Coke Talk Of The Day

I’m feeling kind of vulnerable at the moment.

There were all sorts of things I was supposed to be doing this past month, and I’ve been neglecting them. I know I have. Whatever sins of procrastination I may have committed these past thirty days were necessary, though.

I’ve been transitioning out of a romantic relationship. I know that sounds like a fancy way to say I’ve been going through a break-up, but I’ve gone through break-ups before, and this has been an unfamiliar experience.

I suppose the result is the same in the end, but this time the process has been so much more introspective. I’ve been alone through it in ways that I’ve never been alone before. Not lonely, but completely on my own.

The strangest part about it is that not all that much has changed. Of course, things aren’t the same anymore, but they aren’t that much different either. I still have someone in my life that I love very much, but things are platonic now.

The transition from romantic to platonic was painful, but somehow natural. I still haven’t wrapped my head around how it happened, because it’s something that I used to think was next to impossible.

It did happen, though.

I had to take some time away from him at first, but we’ve since started hanging out again. The very first time he introduced me to other people as his “best friend,” it was jarring to hear the words. Still, they were completely accurate. It was a label that finally fit who we were to each other.

I thought it would upset me more, but it didn’t. I want to be his best friend. I want somebody in my life who’s as smart as me and sees the world like I do and can talk as much shit as I can. It’s an honor to be his best friend. Maybe that’s what we were all along.

I’m not to the point yet where I can high-five him when he gets laid, but I think I’ll be there soon enough. In the meantime, I’m completely undateable. I just don’t give a shit right now. The holidays are coming up, and I still have all this work I need to focus on, and I think it’s enough that I’m finally ready to crawl out of my own head and push forward with the next phase of my life.

We’ll see where it takes me.

Coke Talk of the Day

I woke up this morning in a fog thick as soup, an extended version of that final stage of sleep where dreams still have more clarity than whatever reality you’re facing. Some part of my conscious mind had latched onto a key phrase that seemed very important, and I had to memorialize it immediately.

I reached over to my computer still open on the floor next to my bed, and I hit ⌘V on the keyboard, fully expecting it to paste my thoughts directly onto the screen.

Nothing happened. I was confused for more than a second until it dawned on me that even if the technology did somehow exist to bridge a direct neural link to my MacBook Pro, I had forgotten to hit ⌘C first.

I quickly typed out the phrase that was floating in my head, one that dissolved into the ether in the very moment I wrote it. Satisfied, but still not quite awake, I rolled out of bed and began my morning routine.

When I came back to my computer freshly scrubbed and fogless, I looked down to find the cursor still blinking at the end of my dream sentence:

Diagram the gem of the eternal tides.

Yeah. I have no idea what it means either. The only thing I remember is that it felt terribly significant at the time. Still, I dig it. It’s as though I received a mysterious order from my subconscious.

I love that just over an hour ago, I existed in a state where the command to “diagram the gem of the eternal tides” made perfect logical sense as part of some grander dreamscape narrative, and in that unconscious pastiche of people and places that promptly receded into the depths of some black and unrecoverable trench, one tiny little sentence managed to crystalize and become solid, the words dropping like fresh die-cast metal into my waking life, still glowing red from their transition.

I love that every night a whole other hidden world flashes its momentary existence through our synapses. I love that it’s a part of us, but it’s somehow not ours to keep. I love that we occasionally catch glimpses and fragments, and while most of the time they may mean absolutely nothing, every once in a while it can still feel like they’re dripping with magic.

Coke Talk of the Morning

I just woke up from a vivid dream where Lindsay Lohan picked me up in a black Chevy Suburban. We both drove around a post-apocalyptic hellscape drinking coffee and patiently waiting our turn to rainbow mind-meld in preparation for battle with time-eaters from that one Steven King novel.

At one point, I had to jump out of the truck and rescue Shia LeBeouf before his downed airplane burst into flames. He sat comfortably in my lap in the front passenger seat like a napping toddler. It’s not that he was short. It’s more like he was 5/8 scale, a sort of miniature fighter pilot, still unconscious and wearing the exact same flight suit that George W. Bush wore for that aircraft carrier photo-op before his Mission Accomplished speech.

Anyway, Lindsay got jealous that I had a miniature Shia LeBeouf in my lap, and so she refused to rainbow mind-meld with me so we could continue our battle with the time-eaters. Instead, she pretended to spill her coffee, and I made a passive aggressive comment about her nails, despite the fact that the time-eaters were rapidly approaching and everything around us was being devoured into a haunted void of nothingness.

We sped away as fast as our Chevy Suburban could take us, all the while relaying back to central command that we weren’t engaging the enemy due to some petty drama over a boy. Central command wasn’t the least bit surprised.

Eventually, I awoke from this dream to find my television on mute and tuned to a Proactiv infomercial. It was oddly comforting. I actually laid there and watched it for quite some time without changing the channel or turning up the volume.

So yeah, I was supposed to go to the gym this morning, but instead I stayed in bed and dream journaled this stupid post.

Have a lovely day, everyone.

Coke Talk of the Day

Hatefuck Tuesday went a little awry. Not in the typical manner — nobody’s feelings got hurt or anything. (Feelings? Who the fuck has feelings?) No, this bit of angry afternoon delight got dirty the old fashioned way — he knocked my period loose a few days early.

You see, this guy isn’t really an ex. He’s just some self-absorbed asshole I dated for a hot minute longer than I otherwise would because he happens to have the biggest dick I’ve ever seen in my life.

I’m not a size queen, but even I appreciate the novelty of a cock that cartoonishly large. Truly, it is a fearsome thing to behold. It’s so big, every time he sticks it in it’s like getting fisted by Peter Dinklage.

Don’t ask me for exact dimensions. I don’t know them. I would never ask a big dicked man for his measurements in the same way I would never ask a famous person for an autograph. That’s a basic bitch move, and egos like that don’t deserve the satisfaction.

Anyways, he pounded me bloody. It’s like my cervix went three rounds with Mike Tyson. I completely ruined his sheets, which I consider an added bonus, because afterwards I just got up and left while he had to deal with cleaning up a crime scene.

It was glorious. I left my mark in every way possible, didn’t even say goodbye, and then drove through In-N-Out for a little hatefuck afterglow animal style indulgence.

Not a bad way to spend a lunch hour.

Coachella Talk of the Day

  • Hot shit outfits *check*
  • Cute bikini situation *check*
  • Comfortable boots *check*
  • Good luck sandals *check*
  • Sunglasses I can’t lose *check*
  • Sunglasses I can lose *check*
  • All the drugs *check*
  • All-access wristband *check*


My ride gets here in 20 minutes. This is better than Christmas morning.


Coke Talk Of The Day



I heard my dentist say, “Oops!” then walk out the room nervously. The assistant came in to take another X-ray, and after a few minutes of staring into the illuminated palm trees on the ceiling that made me eerily crave a Corona with lime, I was informed in vague language that there might be a problem.

Great. I’ve been around enough doctors to know that when they start speaking in the passive voice, that means they’ve suddenly become wary of liability. This dude just fucked something up, and he didn’t want to freak me out about it.

Little did he know I had enough Xanax coursing through my bloodstream that he could’ve informed me the hole he just drilled into my tooth had opened up an evil portal across the 8th dimension, and I would have just smiled and said, “Laugh while you can, monkey-boy!”

No, instead he told me that something or other cracked and blah-blah-blah next to the bone and blah-blah-blah it’s probably not a big deal, but I’m gonna refer you to an endodontist.

Okay, dude. Whatever. Just give me a few of those big white pills, don’t send me a bill, and I won’t sue you. That sounds like a fair deal, right?

Anyways, now my whole week is about this one tooth. On the bright side, I won’t be in any pain, and not being able to chew is a great reason to go on a juice cleanse.


Coke Talk Of The Day

I’m frazzled and fried. Clocks are meaningless, and the sun is playing hard to get.

Jet lag is so much worse when all the drug residue is still squishing out of my squash. I have a raging case of sausage fingers, my brain is full of dryer lint, and my body can’t decide which hole to bleed from.

The good news is that my new dental insurance just kicked in, and in my infinite wisdom, I scheduled an appointment on the first Monday of the new year for someone to literally take a drill to my skull.

I can’t decide if that was being a responsible adult, or if the 2013 version of me was just playing a cruel joke on my 2014 self.

Coke Talk of the Day

I stayed in last night. Didn’t want to be in public. Turns out it was for the best, because Avicii headlined at the Hollywood Bowl. It was madness down there. Aside from the usual traffic related fuckery, the streets of Hollywood were choked with insufferable euro-trash freaks. Much more so that usual. (Your honor, in my defense, the German tourist I ran over with my car was wearing tripp pants and a neon mesh shirt.)

Ugh. The worst part was that Avicii closed his show with fireworks. (I guess eardrum-shattering pyrotechnics are necessary if you want to distract a bunch of idiots from the fact that they paid eighty bucks to watch a teenager with no musical talent hit play on his iPod for an hour and a half.) I wasn’t there, but fuck, I didn’t need to be. Anyone within a two mile radius of the Bowl was treated to a series of sudden and unexpected explosions in the sky.

Normally that kind of thing is no big deal. I love fireworks, but last night I wasn’t prepared. When they went off, the reptilian part of my brain instantly processed the percussive staccato as gunfire. Fucking hell. A fraction of a second later, my conscious mind realized what the sound really was, but it was too late. That’s the nature of a trigger. It’s not rational, and it’s not something you can control.

For those of you who are familiar with PTSD related panic attacks, you’ll know what I mean when I say I already knew that I was fucked. There’s a certain walking dead phase before the physical symptoms of a panic attack set in where a tiny part of your conscious mind is fully aware that you’ve been betrayed by your own subconscious.

You know what’s coming, but there’s absolutely nothing you can do about it. You try to breathe your way through it. You try to outmaneuver your sympathetic nervous system with calm thoughts. You try and pretend that you’ll be fine, but that’s not the way it works.

I can’t remember if this is something I’ve written about before. I doubt it, but it’s one of those things I carry with me. It’s not quite emotional baggage. It’s more physiological baggage from a violent event in my past that involved three men with guns to my head.

I don’t care to talk about it more than that except to say that guns and gunfire are a trigger for me. Not all the time. I’m not a skittish little bunny rabbit, but it’s something that I know might happen. Part of the reason I own a gun and regularly go shooting is because the activity has legitimate therapeutic value for me. I’m not afraid of guns, but a panic attack isn’t about that kind of timid, nervous fear most people associate with being afraid.

A panic attack is fear. It’s a savage orgasm of distilled terror that is almost indescribable to someone who’s never experienced it. The physical symptoms are horrifyingly real. My arms and legs turn into cold, shaking rubber. All the warm important stuff inside the center of my chest constricts, and with every shallow gulping breath, it dares my heart to stop beating. Every fiber in my being screams for me to call 911 and tell them I’m dying, but I’ve learned that if you do that, they’ll actually show up.

Last night’s was relatively mild compared to some. I was able to whack myself in the head with a double dose of xanax before the worst of it could render me a sobbing pile of shit. Goddamn, that stuff is a miracle drug. Actually, I think it’s still in my system, because I woke up this morning feeling absolutely peachy.

That’s probably the strangest part of a panic attack. It ends. Quite suddenly, as if nothing ever happened. Afterwards you’re left to sit in a puddle of your own sweat during a benzodiazapine-induced refractory period where you feel perfectly fucking fine. Never mind that mere moments before your heart was pumping hot black oil and your brain was on fire.

I used to think the sharp contrast between the panic and the calm was somehow profound, but these days I just let myself fall asleep. Fuck having deep thoughts after that kind of petrifying bullshit.

Gun Talk of the Day

My little gun nut made good on his promise. I’ve been featured as the “quote of the day” on his blog, The View From North Central Idaho: Ramblings on explosives, guns, politics, and sex by a redneck farm boy who became a software engineer.

Yeah. I’ll let that description speak for itself.

Joe and I sit on opposite sides of the ideological fence. That much is obvious. I call him a wingnut. He calls me a liberal. Both of us are proud to be labeled as such. He didn’t quite use the word, but you can tell that he very much wants to call me a Nazi. He thinks I completely ignore the concept of rights, which he says, “is how governments end up murdering millions of their own people.”

This little Reductio ad Hitlerum speaks volumes about the kind of world view we’re dealing with here. When I call a guy like Joe myopic, I am specifically referring to his inability to focus on the greater good. Joe doesn’t disagree. He actively spits out the concept of “the greater good” as distasteful. He hears that phrase and immediately calls it “the ever present excuse for genocide.”

It’s hard to have a rational conversation with someone like this. Joe’s rabid libertarianism makes him blind to any ethical concept that extends beyond the limited scope of individual rights. Joe puts individual liberty above all other kinds. Individual freedom is the only freedom he recognizes. He interprets any argument that involves the public good as a slippery slope to Nazi Germany.

This refusal to acknowledge the practical implications of life in a cooperative society is the single greatest shortcoming of Joe’s world view. There’s just no reasoning with a man who sees the greater good as an inherent evil.

That’s fine. The view from North Central Idaho is bound to look different than the view from the Hollywood Hills. What Joe considers rugged individualism, I consider puerile selfishness. What I see as a sensible position on gun control, Joe sees as tyrannical fascism. We have a fundamental philosophical disagreement about the role of government as it relates to the social contract, and neither of us is going to change the other’s mind.

Still, the most ridiculous part of this whole conversation is that I don’t want to ban guns. My position on gun control is about as centrist as it gets. Hell, I own a gun, and I wouldn’t want to live in a society where I couldn’t. Nevertheless, Joe thought my opinions were a threat. He felt it necessary to come at me with his wingnut opinions blazing.

Well, you know what? I shoot back. I’ll put my .357 Magnum mind against his .22 caliber opinions any damn day of the week. If Joe wants to hit me with a rational argument against centralized firearm registration and mandatory liability insurance, I’m open to it. He just can’t keep screaming tyranny or equating guns to bibles and expect me to take him seriously.
(If you have something to add to the conversation, feel free to leave your comments on Joe’s blog. Keep your shit crisp and on point. The wingnuts may be infuriating, but let’s not let our side be the one to devolve into cheap ad hominem attacks.)

Schadenfreude of the Day

A conspicuous number of the married couples in my life are starting to get divorced. This isn’t a surprise. It’s right on schedule.

I called it years ago. I knew this shit would happen at a ridiculously high rate to all my idiot friends who got married between 2008 and 2010, especially the ones coasting on the fumes of their extended adolescence right as the economy took a shit all over their dreams. You know, the clueless souls who didn’t have anything better to do with their lives, so they figured they’d solve all their problems with a bunch of big dumb weddings.

I spent three years biting my tongue in a bridesmaid dress, letting everyone have their temporary high, hoping against hope that none of my friends got knocked up before the novelty wore off and they finally woke up one morning horrified at the thought of spending the next half century with the first one-night-stand who bought them breakfast.

Well, that morning has long since past, and the forces of matrimonial inevitability have brought forth the great crumbling of 2013. It’s ugly out there, and if I danced to that godforsaken Jason Mraz song at your wedding, it’s safe to assume your marriage is fucked.

It’s the kind of thing that would be funny if it weren’t so sad, because these days when a marriage implodes that shit turns into an interactive social media soap opera. I’ve spent hours looking over my BFF’s shoulder witnessing the intimate, gory details of divorce splayed out on public timelines that read like a Nora Ephron screenplay in reverse.

Not to sound terribly voyeuristic, but this is the first time I’ve ever really been tempted to sign myself back up for Facebook.

Horrible, I know, but I’m a sucker for tragic comedies.

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