The Application


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


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.


Coffee Addict


I looked down at her Profile. “Coffee addict” it said.

This is confusing. A Coffee Addict attends meetings and tells heart wrenching stories about real shit kids from the suburbs only see on TV. They show the cream they use every day to minimize the herpes sprouts that Martinez’s gave them. They’re the ragged people stopping you on your way to the Train station to explain how they need a pinch of Folders for their sick mother. And some one believes them, they go behind the Denny’s parking lot and secure it within the safety of their Anus. Everyone knows it hits faster that way. Coffee Addict.

This chick didn’t seem like someone who had what it took. She looked like the “new breed” of addict. She looked like she bought Pumpkin spice lattes before the weekly financial meeting with the VP’s. Quite possibly complained when it lacked the adequate amount of Carmel, rushing off the whipped cream mountain. You better believe she was gonna get a free bold roast of this, to show her  boss why she deserved that raise. Like Lindsay Lohan would have done.

We matched. I fired off the first message.

“Want to go to Starbucks sometime?”

The Future of OKC


She just grabbed the last box. A doctor. It was always a doctor. Even if he had a PhD. in interpretive dance, he was technically still a fucking doctor. Which meant more status than a broke writer. Fuck it, he thought. The best way to get over someone is to find someone new.

He pulled open his laptop and typed OkCupid in the google search bar. The screen loaded and he filled in his credentials.

User name: Mischief_Creator

But his password tripped him up every time. It was either Pussyslayer34 or NeedleDick14, both nicknames he’d received in college. Finally the screen loaded. “Welcome back Tom! There’s been a few changes since you’ve been away. Click ‘Next’ and we’ll walk you through them.”

“Strange,” He thought. “But I suppose it was bound to happen.” Tom had been a veteran since 2011. His Friends with Benefits neighbor showed him the site one night before heading to the bar. “It’s like shopping for Men! I fucking love it!” She said. Yet I would always seem to get a text after each date that read “Come over & Brg Condoms”.

He read on. “In an effort to be more personable. We’re no longer using user names. Please type your real name.” I guess internet dating has finally become the norm. No longer a shameful back alley thing. Couldn’t argue with that. I’d been on hundreds of dates myself. He typed ‘Tom Swartz in the column and clicked next.

“Thanks! We’re almost there!” A virtual pat on the back. “Now we need you to update your profile!” He figured this was normal protocol to update after he’d been away. Tom took a brief glance. “It’s all still relevant,” he thought. He scrolled down and hit Next.

“ERROR!” appeared in giant red letters. Beneath it read, “Too little emoji’s on profile!” What the fuck? Since when did that become a thing? He had to google how to use emoji’s on iOS as he only knew how to do it with semicolons. Finally he placed an upside down smiley face that he found funny and pressed next. The error message appeared again. This time it said “A minimum of 15 emoji’s needed.” Well this is stupid. He placed 14 more next to the first one and continued on.

“Great! Just one last thing.” Finally. This shit is taking forever. “We just need the link to your YELP! Dater” Tom took a sip of his water. What the hell? He clicked the hyperlink. “Yelp Dater: Because you need to know what you’re getting yourself into.” There were different sections for men and women. He clicked at random. A picture of chiseled jaw appeared below it read Jack Williams 9.5/10 reviews: “A real Gentleman. He let me wear his jacket on the walk to my Hyundai WD” Another read: “Great Girth 😉 WD”

Tom typed his name in the search bar. It had a random picture of him firing the finger guns at the camera. Underneath it said Tom Swartz 4.5/10 and only one review. “Only date if you like getting your insides scraped by a q-tip for 45 seconds WND” He had to google the last acronym. It meant exactly what he hoped it didn’t.

“Can’t win ’em all,” he thought. He copy and pasted the link. “Thanks Tom! Now get to swiping!” Swiping? I thought this was OKC, not Tinder. Oh well. The first girl popped up. Gloria. Her pictures where of only her giving a kissy face and showing maximum allowable cleavage within the particular shirt, accept for the last one in which showed her ass poking out enough to demonstrate she’d done a dead-lift or two. Maybe the profile demonstrated something. “This sums me up: smiley face, frowny face, beach emoji, airplane, crying face, water drops, mouth.” Huh. He swiped left.

Tom went at this for a while but all the profiles were the same. Same styles of pictures. Same “Live.Laugh.Love” and sixty five emoji’s demonstrating the slow death of the English language.

“Fuck this!” He thought. I’m trying to get back out there. I’m tired of hearing all this shit about leagues and staying in my lane. I don’t want to swipe a certain way and prey to the gods they swipe the same way. I want to choose. I want to find someone that likes words. Someone that can express themselves. Someone that want to understand and be understood.

He showcased his determination while walking into Starbucks and ordering a coffee. As he was getting a straw, he laid eyes on a beautiful dark haired girl. She was typing away on a Mac. “Actual words,” he thought. He walked over and just when he was about to speak he noticed her Spotify on her phone. Modest Mouse. Old School Modest Mouse. Lonesome Crowded West baby! Back when Issac had a drinking problem and a lisp. The glory days!

He tapped her on the shoulder. “Excuse me. I got to give you mad props on your music choice. It’s one of my favorite albums of all time.” Her eyes lit up. “Mine too! My brothers introduced me to it back home in Michigan.” “Get the fuck outta here!” Tom said. “You’re from Michigan too?”

They hit it off. Time felt like it stopped for a while.She had came down to Texas for law school at SMU. He use to work in the Patent Office and talked about the struggles of being a lawyer. He told her how he had the same dream but realized while working there, it wasn’t for him. That made her frightened. Tom said, “Look you can’t be afraid of your destiny. This is why you’re here! Get Excited!” She smiled after that. They talked for a while longer until finally there was a break in the conversation. Tom knew what that meant.

“I need to let you get back to studying but I would love to see you again sometime,” He said, ” Let’s exchange numbers Ms._____”

“Alicia. Alicia Horner. And I’d like that too Mr.___” Responding with the same happy tone.

“Tom Swartz” He answered.

She began typing in her phone and Tom followed suit.

“My number is 267….”

“Wait. Wait.” She said. He saw her smile vanish.

“I’m sorry. I can’t do this.”

“I only date guys with a 7 YELP Dater rating or higher.”

Slamming Your Dick in a Desk Door: Free Writing Pt.1


Why do they all look the same?

I mean I get that every girl has different aspects. Different phases that make them look or act a certain way. But it like they all want to throw that shit away and look like this idealized version. Or worse, look the exact opposite and shove it in your face. Two extremes. I just want someone in the middle. Why does my writing feel like a boring narrative of observations? I did I write a paragraph of a short story an then get back to journals of my internal dialog. I’ll you why.

Girls in spandex.

Thanks winter. You’ve completely fucked my entire conscious creativity stream like a…….

Fuck see. The same chick walked back out after grabbing her whatever the fuck breakfast and overly emphasized her strut all the way back to the Jeep Cherokee. I don’t get it. Every girl drives a Jeep Cherokee. Back in the day it was a Grand Am or sometimes a Jetta. But all that stopped after Jessy was shot by Johnny Chen’s crew. Isn’t that some bullshit? The best character of the entire series dies within the first movie. The poor guy coulda gotten a paid like the rest of those fuckers. But no. Michelle Rodriguez was smart.  Lost tanked, Resident Evil was shit. Home girl did what she had to do to get paid. Bring me back she said!

Girl in a blue vest running past. Here I am again. Lost train of thought. Why a vest? I never understood the vest concept. I’ve never felt like I’ve needed my torso to be warmer than my extremities. No one has ever gotten frostbite on their hips. It doesn’t fucking work like that. Speaking of frostbite, here comes an elder Asian lady dead sprinting like the terminator. Her arms are locked in her armpits. She looks on a mission. Almost took out the group of girls in front of her. Grabbed her drink and dead sprinted back, cut thru traffic. The horns are buzzing at her. She’s yelling something. Probably about the message she’s late to give.

I’d watch more but my attention was taken elsewhere. Booty shorts walking into work across the street. You have to appreciate the stern commitment to dress code these days. It’s 20 below, snowing and blowing outside. None of that will stop a guy’s hard on. Nor the extra money he’ll drop for snapshots in the spank bank later. Now back to garbage in my head. I had a few good ideas last week. I had a funny one today at the gym. But now the keyboard is out. I’m even typing. Words are forming. Hell, one person might start to read, then probably hang himself out of the sheer stupidity of how bad it is. He would go to extreme lengths of making his noose. It’s be a completely custom design that has DARBY is fucking retard braided in different colored yarn, just so everyone has no questions as to why it was done. There would be a massive investigation where I would finally get a bunch of views on this site. CSI would study the shit out of the sub-communication of this post. Eventually placing the blame on Fast and the Furious franchise. Asking questions like how did we not see any of this? Clearly the writing was on the wall.

Still dribbling shit on the keyboard. I took a long pause because two deaf guys were signing next to me. Each gesture made me nervous. The pound on the table was about me. This guy sucks at writing. This guy get too distracted by all the women walking by. This guy can’t even pay a fucking tension to his keyboard. This guy is so thirsty he doesn’t notice the grotesque chins on the girl walking by. He only stares from the chest down. This guy should use that noose in the above paragraph. It’s all garbage. I’m done typing. It’s over fuck being a writer. I’m burning my notebooks. I’m getting rid of my blogs. I’m gonna stop placing “Mark Twain’s long lost hope” in the occupation category for my tax returns. It’s over. This shit is fucking stupid. I’m giving up on this dream. I’m never writing anything again. Not even my name.


….an hour later I finished a story about an actress wearing a vest.



The Christmas List


I looked at the email from my sister. “Hey Darbs! We’re about to go out shopping for Christmas, is there something specific that you want?”

I started typing but was interrupted by the door ring. I always wanted to know what was coming through the door. Something I picked up from my army buddy.


My heart stopped. A strange occurrence considering the amount of caffeine pumping through my veins. I resisted the urge to rub my eyes. Now is not the type to look like a chump. That was the exact look of what I wanted. Tall, well accessorized with the whiff of effortlessness that everyone knows is bullshit, and thick enough below the waist with some love handle to give something to reach for at the gym. The only flaw being a blonde. But you can’t win them all.

I’m glad the baseline checks out but let’s be honest,  she’s probably a bitch. Fucking Guaranteed. It’s always too good to be true. “Hey welcome to Starbucks! Can I get something started for you?” My ears perked up. How you treat the staff is a reflection of your self worth. Probably one of those who’s got a chip on her shoulder from having a weird facial deformity that straightened out years later. Those types are always out for revenge. It’s not enough to be wanted by every guy, they want to have 1000 year old hymns written and sang from the peaks of the Himalayas because that’s how to cure a fucked up childhood. Everyone knows that.

“You know what? Honestly, I don’t know what I want. I’m sorry, I came in here knowing what I wanted but had a change of heart. I hate when that happens.” She turned to the lady behind her. “You can go ahead of me if you want.”

Fuck. She’s metaphysically hilarious and nice. What are the fucking odds. Situational humor is like,  my fucking go to. I literally said that exact thing not 20 minutes ago to a different Barista. It’s rare to see someone who’s comfortable enough to unfilter their thoughts to random strangers. Even more rare for a woman who’s oozing sexuality to do it. They can’t. Guys will become to comfortable, which makes it hard to get rid of them. She needs something to deter the average chumps. This is why Resting Bitch face became a thing.

She walked over to the counter right in front of me. Alright Darby. This is it. You’re interesting, slightly hungover, find humor in everything, made a payment on your oil leaking 2005 Civc, and had 7 people like a short story that you wrote really fast on your new blog. Basically you’re better than every male in the great state of Texas. Walk over there and mutter the first thing that pops in your head. Just then she dropped a packet of Splenda and bent over over to pick it up right in front of me. The perfect apple stared me in the face. Fuck. I could hear a church choir’s angelic harmony singing “Hallelujah” like they were sick of closed pearly gates. I began foaming at the mouth. A small dribble of saliva scraped across my unconnected 5 o’clock shadow.


I used the human pump to force the lubrication back to in it’s reservoir. I glared back. The Gazelle stared back at me. Our eyes locked and I felt the same parallelizing excitement the entrance. Fuck the Nintendo 64 kid. That’s what I wanted! Shit that’s what I deserved! I have dated women in all areas of the US. I’ve went through more catastrophically embarrassing dates that would make most men’s testicles shrivel into raisins. No more of these damaged internet souls. No more lining up endless date after date, hearing how great of a profile I wrote. How I have actual personality. How I’m not trying to impress them. How I am generally interested in who they are and why they are the way they are. What happened during their childhood? What problems are they facing now? How I can help them break out of the prison they’ve built in their mind? But it becomes exhausting. They always want more. This is what happens when you upset the natural yin and yang of relationships. The well always dries up when isolated.

She went back to her normal position, unphased by the audience. A real pro of beauty. I couldn’t stop staring. Throw me in jail for looking, I don’t give a shit. She emptied the packet into her coffee and walked out the door.

I went back to typing,

“Socks I guess…”



Here I am again at Starbucks where everyone can see what I fucking type. Everyone is voyeuristic. To make matters worse, I couldn’t get a god damn table so I’m basically in one of those weird half comfy chair that is the bracket just above an Ikea chair but in why would you ever purchase one because it’s TOTALLY NOT made of real leather. Not the bullshit fake pleather either. Trust me, I know cause I’m poor and visit one on lay-away from Walmart. “Only a few more payments,” I tell the Martha in Electronics. “uh huh soooo are you gonna buy something this time or not?” We both know I never do.

Plus, my friend Mark from West Palm has one that sheds and I get all the damn flakes all over myself . And I always end up going to Delray after a serious drunken sleep session. Of course I’m going to meet up with my ex the next day, and of course she’s gonna remember how hilarious I am. And next thing you know, her lips are locked around my dick in the Uber where I feel kinda bad for Colombia Jorge that he has to hear the popping in a subtle rhythm like a bad trap song. But it’s your fault. You sold you’re own fate when you didn’t want to take the joke further about the girl we saw pushing a dog in a stroller. Welcome to America.

But lucky for you it halted when she pulled out a piece of that damn rhino lined leather from her mouth and screams “WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS!” That only forced your fight or flight to heroically play fast and the furious with the 2012 Civic to get over 4 lanes on 95. Slightly dodging a Semi, a Ford Ranger with a “Down mess with Texas!” bumper sticker, and a Town and Country where three kids were glued to Despicable Me but are now sobbing from the interruption of my meatstick. A sight that can’t be ever unseen (ask my ex). Finally we are at the shoulder. Cars wising past. Me trying to win a game of hide the cock while my ex’s hair is caught in my zipper. Just a typical weekend in South Florida.

But I see you girl in the yoga pants pretending to stare at your iPhone but secretly looking at my screen. I’m on to you. You’re not fooling me. I know you read that. I know you’re appalled. I know you secretly texted your home girl about the disgusting guy that you were forced to sit next too. But you can’t look any more. I’m done. No more judgement. No more stories. No more rants. It’s over. Some of us have lives that revolve around not getting into random stranger’s posted anonymous thoughts. Some of us are working foke who’ve gotta pay bills with our hard earned cash. You know the lights, the heat, the car insurance. And what about you? What better things do you have to do today?

Wanna head with me to Walmart?