
Homeless Dave was always around so whatever homeless person he was housing was always around too. When that person is constantly explaining heavens currency system to you, it's a smidge uncomfortable to say the least. You try to chat up a lovely young lady, and he's right there to describe her aura to her and let her know that the two of your souls are destined to meet in the apocalypse. You try running any sort of game under those circumstances...you can't...unless she's really turned on by fear.
Whenever we thought we had ditched the wizard, there he was. He got escorted off mall property (I think it was because of his smell), and he came back a half hour later with his head shaved in patches and speaking in a horrible fake voice. He said he was in disguise. He also had gone into the fine food store of the mall and filled his pockets with olives to mask his scent. He explained that it was an ancient ward spell that god taught him while he was sneaking back into the mall.
Once we thought we were completely rid of him. He was mugged (so he later said), so he busted out some sweet moves that he learned from street fighter 2. I do, in fact, believe that he did emulate street fighter 2 in an effort to defend himself. This would be the least crazy thing he'd done in the short time I knew him. After he'd fended of his would be attackers and sent them running back to their lair, he got in touch with the police to let them know he was doing their job for them. Police arrived on scene, he gave his story, he let them know he was a prophet, he let them know of his magic, and we didn't see the wizard for a while. Now, this is about fifteen years ago, so I can't remember if it was two weeks or two days later, but he's back around. He tells us his story of epic battle and then kinda leaves off what the cops did with him. I'm guessing he was in the nut house for a spell, but later when pressed he said that a church was giving him sanctuary.
Now we were back to the old routine. Listening to crazy shit, listening to his attempts to convert us, him claiming that he did it whenever the weather changed, and I think he baptized homeless Dave in his sleep. Then he felt something wrong in homeless Dave's home. A spirt. A little girl. Well guys, I don't know about you, but when we realized we were stuck with crazy, we went all in. It's seance time god damn it. We've got to help her move on, give her peace, find her murder, ward the house against future ghost. I mean, getting rid of one ghost creates a ghost vacuum and could displace other ghosts, making it so never finds peace....could you live with that? Could you?
So we had ourselves a party. We called it a seance. The wizard walked around saying we were doing everything perfectly, the energy was right, we were all naturally gifted wizards. I was on a fun little combo of purple gel tabs and snake charmers...so...I was inclined to believe that I was a gifted wizard. But with the chemical cocktail tickling my brain nothing pleased me more than watching spells and enchantments being cast. Eventually the wizard solved the murder. That was when I got bored. I went down into the basement where my good friend Ari was mixing some tech house. I sat on the floor. I took it in. It was good.
According to Ari, every time he looked up from his mix I was a little bit closer to the speakers....until my face was touching them. 90's X was no joke. But I guess the ol' wizard wasn't done doing his thing and decided he'd have to purge the ghost with fire...yeah...he lit a bonfire in the basement with me in it. The rest is a bit blurry as adrenaline and acid don't mix well. Shit gets weird. My next memory is standing outside the house, some smoke coming out the door, and me deciding that I have zero interest in staying at this party.
Never saw the wizard again.
Tuesday, November 19, 2013
Bad baby drunky
I guess that last post needs some explaining. I was, in fact, a very lazy man. Like crazy lazy. Like...I think I had bed sores. I was also what programs call a recovering alcoholic. I also had a hatred for women that burned hotter than a thousand suns....they know what they did.
You know what, let's explain the recovery. At 13...14...one of the two I got sent to outpatient rehab for my drinking. I can't say that it was a bad call for the courts. I was a little fledgling lush. It was in my blood. By 12 I was remembering to keep a quarter handle under the bed to get rid of my hangover and get a jump start on the days drinking. By 13 I had tried most substances there were to try. I assure you that shit will all get a post. But we're talking about the drinking.
On any given night I had a handle of skol vodka. I had a preference for it because of the bad taste (I liked to earn my drunk), and $10 a handle price tag. Gotta teach the kids to be smart shoppers while they're young.
On the night in question...well it was any other night. Met up with duh, drove around, picked people up, peeled out on people's lawns while honking the horn (not only were me and my friends shit heads but we liked people to see the destruction we brought), and we drank...a lot....like a lot a lot.
We started hitting parties around green mountain and Kencarl vally. Because when you're drinking and peeling out on lawns, what you need is more alcohol. One party we picked up a man I'll call B. B had BB guns. Realistic BB guns.we continued driving. We hit more parties. We drank. We threatened people with the BB guns. Oh yeah...we were bad asses.
Well duh had a shit car. It couldn't drive up hill. In the Denver metro area, that's worse than worthless. It's dangerous to anyone around it. Combine that with the booze and whatever else and it was just asking for us to get pulled over.
We go slightly up hill and instantly drop from 55 to 5 mph. As you can imagine your average police officer would think it a tad strange. Boom, lights. It was a full car but I don't remember who was in it. Let's just say it was me, duh, and B but I think there were people in the trunk(that was common). Cop walks up to duhs window, gives him shit about smelling beer( I think he was going for a bribe at this point), and then looked in the back seat. Hey, guess who and what were in the back seat...if you guessed me and the BB guns, you guessed right. As it turns out cops are jumpy about guns. I found this out when the cop pointed his gun at my head, screamed for me to get out of the car, handcuffed me, then proceeded to kick the shit out of my spine.
I up to this point only had a fear of cops when I was doing something wrong. After that though...I got myself a near crippling fear with every cop I see. Getting kicked in the spine with cop boots will do that. Well needless to say, all the other cops said that they didn't see it happen. What they did say happened was me being verbally abusive toward the officers...that...did happen. You try taking a boot to the spine and not calling the kicker a cunt.
The rest is just the boring minor getting arrested stuff. Finger printed, mug shots, blah blah. I got a drunk tank all to myself since I was so young...so...you know...bonus. My mom picked me up, believed the cops that I wasn't beaten, then nothing really happened to me until my court date.
Everyone else who was in the car got off easy. Light probation, little bit of community service, easy. I got six months of rehab. Out patient, no drug screens, just counseling. It wasn't a huge deal but it was enough of a pain in the ass to not want to go back. So rehab worked...sort of. I decided not to drink again until I was of legal drinking age. And that's what I did...I didn't drink. I can honestly say I didn't care for it. There were a few people stopped hanging out with me because, I don't know, I sucked at parties now. But I stuck to it.
So like jj said in his blog. There were parties, I'd sit. There was beer, I'd sit. It was a trial even five years later not to booze it up. But hey, I said I wouldn't, so I didn't. And I regret it. I waisted years of valuable teenage years keeping myself away from the bottle just to hit a Finnish line where I picked up where I left off. Only now I was shitty at drinking.
You know what, let's explain the recovery. At 13...14...one of the two I got sent to outpatient rehab for my drinking. I can't say that it was a bad call for the courts. I was a little fledgling lush. It was in my blood. By 12 I was remembering to keep a quarter handle under the bed to get rid of my hangover and get a jump start on the days drinking. By 13 I had tried most substances there were to try. I assure you that shit will all get a post. But we're talking about the drinking.
On any given night I had a handle of skol vodka. I had a preference for it because of the bad taste (I liked to earn my drunk), and $10 a handle price tag. Gotta teach the kids to be smart shoppers while they're young.
On the night in question...well it was any other night. Met up with duh, drove around, picked people up, peeled out on people's lawns while honking the horn (not only were me and my friends shit heads but we liked people to see the destruction we brought), and we drank...a lot....like a lot a lot.
We started hitting parties around green mountain and Kencarl vally. Because when you're drinking and peeling out on lawns, what you need is more alcohol. One party we picked up a man I'll call B. B had BB guns. Realistic BB guns.we continued driving. We hit more parties. We drank. We threatened people with the BB guns. Oh yeah...we were bad asses.
Well duh had a shit car. It couldn't drive up hill. In the Denver metro area, that's worse than worthless. It's dangerous to anyone around it. Combine that with the booze and whatever else and it was just asking for us to get pulled over.
We go slightly up hill and instantly drop from 55 to 5 mph. As you can imagine your average police officer would think it a tad strange. Boom, lights. It was a full car but I don't remember who was in it. Let's just say it was me, duh, and B but I think there were people in the trunk(that was common). Cop walks up to duhs window, gives him shit about smelling beer( I think he was going for a bribe at this point), and then looked in the back seat. Hey, guess who and what were in the back seat...if you guessed me and the BB guns, you guessed right. As it turns out cops are jumpy about guns. I found this out when the cop pointed his gun at my head, screamed for me to get out of the car, handcuffed me, then proceeded to kick the shit out of my spine.
I up to this point only had a fear of cops when I was doing something wrong. After that though...I got myself a near crippling fear with every cop I see. Getting kicked in the spine with cop boots will do that. Well needless to say, all the other cops said that they didn't see it happen. What they did say happened was me being verbally abusive toward the officers...that...did happen. You try taking a boot to the spine and not calling the kicker a cunt.
The rest is just the boring minor getting arrested stuff. Finger printed, mug shots, blah blah. I got a drunk tank all to myself since I was so young...so...you know...bonus. My mom picked me up, believed the cops that I wasn't beaten, then nothing really happened to me until my court date.
Everyone else who was in the car got off easy. Light probation, little bit of community service, easy. I got six months of rehab. Out patient, no drug screens, just counseling. It wasn't a huge deal but it was enough of a pain in the ass to not want to go back. So rehab worked...sort of. I decided not to drink again until I was of legal drinking age. And that's what I did...I didn't drink. I can honestly say I didn't care for it. There were a few people stopped hanging out with me because, I don't know, I sucked at parties now. But I stuck to it.
So like jj said in his blog. There were parties, I'd sit. There was beer, I'd sit. It was a trial even five years later not to booze it up. But hey, I said I wouldn't, so I didn't. And I regret it. I waisted years of valuable teenage years keeping myself away from the bottle just to hit a Finnish line where I picked up where I left off. Only now I was shitty at drinking.
Someone else's blog I lifted
I've made some bad decisions in my time. All of them seem to work themselves out in time. That's not to say I don't get completely fucked by them, cause I do, I just mean that eventually I have a good laugh and a story about them. These bad decisions have prompted a lot of people to tell me to write a book. Well, about two years ago it got tricky to do that. I got mugged, I fought back, I got brain damage. But that's a whole different blog entry.
I had to reteach myself to read, so writing...it's a bit taxing. Writing in chronological order, way trickier. That's why I'm going with a blog. Journal form entries as they come to me kinda makes sense. So I thought I'd use my first entry to let you know who I am....starting with who I was 10 years ago...from someone else's perspective....who's name I haven't gotten permission to use yet. He wrote this about me when we were roommates. All following spelling errors aren't my own and the story only represents a year span of my thirty years. Trust me, you'll read how I've changed.
ZACH
There really isn't any one way to describe Zach. Zach is better explained through a series of stories that I have already told mostly everyone I know, and quite a few people I don't really know. Zach Hawkesworth was the recipient of several unofficial global titles. These titles included the galaxy's laziest and the most repugnant. I believe very firmly that he was prouder of these titles that anything. Zach in himself can be referred to as a story in itself, as hard as it is to tell it.
Zach was my roommate for the better part of a year. This would prove to be the most interesting time that I could have possible imagined. Zach never ceased to amaze me and Thom, my other roommate. Thom and I would stand idly by for hours on hours waiting to see if Zach would move. Moving was displeasing to Zach, as the only complaint you would ever here from him was the daunting journey from the recliner to the front door. This was five feet of exercise for Zach, and was without question the worst part of his day. Standing up was far more taxing than masturbation, which would have been his only other apparent recreation. Zach was resiliant, and he was clever. Without any frustration Zach remedied the conflict of standing by committing himself to only watch one channel on the television all day; comedy central. All day for Zach was from the hours of three p.m. to 4 a.m. At 4 a.m. Zach would make one choice, the only variable in his waking life from day to day. 4 a.m. typically meant that one way or another, he was going to have to stand up. Comedy Central converts to an infomercial station after 4. Zach would stand, with no other option. Zach could not bear to sleep in a recliner, he also could not bear infomercials. What the meek feel when they don't eat for a day is the same as what Zach feels when he stands up.
The four o'clock choice: sleep or Texas Justice. Texas Justice won every night that I observed, although according to Zach there were times where sleep won out. Texas Justice is a television show where a redneck casts his judgements in small claims court cases. Zach loved this show more than he loved any person he had ever met. He wouldn't laugh, he wouldn't moan. There was complete silence during Texas Justice. This comforted him. This was a moment where Zach was alone in his own sector of the universe, monitoring what was happening on a far away planet. There was silence.
Then there was sleep.
The next day would begin like the last. The television is awake shortly after he is. It flickers as the channels speed by, on their way to their long-term destination of Comedy Central. The laptop is next. Zach sits the laptop in his lap and pulls up the pizza website. The pizza is on it's way.
There was beer.
Zach would sit.
There were girls.
Zach would sit.
From time to time we would sit down next to him, on the floor, and watch the television with him. At these occasions we would talk to him about what was on. He would announce it, he would watch it, and there wasn't much else to it.
As with any situation, there were circumstances that would demand different behavior. There were times that he left the house, but they were rare.
Zach was a millionaire, he had inherited a great deal of money from his father, who passed when he was young. This hefty cusion was delivered to him in monthly installments of 1,666 dollars. This was more than enough for any normal man, but not Zach. Zach's bank account was always empty. The laptop. The laptop was Zach's portal to the outside consumer world. This is where he ordered porn and new clothes. The clothes he had were soiled and smelled awful. New clothes were clean. This process was more costly but took far less effort than doing his laundry which throughout his one year stay he managed to avoid. Febreeze (who knows how you spell this shit) was also easier. Once a month or so, he would stand in the middle of his room with a bottle of febreeze and squirt and spin and squirt and spin. This was typically after he had run out of new clothes even.
There were parties.
Zach would sit.
There was coffee houses.
Zach would sit.
He is one of the greatest people I have ever met. Like the buddhist monk, Zach rid himself of his most trivial of desires by redefining what was trivial. Money was trivial, but pizza was important. Health was trivial, but porn was important. Although I think it was a lonely existance, Zach consoled himself by avoiding all things that he found unpleasant. Movement was unpleasant. No goal. One mission: To make it to Texas Justice.
I had to reteach myself to read, so writing...it's a bit taxing. Writing in chronological order, way trickier. That's why I'm going with a blog. Journal form entries as they come to me kinda makes sense. So I thought I'd use my first entry to let you know who I am....starting with who I was 10 years ago...from someone else's perspective....who's name I haven't gotten permission to use yet. He wrote this about me when we were roommates. All following spelling errors aren't my own and the story only represents a year span of my thirty years. Trust me, you'll read how I've changed.
ZACH
There really isn't any one way to describe Zach. Zach is better explained through a series of stories that I have already told mostly everyone I know, and quite a few people I don't really know. Zach Hawkesworth was the recipient of several unofficial global titles. These titles included the galaxy's laziest and the most repugnant. I believe very firmly that he was prouder of these titles that anything. Zach in himself can be referred to as a story in itself, as hard as it is to tell it.
Zach was my roommate for the better part of a year. This would prove to be the most interesting time that I could have possible imagined. Zach never ceased to amaze me and Thom, my other roommate. Thom and I would stand idly by for hours on hours waiting to see if Zach would move. Moving was displeasing to Zach, as the only complaint you would ever here from him was the daunting journey from the recliner to the front door. This was five feet of exercise for Zach, and was without question the worst part of his day. Standing up was far more taxing than masturbation, which would have been his only other apparent recreation. Zach was resiliant, and he was clever. Without any frustration Zach remedied the conflict of standing by committing himself to only watch one channel on the television all day; comedy central. All day for Zach was from the hours of three p.m. to 4 a.m. At 4 a.m. Zach would make one choice, the only variable in his waking life from day to day. 4 a.m. typically meant that one way or another, he was going to have to stand up. Comedy Central converts to an infomercial station after 4. Zach would stand, with no other option. Zach could not bear to sleep in a recliner, he also could not bear infomercials. What the meek feel when they don't eat for a day is the same as what Zach feels when he stands up.
The four o'clock choice: sleep or Texas Justice. Texas Justice won every night that I observed, although according to Zach there were times where sleep won out. Texas Justice is a television show where a redneck casts his judgements in small claims court cases. Zach loved this show more than he loved any person he had ever met. He wouldn't laugh, he wouldn't moan. There was complete silence during Texas Justice. This comforted him. This was a moment where Zach was alone in his own sector of the universe, monitoring what was happening on a far away planet. There was silence.
Then there was sleep.
The next day would begin like the last. The television is awake shortly after he is. It flickers as the channels speed by, on their way to their long-term destination of Comedy Central. The laptop is next. Zach sits the laptop in his lap and pulls up the pizza website. The pizza is on it's way.
There was beer.
Zach would sit.
There were girls.
Zach would sit.
From time to time we would sit down next to him, on the floor, and watch the television with him. At these occasions we would talk to him about what was on. He would announce it, he would watch it, and there wasn't much else to it.
As with any situation, there were circumstances that would demand different behavior. There were times that he left the house, but they were rare.
Zach was a millionaire, he had inherited a great deal of money from his father, who passed when he was young. This hefty cusion was delivered to him in monthly installments of 1,666 dollars. This was more than enough for any normal man, but not Zach. Zach's bank account was always empty. The laptop. The laptop was Zach's portal to the outside consumer world. This is where he ordered porn and new clothes. The clothes he had were soiled and smelled awful. New clothes were clean. This process was more costly but took far less effort than doing his laundry which throughout his one year stay he managed to avoid. Febreeze (who knows how you spell this shit) was also easier. Once a month or so, he would stand in the middle of his room with a bottle of febreeze and squirt and spin and squirt and spin. This was typically after he had run out of new clothes even.
There were parties.
Zach would sit.
There was coffee houses.
Zach would sit.
He is one of the greatest people I have ever met. Like the buddhist monk, Zach rid himself of his most trivial of desires by redefining what was trivial. Money was trivial, but pizza was important. Health was trivial, but porn was important. Although I think it was a lonely existance, Zach consoled himself by avoiding all things that he found unpleasant. Movement was unpleasant. No goal. One mission: To make it to Texas Justice.
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