Fill this fucking box with text.
Begin with madness end with madness.
Sometimes the Game Boy Advance on the train backfires. In it's usual use, it makes with the time travel, distances to school and work seem like the passing of a cigarette but on this occassion a few boys with their elder guardian attacked the being, being I and layed down the infinite pop quiz upon me.
"Do you have a car?"
"Would I be on this train?"
"Do you own a bus?"
"Yes."
"How much do you charge"
"Five bucks."
"Do you own a bulldozer?"
"Yes."
"Will you sell it to me? Will you sell me your Gameboy?"
"No, and No."
"Let's just say if you were selling your Gameboy how much would you sell it to me for?"
"What!?"
I finally rid myself of one after he whined to me that he's never even held a Gameboy before let alone played one with a "Isn't that just so sad".
He got the point.
And then things with the other one turned to the worse.
Some how he's sitting on my lap, and i'm staring at the big chocolate stain across his forehead and he's telling me about his psychic powers and how he can see the evil inside of everyone. He tells me that the elderly man with him is his father and how he owns hotels all over New York City, and that he isn't a witch, he's a mortal. He tells me how he dreams of stealing cars and then he shows me his keychain.
This fucking thing had a least thirty keys, and he reaches out to each one poking me dead center in the chest repeating, "I'm gonna open you up, I wanna see what your insides look like, gonna open you up".
My saving grace a newspaper across the floor at my feet while he's off ripping a hair off his "father's" knuckle to prove to me that he's not a witch (a mortal's finger nail hair curls?). An edition of the Sunday funnies, thank god, here kid read this as I quickly sneak away.
But let's take a few steps back.
On the way to the train to work to sell some fake dicks after a weekend of madness, but more on that later.
"Tom!!!!" which is my name, and it's squeaking from a fellow tenant of the apartment building I've resided in for the past 23 odd years. Her name is Debbie, she dreams of being famous one day and I have to catch a train.
"Now Tom, tell me what you think, and lemme me just tell you that I'm not a bad person, you know I just like to drink once in awhile, but there's these people, and I gotta warn you they live on our block would you believe it?"
There's two band-aids across her cheek.
"And would you believe it, I think these guys, black guys put something in my drink, I mean Tom i've been drinking for a long time now and I don't pass out, but I think I need plastic surgery, now tell me the truth.."
She pulls off the band-aids and I see nothing. She traces her fingers across her face to show me where they cut her but I don't see anything but patches of chin hair and gray nose hairs. "This is where he rubbed his ring into my face, I'm gonna go see a specialist, I need the surgery, I know people, I want, you know to try to make it before i'm 35, I can't have scars like this".
I thank god i'm not stuck on the train with her, I thank god I'm not stuck on the bus with her. On two occassions , I've put myself to the brink of patience with this woman. Imagine being surrounded by circular glares as this women recounts a Peter Gabriel show where she was supposedly chosen by spotlight to talk to him and her having froze and upsetting Peter to the point where he would swear at her, and then her if had, could haves, might haves, fantasies of talking to a uncaring security guard that it was her Peter was trying to talk to, and if she had gotten a chance to talk with him he'd have set her up with an acting career and everyone would love her, unlike her parents who never recognized her talent for gymnastics. Good bless that Petey Gabes. It's times like this, when I enact with nothing but insane people I truly question my own plight. And it scares the fuck out of me.
I thank god this isn't her and I on the train all over again.
But at this moment I have no idea about the boy who will stab me repeatedly in the chest with various found keys. I make a move to escape.
"Your face looks fine, I don't see anything" and I do not lie. She tells me how it was one of the porters of my buildings friend and she was there to buy pot. I've always known the porter to be an honest black South American immigrant, even though other (insane) tenants who will I not go into further detail with at this occassion have told me that he doesn't think very kindly of me (which I could not question) , I've never taken him to be down with bad company. But then again, we've all got those friends...
She thanks me. I've reassured her. I so want to hand her a copy of Requiem For a Dream and I'm off. 10 minutes to get cash, coffee, smokes and a train ticket.
5 hours before that I'm way out on the Island. Northport to be precise and it's time to go. I'm waking up to stories of beautiful women on expensive horses, soul food breakfast with the riches and wine, and details of some rodeo clown chick my friends all assure me I would have freaked out for had I not been crashed out on a hard wooden floor. But sleep is a beautiful thing and I think I'm the only one besides the host and his girlfriend not to do nosefulls of imported cat tranquilizers the evening before. .
8 hours before I'm wandering around in the darkness by myself in the woods, I have three cans of Bud Light in my pockets and a cracked one in my had. I'm walking the horse trails, thick trails of cedar mulch and it's raining out, and I can barely make out my surroundings.
But it's beautiful, and I feel fear, and I feel peace, and I thank myself for coming out there and for having taken that walk.
At the house my friends do laps around it's structure.
"Leave me the fuck alone" spits one.
Inside there's more madness, and I continue to fill my body with alcohol, as the tweakers ramble semi-coherently, and I enjoy every fucking moment of it.
An arrival to frisbee, barbeque, wiffle ball, good music and plenty of drink. Running dogs and best friends.
There will be many missions just like this over the summer. There must be. It's this tiny shred of youth we're all so lovingly clinging onto.
plus: anyone bored, sign up for my board http://www.hotsexintheory.com/ , i'm sure you'll be welcomed aboard. cough.
you'll also the notice the prior posted there, I figured they'd dig it too. i'm not much the animal to personalize the onemorepanic experience. i can barely even update this one.
also: for ye freaks with audioscrobblah yo check me out.
http://www.audioscrobbler.com/user/onemorepanic/
Begin with madness end with madness.
Sometimes the Game Boy Advance on the train backfires. In it's usual use, it makes with the time travel, distances to school and work seem like the passing of a cigarette but on this occassion a few boys with their elder guardian attacked the being, being I and layed down the infinite pop quiz upon me.
"Do you have a car?"
"Would I be on this train?"
"Do you own a bus?"
"Yes."
"How much do you charge"
"Five bucks."
"Do you own a bulldozer?"
"Yes."
"Will you sell it to me? Will you sell me your Gameboy?"
"No, and No."
"Let's just say if you were selling your Gameboy how much would you sell it to me for?"
"What!?"
I finally rid myself of one after he whined to me that he's never even held a Gameboy before let alone played one with a "Isn't that just so sad".
He got the point.
And then things with the other one turned to the worse.
Some how he's sitting on my lap, and i'm staring at the big chocolate stain across his forehead and he's telling me about his psychic powers and how he can see the evil inside of everyone. He tells me that the elderly man with him is his father and how he owns hotels all over New York City, and that he isn't a witch, he's a mortal. He tells me how he dreams of stealing cars and then he shows me his keychain.
This fucking thing had a least thirty keys, and he reaches out to each one poking me dead center in the chest repeating, "I'm gonna open you up, I wanna see what your insides look like, gonna open you up".
My saving grace a newspaper across the floor at my feet while he's off ripping a hair off his "father's" knuckle to prove to me that he's not a witch (a mortal's finger nail hair curls?). An edition of the Sunday funnies, thank god, here kid read this as I quickly sneak away.
But let's take a few steps back.
On the way to the train to work to sell some fake dicks after a weekend of madness, but more on that later.
"Tom!!!!" which is my name, and it's squeaking from a fellow tenant of the apartment building I've resided in for the past 23 odd years. Her name is Debbie, she dreams of being famous one day and I have to catch a train.
"Now Tom, tell me what you think, and lemme me just tell you that I'm not a bad person, you know I just like to drink once in awhile, but there's these people, and I gotta warn you they live on our block would you believe it?"
There's two band-aids across her cheek.
"And would you believe it, I think these guys, black guys put something in my drink, I mean Tom i've been drinking for a long time now and I don't pass out, but I think I need plastic surgery, now tell me the truth.."
She pulls off the band-aids and I see nothing. She traces her fingers across her face to show me where they cut her but I don't see anything but patches of chin hair and gray nose hairs. "This is where he rubbed his ring into my face, I'm gonna go see a specialist, I need the surgery, I know people, I want, you know to try to make it before i'm 35, I can't have scars like this".
I thank god i'm not stuck on the train with her, I thank god I'm not stuck on the bus with her. On two occassions , I've put myself to the brink of patience with this woman. Imagine being surrounded by circular glares as this women recounts a Peter Gabriel show where she was supposedly chosen by spotlight to talk to him and her having froze and upsetting Peter to the point where he would swear at her, and then her if had, could haves, might haves, fantasies of talking to a uncaring security guard that it was her Peter was trying to talk to, and if she had gotten a chance to talk with him he'd have set her up with an acting career and everyone would love her, unlike her parents who never recognized her talent for gymnastics. Good bless that Petey Gabes. It's times like this, when I enact with nothing but insane people I truly question my own plight. And it scares the fuck out of me.
I thank god this isn't her and I on the train all over again.
But at this moment I have no idea about the boy who will stab me repeatedly in the chest with various found keys. I make a move to escape.
"Your face looks fine, I don't see anything" and I do not lie. She tells me how it was one of the porters of my buildings friend and she was there to buy pot. I've always known the porter to be an honest black South American immigrant, even though other (insane) tenants who will I not go into further detail with at this occassion have told me that he doesn't think very kindly of me (which I could not question) , I've never taken him to be down with bad company. But then again, we've all got those friends...
She thanks me. I've reassured her. I so want to hand her a copy of Requiem For a Dream and I'm off. 10 minutes to get cash, coffee, smokes and a train ticket.
5 hours before that I'm way out on the Island. Northport to be precise and it's time to go. I'm waking up to stories of beautiful women on expensive horses, soul food breakfast with the riches and wine, and details of some rodeo clown chick my friends all assure me I would have freaked out for had I not been crashed out on a hard wooden floor. But sleep is a beautiful thing and I think I'm the only one besides the host and his girlfriend not to do nosefulls of imported cat tranquilizers the evening before. .
8 hours before I'm wandering around in the darkness by myself in the woods, I have three cans of Bud Light in my pockets and a cracked one in my had. I'm walking the horse trails, thick trails of cedar mulch and it's raining out, and I can barely make out my surroundings.
But it's beautiful, and I feel fear, and I feel peace, and I thank myself for coming out there and for having taken that walk.
At the house my friends do laps around it's structure.
"Leave me the fuck alone" spits one.
Inside there's more madness, and I continue to fill my body with alcohol, as the tweakers ramble semi-coherently, and I enjoy every fucking moment of it.
An arrival to frisbee, barbeque, wiffle ball, good music and plenty of drink. Running dogs and best friends.
There will be many missions just like this over the summer. There must be. It's this tiny shred of youth we're all so lovingly clinging onto.
plus: anyone bored, sign up for my board http://www.hotsexintheory.com/ , i'm sure you'll be welcomed aboard. cough.
you'll also the notice the prior posted there, I figured they'd dig it too. i'm not much the animal to personalize the onemorepanic experience. i can barely even update this one.
also: for ye freaks with audioscrobblah yo check me out.
http://www.audioscrobbler.com/user/onemorepanic/
thanks!