The Networking Event

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A friend of mine asked me if I wanted to go to a Networking Event with her.

A Networking Event.

I don’t mind meet and greets, nor do I mind conventions. But a Networking Event? These words alone make my testicles shrivel up. Leave it to the Millennial Generation to design some bullshit ritual like this. We’re so busy that we have to designate a time and place for us to ask the simple question “What do you do for a living?” We can’t just be polite at the train stop or airport bar. No.

We have to go to some hotel lounge to brag about what we do for 10 hours of the day and hand out business cards, so they don’t collect dust on the shelf. It’s like a High School reunion for successful people, except you didn’t go to school with any of them. What the hell? One night every ten years isn’t good enough for these people? They chase success like a junkie because the feeling of owning an E class Benz is better than a C class. Fucking Millennials.

This thing sounds awful. I have to pay 15 bucks to get a name tag that has my name and my company on it. I also get a complementary free drink in which I have to wait in a Black Friday sized line for a small Dixie cup of Mohawk Vodka and Cranberry Juice. During the line, Dan Scott from a Pharmaceutical company, will try to impress my friend Erin by telling her he just won the March Salesman contest, while he sneaks mental shots of her cleavage. I guess I can’t blame him, she is quiet endowed in that category.

I heard back in the 70’s the Grateful Dead got invited to a party at the Playboy Mansion, they didn’t want to go to. Jerry, Phil, and the rest played bartender and spiked the cups with Acid. All the Bunnies were tripping their skimpy skirts off. Even though I hate psychedelics, it still sounds like my kind of party. I want to see how these people act when something they didn’t plan for happens. That’s when you really find out if someone worth being in your network.

Anyways, I’m going to go because she said the place had good burgers, so there’s that.

 

 

The DART Review

I walked past the American Airlines Center my way to train station yesterday. A well edited video played on the giant screen outside showing the wonders of the DART rail system.  It was shot like a dream where these two hipster girls and a black guy (cause they had to hit that quota) run around the city having a blast. They board different trains, go to the record shop, and windup downtown at some rooftop patio. The end says something like, Make your next trip a DART trip!

Now I don’t know how many of you have been to Dallas, but let me tell you something, THE DART IS NOTHING LIKE THIS.

It’s more like you get to the platform and have to pull your shirt over your face to block out all the stale cigarette smoke. The train you’re waiting for is always at the farthest platform, so you have to dodge three incoming trains from both directions just to wait. Along the way, you’ll meet a homeless man named ‘Slick J’ who tries to sell you AA batteries out of a plastic bag. A steal at only two for a dollar.

After you politely decline a few times, the train dings and you get on board. A fare inspector asks you for your ticket because we’re Dallas. We don’t want to copy how NYC or Chi-town collects fares. There systems may have been in place for decades and work but we’d rather pay someone to walk around on the train and hand out $200.00 tickets. So you try to pull up the DART app but it crashed and you get kicked off at the next stop, while they call for backup.

In conclusion, I would definitely make my next trip a DART trip!

7 out of 10

The First Time I got Laid as a Writer…

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The first time I got laid as a writer, she smiled when I asked to smoke outside. I don’t think she heard me over the bar chatter. She just saw me leave into the patio and came with. I lit a Newport in-between October wind gusts while she filled the silence.

“So what have you been writing about?” she asked.

“Well, I applied for a non-paid writers position at a satire magazine on campus a few weeks ago. My friend told me about it. She gave me her editor’s contact and told me to send a sample of my work. Right now, I’m managing/designing a protection scheme for the school’s solar car. It’s my senior project, one of the most difficult Senior Engineering projects in the school’s history. Between that, not missing a game of the Cubs historic 2015 playoff run, and getting yelled at by my restaurant manager who hasn’t been laid in 20 years, I found time to write the sample,” I said.

The cherry on my menthol lit up my face as I took a quick break from my speech. I exhaled and continued.

“I showed it to every one I knew. I mean EVERYONE. My roommate, my lab partners, my fellow engineering nerds, my friend that worked at the magazine, the girl I had a crush on at work, the girl I had a crush on in my History class, and etc. I got a lot of notes. Some I implemented, some I didn’t. I re-wrote the damn thing four times. Waited to the last minute to send it over,” I said.

“Wow” she said. A piece of grey ash smeared on her blue dress. “So what happened?” she asked.

“Well, days went by. I’d check my email but nothing. I’d hear a ding on my phone, only to read flights from Chicago for only 79.00! Orbits bastards. I got asked by everyone that helped me if I heard anything yet, but I had to give them the same lame answer.

Then a week and a half later, I saw an email from an address I didn’t recognize. I quickly pulled it up and read it.

Dear Darby,

Although your piece was entertaining, we don’t feel you’re a good fit here.

Take care

“Oh I’m sorry to hear that,” she said, ” I know writing can be tough thing to get into.”

The wind from the maple leaves rustled and almost blew out my half smoked cancer stick. We took a couple steps back behind a side of the bar.

“You’re not kidding, I ran into my friend who works there. I asked her what the editor thought about it. Now we’d been friends for a while, but she didn’t come clean with me until later in the conversation. Apparently, they spent the first 20 minutes of their meeting talking shit about it. The word choices, the grammatical errors, the sad attempt to be funny. I became a running joke, ” I said.

“Oh my god!” she said. “Did they really?”

I slammed my butt on the ground and looked at her brown eyes. My head slightly nodded.

“Yea they did. I guess one guy kept calling me a no talent ass clown. He even got up and drew a picture of his interpretation of said ass clown. He scribbled the face with red marker and the hair with green. She took a picture and showed me.” I said.

“Wow,” she said. She swayed back and worth trying to keep warm from the chill fall weather.

“Yea I was pretty hurt but what can I do? I just need to get better. You know, work a little harder. I decided to open up a shitty blog. I’m also reading articles about the craft and asking questions daily on a forum.

So as of right now, that’s what I’ve working on,” I said.

She looked back at my wide eyes. Her words hesitated to exit but I already knew what she was going to say.

“Do you still have the piece? Like, do you mind if I read it?” she asked

“Not at all,” I said.

I grabbed her hand and we walked two blocks to my apartment.

Things I have a Better Chance at than Winning the F(r)iction Flash Fiction Contest

-Meet a sane woman off Tinder

-See MSU win the NCAA Tournament

-Have Greg Graffin pull me on stage at the Bad Religion concert next month and let me yell out the “Yah Yah Yah” part on 21st Century (Digital Boy)

-Meet DT and have him not be a dick

Run into Dirk at 7-11 again

-Meet my neighbor at 303

-Move back to Florida

-Actually meet a real person off kik.

-Win the Powerball on Saturday

-Tell everyone to fuck off at work on Monday when I win the Powerball

-Beg for my job back on Thursday when I realize they pay a Million Dollars in increments that make the amount to be less than what I make now

-Actually learn the grammar and spelling rules I should’ve learned in 3rd grade when instead I daydreamed about playing Jimi Fender Strat

-Write a bunch more stories because I actually enjoy it

-Submit those stories to other contests, thus starting a never ending cycle

The Neighbor and Shape

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Dear Neighbor at 303,

I believe your name is Hannah, or at least that is who the March issue of Shape is addressed to. Although we’ve never met in person, this magazine was sitting in my mailbox a couple weeks ago. I meant to give it back to you then, but I became enthralled with the issue. Majority of the shit I read is a mixture of bad online dating profiles, technical work shit, and lots of fiction. Needless to say, it was a breath of fresh air when I read the 62 ways to nurture my body and brain. Apparently I already do number 36, so I’m ahead of the game.

Unfortunately, not everything is gold in this zine. On page 28, they say Go Bold with your Tights Game! This is horseshit. Every bimbo at L.A. fitness in the DFW area is doing that right now. Fashion is an expression and they’re saying with that is “I got dressed in the dark and I’m replacing my fashion sense with squat reps.” Don’t be that girl. Nobody likes that girl. Also on page 2, they have a picture of Shay Mitchell from the cover standing in a tall grass field when it’s obvious she just had a Brazilian done before the shoot. Kind of a dick move on the photographer’s part, don’t you think? I would imagine her thighs would be itchy enough without the wind rubbing tiny blades of grass on them. But I’m a guy, so what do I know?

Anyways, I apologize for having this for so long, but technically you’re still getting the March issue in March, so I think your still making out okay.

Sincerely,

Your neighbor at 302.

PS. To answer your lingering question: Yes, I was loaded when I wrote this.

The Application

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I’m currently accepting applications for someone who loses track of time when joking around with me. Someone who shows up at the bar when I’m two Moscow Mules deep and instantly tells me about her day. Someone who mentions that she had good intentions of heading to the gym to work out today but instead just showered. Someone who laughs when I joke and mimic that she just washed her thick Italian hair over and over for two hours, almost making her late for work. Someone who takes the joke further by saying it’s all baby steps towards getting healthy and next week she’ll actually get a drink at the gym water fountain before heading to the showers. Someone who laughs so hard she snorts unexpectedly making me laugh harder.

I’m currently accepting applications for someone who storms off after an argument about me flirting with another girl. Someone who gets so frustrated, she moves in with her friend, Sasha. Someone who sips wine and makes jokes all night about how small my dick is. About how they never really liked me anyways. And about how she ‘settled’ for me because her ex moved away and she regrets not going with him. Someone who finally takes Sasha’s advice and heads out to the club wearing her favorite Orange dress that somehow fits. Someone who meets a charming guy that’s tall, witty, and successful. They connect on a deep level and he takes her to his place. Someone who texts me out of spite saying “I’ve already replaced your loser ass!” at 2:23am. Someone who fucks this guy and is still satisfied in the morning. Someone who gets a ride back to Sasha’s and hears Amy Winehouse sing over the E-class Bose speakers, reminding her of how I learned “Valerie” on my guitar when her mother passed away.  Someone who tells the guy they had a nice time. Someone who half way to the door breaks down crying on the street, and texts me, “I’m sorry”.

I’m currently accepting applications for someone who doesn’t want kids. Someone that understands that even though both of us would be awesome parents, it’s just not in the cards for me because I have too many dreams to chase. Someone who gets pissed at me for throwing every dollar towards a goal. Someone who throws a vase at my head when the financial shit hits the fan. Someone who screams every night at me when we sleep out of our two door Honda Civic dx parked behind Walmart and takes turns sleeping and watching out for employees trying to kick us out. Someone who dances with me in the heat in our new apartment when my hard work starts paying off. And a year later sips champagne with me at a fancy party, wearing a stunning red dress, and joins me in telling everyone “remember when” stories.

I’m currently accepting applications for someone who enjoys the spontaneousness of attraction. Someone who doesn’t mind shopping for paint at home depot and catching a gleam in my eye when I joke about the color ‘passion fruit red’. Someone who takes my hand and sneaks in the back by the patio furniture. Someone who tries her damnedest to hold back her moans as I jam my throbbing member in her at a repetitive rate. Someone who breaths extremely heavy at sound of incoming footsteps and kicks out during the climax, knocking over several boxes. Someone who laughs as she puts herself back together because I’m tell the worker about how it’s impossible to find the right outdoor plastic table due to the disorganization of this store.

But I’ll be honest, I’ve been accepting applications for a while now, and not many make it past the grueling the interview process.

The Long Walk Over

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Thump, thump.

Fuck. There’s that familiar feeling that takes over. All it takes is a quick glance at an hour glass figure welded to a cute face. Next thing I know, my mind takes off like the Indy 500.

Mind: She thinks I’m too short. I’m not dressed well enough. Her elbows are too pointy. She knows I went to the emergency room once because I jammed a bead in my nose. She’s probably a bitch or has huge salami nipples that are bigger than my face. Like I’ll probably put in all this work to find out that one of her boobs is lopsided. I’ll take off her shirt to find out that she saved up for this boob job only to have complications during the second implant. Her doctor felt so bad that he helped her with a nice stuffing cover up to make her less insecure about not being a full figured woman. Hence why she’s wearing a sweater. Real crafty Biggy Smalls, but I’m on to you. So don’t bother because this is how it will play out: I go over there spark her interest, we chat for a while only to find out she’s really interesting. We have a connection about how Joe Strummer was our hero back in high school. We go back to my place to listen to the Clash records and I find out her dirty little secret. Be Honest, do I really want to put myself though that?

I get up and start walking over. My mind picks up the pace.

Mind: What the fuck Darby, do you not know how to listen? So you’re really gonna go over there, what are you gonna say? Are you going to go with the typical, “Hi I’m Darby.” That’s the lamest thing I’ve ever heard. She gets that all the fucking time by richer guys with a Maserati. Not an ’05 Honda civic that doesn’t even have automatic windows. Like she probably doesn’t even know how to work a window crank. She’s gonna get in on the first date and be all like, “I’m hot. Get me out of here! I need a REAL man that can afford REAL windows.” So lets just save the trouble huh? Just turn around now. Alright fuck it! I didn’t want to have to tell you this, but she’s got a boyfriend. That’s why she’s buying two cups of coffee. It’s the only logical reason because there’s no way she can consume that much coffee on her own. Darby turn the fuck around now! You’re just going to look stupid front of all these people. You come in here all the time, they’re all going to see you look stupid and call everyone they know. From there everyone in the entire Dallas area will know that you’re a fucking loser. You’ll get laughed at when you walk down the street and into Target. They’ll be like “There goes my name is Darby guy. You gonna ask for my number too faggot.”

I stop in front of her.

Mind: Bro pretend that you were gonna get something. It’s not worth it. There are million girls out there. For all you know she’s got a dick. Probably bigger than yours, not like it’s hard, micro penis boy. You know you’re packing a mini Tootsie Roll down there. Just TURN THE FUCK AROUND NOW!!! IT”S NOT FUCKING WORTH IT! YOU’RE JUST GOING TO GET REJECTED! She knows that you’ve jerked off into tube socks. Or that you’ve watched a live show of a women fucking a horse and became strangely aroused. SHE’S NOT LOOKING FOR ANY OF THIS SHIT! YOU BETTER NOT SAY A FUCKING WORD!

“Hey, how’s it going. I’m Darby.”

We chit chat for a while about how we both have just moved here and exchange numbers. I walk out of the coffee shop.

Mind: See, I told you she’d like you.