Missed Connections: Punk on the ‘L’

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Dear Girl with the Pink hair on the ‘L’,

Hi. I’ve seen you on the train a few times before. I know this because we pasted sexy glances at each other and I got a Deja Vu type experience. The kind where everything gets foggy like your high as fuck, or dreaming, yet know you’re still awake because the crazy guy next to you is ranting about black Nike socks and you know that wasn’t in the fantasy.

Anyways, you could have guessed it but I think you’re fucking sexy. I had the perfect way to start a conversation and felt like luck was on my side when you got off at the same stop as me. You had on small black converse with skulls and no socks. I know this because I find it really strange that girls don’t wear socks in the Chicago winter. I was going to ask your thoughts on this, but you just fucking J walked across the street like a crazy bitch.

A part of me thought the whole Avril Lavigne look was just a part of the quarter life crisis bullshit that most of our generation is going through because we’ve never had to struggle. But oh no, no you. You;’re the real deal. Which is “#amazeballs” as the kids would say, because despite my douche hair cut and grey designer overcoat deep down I’m a total social outcast. Even though I come from a trailer park, I can chameleon with the rich but I really don’t like playing the game. A part of me seems to be disappointed when this happens.

See I feels like I get the struggle your in. You want to rebel, but at the same time you do it in a safe fashionable way. I mean, most of the punks I know don’t put faint matching pink eyeliner on. It just isn’t the DIY way. You’re like that fat kid at camp how wants to get in the pool but only dips his toes in, which is cool.

But unfortunately, you know the ending to this Sid and Nancy story. I was a giant pussy and didn’t chase you down the dark alley you cut across. I’m a dick, I know. Will you ever forgive me for being so old fashioned?

Sincerely,

-Darby Cashed

 

PS. Hopefully we ride the train together so I can awkwardly gawk at the nipple ring piercing through your bad Brains t-shirt in which will enviably find the courage for you to officially call me creepy to my face.

I’m really looking forward to it.

I truly can’t wait.

Give Me a Tuesday

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I’ve never been one for the Holidays.

Especially New Years, Halloween, and St. Paddy’s.

Anytime the normal crowd needs an excuse to get drunk is a night I want to stay in.

I’ve never felt like I’ve needed permission to be me.

Plus, all those days consist of

too many people,

making too many plans.

So much worrying, they forget about the whole reason they’re out.

Not for me.

 

Just give me a Tuesday.

No Expectations

No plans

No possibility of a let down.

Now that sounds like the perfect opportunity.

Who Doesn’t love a Dick Pic?

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I’ve given up internet dating. It was my plan back in October. A new year resolution if you will. But something funny happened. I met a girl I actually like from the internet a few days before new years.

Since then, I’ve watched less porn. Injected more alcohol. And write more.

The worst part about the writing is that I have nothing to say.

Period.

I’m just trying to stay busy, because despite my best efforts, this girl has occupied a space in my brain for the past 2 weeks, and I honestly don’t have a clue why.

Sure she’s cute, smart, and puts a capital ‘D’ in Donk. But those aren’t why.

It’s some x-factor I can’t quite put my finger on.

On one hand it’s fucking awful.

I type.

I take pictures.

I go to the Gym.

I shamelessly flirt with other girls.

Yet, she’s still in hovering in the same space up there.

But on the other hand,

after all the dates, hangouts, & hook ups over the years,

It’s really nice to know,

that I can still feel this way.

 

……The only thing left to do now,

is ruin it by sending a picture of my dick.

*Click*

Words of Wisdom by Billy Pilgrim

It’s painful.

But not the physical kind where you sweat through your grey sweatpants at the gym.

No.

The mental kind, like when you have poison ivy and you think about anything fucking else but the sweet orgasmic relief of slowly ripping the top layer of skin with your nails.

That kind.

I haven’t written a story in over a month. That’s like fucking forever.

This time last year I was pumping out stories like Octomom.

Lately it’s been feeling

hurting

constricting

……Fuck it. You get the idea.

The thoughts come in and I want to “one up” every single one of them like that annoying kid from third grade who always had a cousin that did everything you just said, but better.

Fuck that kid.

And fuck this post.

It sucks.

The next 20 are going to suck too.

Then the next 12.

And finally there will be one good post like this one, which I’ll love but no body will read.

Then 20 more shitty ones.

Oh well.

It’s like my man Vonnegut says:

“…And so it goes”

30 or so Stories I’ve written in 2018 that have been rejected: The Church Steps

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When I first moved to Fort Worth, I found a penny on the downtown church. It was the summertime and I was looking for somewhere to eat when the Church’s red door caught my eye. The building was an old Gothic style, where the walls were gray stone. I walked up the first step and there sat the bronze coin by my left Sketcher. My father always told me finding a penny was good luck, especially if it was face up. I figured moving here after college by myself, I could use as much as luck as I could get. I picked it up and continued walking downtown.

Not much time later, I found a job working in Real Estate. It seemed like a long shot since I had no experience, but I applied anyway. The interview went well and they wanted to take me under their wing. That night I walked by the church and saw the leaves of a near by oak collecting on the cement stairs. I cleared them off with my shoe and continued on my way home. It was the least I could do.

I met Sarah at a Coffee Shop on around the block from my work one evening. My boss wanted me to take the reigns on my first investment and I needed a place to think. It was Christmas time and fate had her sitting at an oversized leather chair by the door. She was reading Cormac McCarthy and kept spinning her black hair in her fingers. I asked about the book and things shot off from there. We lost track of time and the staff kicked us out. She parked down the street and I walked with her, passing the church. The red door had a giant green wreath on it and to the right was a manger surrounded by plastic animals. We walked up the stairs to get a better look. I didn’t know it then, but a few years later we’d say “I do” in the same place.

When my daughter was born we decided to have her baptized at the church. It was a beautiful spring Sunday and the oak began to bloom. We took advantage of the situation and snapped a picture on the steps with the stained class behind us. My daughter cried before the flash and everyone looked in different directions. Sarah was mad about how the picture turned out and didn’t want to hang it up at home. At the time, work had been getting tougher and tougher, so I brought it to my office for some hope during my long nights.

A few months back, I tried to walk into the church late one Tuesday. My breath reeked of Christian Brothers and my tie was barely hanging to my shirt. The investment I made tanked and I needed to speak with the big guy upstairs. The red door was locked but I kept jiggling the handle anyways. I tried to look through the stain glass window, but it was too dark to see anything. The best I could do was plead on the stairs, one sip of cheap brandy at a time.

Sarah left after I got fired and took our daughter to her mother’s. With everything that happened, I decided to move to back home to Phoenix. A fresh start sounded good. I was boxing up the dishes in the dinning room when the packing tape ran out. CVS was only a few blocks away from downtown. On my way back, I took the long way by the Church. I can’t describe it, but I felt like I needed see it one last time. I stopped at the last step and looked at the red door and the stained glass windows. As I turned to head back, I saw a nickle face up on the middle step. I almost picked it up, but something told me to leave it. I stuck my hands in my pocket and walked back to finish packing.

30 or so Stories I’ve written in 2018 that have been rejected: Long Live The King

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I was stretching my hands to hit a C chord in the G position in the CAGED system. Something I’d seen a million times but never really knew what it was until then. My guitar teacher passionately waited for me to strum what would sound like failing out in guitar hero. I wanted to riff like Pat Martino in Sonny but I was a while away. He saw a red truck pull in the drive way behind me and dropped the hint for me to pack it up.

“I really think your not too far away from getting to were you want to be” He said.

I gave him look like he just shit his pants.

“I’m serious. Practice this week and we’re probably going to get into some blues next week. So it wouldn’t hurt to listen to some B.B. King either.”

I was still skeptical, but despite the sandals and socks, the man could play.

“I don’t think I’ve ever listened to B.B.King before, well at least a other than a song here or there. Got any good suggestions?”

He smiled and opened the door of his studio, signaling me to get the fuck out.

“Oh you’ll be in for a treat then. Live in Cook County Jail.”

I thanked him and walked out with my guitar case in hand.

The next day it poured outside and I was held up in the apartment. I played until I got hungry and threw on some B.B. while I prepped. The convicts boo’ed the jail staff for a few minutes and B.B. got into. The man came out swinging, literally. It was jumpy, so much so, my shoulders got into it during my carrot cutting. Almost as instantly as it began he slowed it down and whaled on one of the best, yet simplest solos I’ve ever heard.

The man screamed out every word, like a hot air balloon with a leak. It just poured out of him. I got goosebumps on “How blue can you get?”. The band stops and the man commands the room with

“I GAVE YOU SEVEN CHILDREN. AND NOW YOU WANNA GIVE THEM BACK!?!”

The crowed roared. I roared, knocking pieces of celery for my soup to the floor.

The more I listened the more I realized these weren’t just songs for B.B. I was hearing a man journey. I was hearing the pain of what it means to be alive sometimes. It wasn’t just the words or Lucille doing her thing. It was a summation of every thing. The rises, the falls, the screams, the whispers, even the pauses. He didn’t play with his head. It was all heart baby. And to this day,

I love every minute of it.