Resumes

I used to work at a coffee shop on New St. I was in the preparing/getting/delivering of things business. Prepare the coffee, deliver the coffee, get the empty cup, etc. People gave me loose change and one dollar bills to do this; it blew my mind every time. Some did it half begrudgingly, some self-congratulatorily and some with an ernest appreciation, or at least these are the faces and tones they projected. At some point I came to realize that all of them, even (and probably most of all) the ernest ones did this out of pity. I was, in essence, one of those homeless people who, completely uninvited, begin washing car windshields, only I was sanctioned and allowed.

At the time of this realization I was still pretty O.K. with the proposition. The job was simple, harmless and superficially rewarding from a human interaction standpoint. Bringing coffee and pastries to total strangers in need of such things is rewarding in some small way and hardly anyone is rude to someone bringing them something, especially the caffeine crowd. So what made me start resenting this job and myself for occupying it? Amazing as it was, the loose change and dollar bills more than paid the rent and put food and wine on my table. Stress was hardly in my vocabulary and there was even something soothing about watching passer-byes flitter on sun-soaked sidewalks to a symphony of clacking drummed out by an unknowing orchestra of laptop users playing solos with their headphones on. Even now, having sorted all this out in my mind, I marvel that something as simple as a resume could set off such an emotional, psychological and existential inquisition within myself. Am I truly that tenuous? The answer is undoubtably : Yes. A maddeningly beautiful and emphatic: YES.

I should have added "resume filer" to my list of duties above because at least once or twice a day I would be handed a little typed piece of proof from some job seeker that he or she was up the the monumental responsibilities inherent to the title: Barista. I never quite understood how a degree in history or membership in the Boy Scouts were going to impress in the fast paced world of getting and delivering until I did some research on the authoritative voice on resume crafting. What I found out was that the resumes I'd been receiving were pretty much what one could expect from a generation of people who's God actually answered their prayers @ night. As it turns out, God is not a stickler for spelling or punctuation. No matter how sloppily a true believer types a hope or fear into the sliver sized rectangular search field thousands of answered prayers always appear. The more I thought about it the more I realized that the electronic prayer answerer and miracle maker is just as cleverly unhelpful as the cosmic one. They may go about their ineffectiveness in polar opposite ways, (one offering silence, the other 232,116 query results) but each approach nets the same reaction from their flock. That being the prayerful will almost always pick the most convenient solution to their problems. This truth was unfortunate for me and the the countless people who handed in the same ProJobs.com template (which happens to be both Google's first of many offerings to it's followers and professionally boring) since I filed these resumes spherically in the receptacle for "Answered Prayers Which Are to Go Unanswered" or, trash can. I did this with little remorse because what I was handed was so mindless and robotic. Where's the life? The creativity? At the time I convinced myself it was a way to get back at people for being so unthinking and boring, but I see now I punished them because they failed to entertain me , to distract me from myself and self loathing.

Then one day it came. I almost didn't see it as it's author snuck it on the counter amongst the multi colored pamphlets offering pottery classes and guitar lessons. It too was multi colored and small, a hastily cut out section of cardboard taken from a flat screen TV box folded in two and held together by three thin strips of electrical tape. As I held it in my hands I got the sense that I should be alone when I opened it, so I excused myself from the barely audible click-clack sonata of the customers keyboards and locked the door to the men's room behind me. [Aside: There is immense safety in shit. No one messes with someone taking a shit, holding a shit or threatening to shit.] Once inside, I unfastened the pieces of tape, unfolded the cardboard and read: "Please don't let me fall between the couch cushions of life." scrawled in loopy cursive and black magic marker. Truly, I had never received a more desperate or unnerving application. What did it's author want from me or the coffee shop on New St? How does one keep from falling in between the couch cushions of life? Was I already there, crammed into some comfortable lightless nook next to forgotten pocket change and fragments of stale potato chips? All I knew was that I needed to find this person and look hard into their eyes. I wanted to see if they resembeled that strange figure I avoided while brushing my teeth each night.

Everybody Answers to Somebody

Muslims will answer to Jesus
even though they won't hear his question.
And Christians will answer to Allah
but won't be given the question.

Your answer to the alarm clock is to get up
and begin a day of thousands of questions
none of which can be answered incorrectly if
you want to fall asleep again.

We're contestants on the Price of Life
where we take turns asking questions
and pretending to know the answer.
"I know, I just want to see if YOU do."

So what is the right question?
What question can we ask ourselves to get
IT?
What is the meaning of life?
Where do we go after we die?
Is there a soul?
Is this the way a human being should live?

My question is, if every bit of human strife and suffering can be attributed to
different ways of asking or answering a question, a question or answer we invented
and then adhered to with the fervor of a lioness protecting her young, my question is
what is the use of answering questions at all. Is it not enough just to ask them and daydream
of the millions of possible answers which we can never know? Wouldn't you like that better
than answering to all of these someones and somebodies you hardly know who pretend to know the answers?

I would.

Movie Review: Deep Blue Sea

Deep Blue Sea, Movie Title or a Metaphor for the Human Condition,

By

Drew Smith

The movies; the bad guy falls in a pile of manure, the right guy gets the pretty girl and Samuel L. Jackson never dies under any circumstances. But the film, Deep Blue Sea, is not a movie, it is a hand guide for life. And not just in a, "I must survive these genetically enhanced super sharks" sense. Oh no, just beneath the surface of the turbid waters of Renny Harlin's movie theater thriller lies a symphony composed of the holy portions of each of the great philosopher's most sentient revelations. Within this 129 minute masterpiece lies every basic question man ever need pose to himself. Man against beast, man against human engineered super fish, man against himself( as seen in S.M.J's moving pre-death speech) and, definitely most of all, man against the very salty womb he first flopped forth from; the deep...blue...sea. When carefully examined it is plain to see that Deep Blue Sea is nothing more than an on screen representation of humanities "akaward" teenage years. At the peak of our evolutionary independence, when we are no longer subservient to the whims of ruthless and overbearing Mother Nature, the Earth begins calling us at our friend's house past curfew to remind us that the most common teenager related deaths are caused by drunk drivers. The constant flow of water searching for S.LJ., LL.C.J, Thomas Jane, Michael Rappaport and the angelic Saffron Burrows represents, at its core, the punishment of a naughty child by its hovering helicopter momma; and this mother does not follow the rules. Sensing the raw epic nature of the script, Harlin takes risks that even the most seasoned of Hollywood directors wouldn't take. Only a director with film credentials like Die Hard 2 and the Sly Stallone slice of brain gold, Cliffhanger would have the tits to kill off the movie's only viable star before the 45 minute mark. And if that weren't enough, Harlin serves up the same fate to the movie's only comedic force and main sexual centerpiece before the film climaxes in a gush of dynamite and sharks blood.

If you are an average film goer, a "Wes Anderson", "Coen Brothers" (do these" " denote sarcasm?) fanboy, you need not buy a ticket for this opus of imagination and hardcore thrill. If you enjoy a nice, well fitting romantic comedy or a society rocking documentary, beat your feet. This movie is for madmen. This movie is a treatise on the Steppenwolf. This movie is not for everybody.

Breakfast In Bed

I think the reason I have this blog is the need for an outlet for the emotions and experiences I feel are impossible to lay on even the closest of friends.

The sentiments I capture here are born from the darkest, deepest, most embarrassing and troubling parts of my conscious thoughts.

And, to be honest, they are pretty fucking depressing.

So I'd like to discuss one of life's forgotten, but most sinfully delicious moments: breakfast in mufuckin bed. How does life get any sweeter? How!? Someone that obviously loves you very much has taken it upon themselves to wake up before you, only to quietly create a delicious day making meal andl present it to you the moment you awake from some sweet, loving dream.

Ahhhhhhhhhhh!

We do not deserve these moments in life, none of us! Yet, they happen to us and some how we are unable to savor and cherish them forever. We get caught up in ourselves and get depressed and hopeless, all the while forgetting that someone, sometime, thought enough of us to make us breakfast in bed.

And with any luck, we' might love someone enough to wake up so early.

Some Nights

Some nights I am calm and read before bed,
Most others I rage and t-bone my head;
For reasons I have yet to understand
I silence my brain before I darken my nightstand.
Is it because my sails are sagging unbattered
By blue windy passions that blow forward and backward?
Is it because I perceive no certain direction
To rig my sails for which might blow me to heaven?
Or is it some chink down deep in my armor
Undetected by pride and leading to slaughter?

Words

How many words have you talked out so far?
In 30 short years they might cover up Mars.
The, "How do you do's?" and "How has it been's?"
could travel to China and come back again.
And how many of them were hollow inside,
to keep time a'passin and let byes go on by?
Did you dare to let out the ones you kept close?
The true ones, the love ones--the ones scared you most?
If your heart's filled with words and swellin' with pain,
Talk out the words and make yourself sane.

I'd Rather Not

I'd rather not watch my head get shinier
and I'd rather not look on my father's livered arms.
I'd rather not think those thoughts on the edge of sleep
and I'd rather not know my Gran is on the edge of death.
I'd rather not see that the world is run by thieves,
and I'd like to blot out that I'll never understand.
I'd die not to know why I can't blind your heart
and I'd die twice as hard to forget your heart once was mine.
It would be rather nice to delete all I've learned
and lie ignorant in fields of dark chirping grass.
I'd be rather content if once I hadn't been young
and was never seduced by earthy rhythms sweet,
But I am and I did and we were and it is and you are;
At least it all ends, my patience only stretches so far.

Turin Breaks

If things get real I promise to tell you its all fake
The gestures and genuflects are all planned mistakes
By the time fear takes you over I'll be making my escape
inside of a bottle where its warm and I wait.

Master Debaters

I love a good debate, or Mind Sport, as some like to call it. Muslims and Hindus, Christians and Jews, Democrats and Republicans, Atheists and the faithful, Gushers and Fruit By the Foot...the list goes on and on. Whatever the rift may be, I like to see it settled in the intellectual six sided ring of fire, no holds bar, to the death. As with any sport, I want to see the pinnacle of what it has to offer. And by pinnacle, I mean the debate that would have the most entertainment value, be the most hilarious. So, I propose we bring together a panel of hardcore drinkers and a panel of hardcore weed smoker, endow them with a limitless supply of their weapons of choice, give them a topic and let the comedy ensue. If this isn't the perfect pilot for the 1 A.M. Saturday Comedy Central slot I don't know what is. My question to you, my non-existent readers, is what should that topic be? At the moment I am both drunk and stoned and thus an impartial juror. Make the decision for and hurry the fuck up before I become distracted by some other ridiculous and pointless quandary.

Unholy Sonnet II

Try never to get caught in a lie to yourself
If you like being the picture of perfect mental health.
The invisible fib that you've built your house on
Will vanish the moment you call it in question
And down will come house with its roof laid in dreams.
The hearts of your babies will be gouged out by beams.
Crumpled in rubble you'll struggle to move
To piece back together your house of untruth.
But, what will you stitch your shack upon now
That your face has grown ugly and your God's out of town?
May I venture forth a firm basement floor,
Or some lies that I like for strong basement walls?
When know-it-all strangers ask what I stand for
I tell them, "Knowledge is power and love conquers all."

Whoops?

Dutiful Dad once told me, "Make good habits because bad ones are hard to break.",
But I was sixteen and my ears were turned inside out.
So I shrugged off the angst with cheap hot beer and speedingcarswithmyheadhungout
And stayed up late huffing vodka fumes with a clean homework slate.

Nights now are lived with my one eye closed; moved by the sounds
of crackling aluminum and the sizzle of leaves in stale beer.
A cacophonous collage which propels me the direction: down,
But drowned out by notes strumming burnt heart strings of yesteryear.

And what am I to do against this mounting wave of tainted self?
Whose shadow I've ignored to smile and slobber at the sun.
Yes, I should turn about to bear the brunt of the things I've done,
ignore the leaping in my blood begging me to be marooned in Hell.

Oh well...

Stop Talking.

I talked a lot tonight, of things I knew and things I didn't.
I wanted to be looked well on, not some antiquated fool.
The men towered above me and the women spoke above me
And though they mouthed in grand terms and in important tones
Nothing I heard sparked a flame in my heart, it was all shit.

Ugly Huddle

I huddle with the ugly girls and we decide
That love is the to do of those invited inside.
So we put in our hands and vote to run and hide
Because love is a waste and a hopeful suicide,
Then grow hair trigger funny bones and laugh at drab
But beautiful stranger's jokes so as to seem less sad,
Or develop frumpy tones warning the warm of
The rough and bumpy bones keeping out the harm of love,
Because we know time wasn't and won't be on our side
We view love as a game for fickle, wandering eyes.
But, we the ugly cross our fingers with surprise,
And wear pessimistic masks as our disguise,
Because love has been inbred into our veins,
Why bother trying to steer when its wrapped around our reins?

Love Was Made to forget it

Hey hey baby have you heard the news
I'm the best thing for your mind to use
I'll tell you things and show you love
You're the only thing I'm thinking of

Sit on my throne my queen of cracks
I'll fill you up with hopes and dreams
But after so many days have past
I'll replace your bones with plastic beams

And when we're done and light is off
I'll curse the man you're dreamin of
My love is cold, my jealous hot
I love her thought, she loves me not.

The Wonderment of Buddy Benjamin (Part I)

The ball felt like a lopsided boil in Buddy's hands as he took his first few feeling dribbles. For a split second he thought about exchanging it for another, but as he switched his dribble to his even more awkward left hand he realized that the ball wasn't the problem. It had been months since he could think about any game other than school. But, as he strode onto the court he realized that he couldn't remember one tort from his law class or one adage from his philosophy course. He thought it odd, all the hours he'd smashed his brain against the tiny words on expensive texts hoping to extract an imprint, and yet his mind was as vacant as a lonely fish bowl. The dreaded first shot was surprisingly nothing but net. A residual bit of drunkenness before the undertow of hangover, he assured himself.

Games raged on both sides of his head, he set, focused and concentrated on some sort of follow through. He retrieved the ball. Set, focus, follow through. Swish. He worked up the courage to put the ball through his legs. It felt like a dinner bell ringing. He did it again, this time walking backwards, taunting an invisible defender. A lunge to the right, a switch to his left and a hop step back brought forth a majestic example of how a jump shot should be shot. Straight up, shoulders square, elbow in, wrist snap and purity. For the next hour Buddy danced as if he were alone in his room, surrounded by the questioning eyes of weekend warriors and basketball enthusiasts. The ball was a detachable appendage, as commandable by his brain as his fingers or toes. He told it to go round his back and head, through his legs and down his finger with every type of spin known to physics. He taught it to roll off a glass pane into a metal circle. Buddy used to be a gym rat and in true rat fashion he forced himself to hit five three pointers in a row before releasing himself from the pull of the court.

Later, eyes closed and facing the luke warm beams of shower water face first, he thought only of control. Of both how very little he controlled in his life and, with astonishment, how easily he'd controlled his movements and the ball on the court that night. In every day life he couldn't see three feet in front of his face. Buddy was a bumbler. He bumbled through friendships, schoolwork and family dinners. He bumbled through conversations with his own grandmother. Basketball was one of the few things in life which Buddy was transfigured and transformed into a silken confidence machine. Silken because what he did flowed like satin drying in the wind. It made sense because it was a beautiful sight and it was a beautiful sight because it made sense. Buddy used head fakes better than politicians used lies, spin moves better than they dodged questions and finished quicker than Ted Kennedy on top of an over priced hooker.

Dials spun in his deft hands and the flow was constricted. Eyes soggy, he blindly reached for a gigantic white beach towel and stood numb in the tub basin drying his face and chest. He stepped out of the shower into his own reflection in the mirror which was posing the question nipping at his mind all night. "If I'm so damn good at basketball and so shitty at everything else, wouldn't it stand to reason that other people are just as familiar with the same kind of mind blowing minutia of making others feel small, or taking home a woman, or brainwashing a child. Could they feel the same exhilaration as I do when hitting a shot when they cheat, lie, deceive, falsify or hurt?"

His eyes drifted from his growing stubble up and around to the ceiling as he combed his memory for personalities which might remind him of himself on the court. That confidence, that grace. The ability to predict microscopic changes in another player's center of gravity. How his muscle fibers lept like lightning to the ground to exploit a weakness, an opportunity to drive to the hoop, to score.

Salsa

The salsa was too spicy.

Tortilla chips melted inches before even having been dipped in its red gooey-ness. No one knew who made it, it just appeared one day in a Tupperware jar with a posted note attached to its lid which said, "For the one who knows little and seeks much." Pat assumed it was an odd neighborly gift left as an awkward exchange of amicability from the apartment adjacent to his. He brought it inside and placed it in his brand new General Electric half freezer half fridge with the intention of buying some chips for later on that day. He shuffled on about his day, purchasing goods and making transactions as all the while the salsa radiated next to a jar of blackberry jam in its chilly new abode. It was far too hot.

Pat took his mom's pant suit to the dry cleaners, watered his cactus, cleaned his fish tank and last of all headed off to the Grocer's Garage for a few much needed supplies. In the check out isle his eyes searched the surroundings for something which might make his expression more interesting, when all the sudden his mind was flooded with thoughts of rivers of thick, blood red salsa. He had to have corn chips. He informed the next customer in line of this fact as he dashed towards isle number nine and all its crispy bounty. Uncharacteristically, Pat turned off the too loud stylings of the Beastie Boys as he made the first right turn on the long journey from the G's G to his quiet apartment.

The car was still in drive when the driver's side door flung open, it's occupant holding a bag of Tostitos with all the luminescent brightness of God's personal sitting cloud in his hazelnut eyes. Mindless and drunk with a passion for flavor he forsake the welcoming door frame in favor of a James Bond like barrel role through a large window leading to the living room. With the grace of a drunken peg leg he arose from a pile of shattered glass and hobbled wide eyed into the moon lit kitchenette. His eyes saw a normal refrigerator, but his mind's eye was glowing in a transcendent vision of bubbling salsa concocted with every enticing and tongue fucking pepper our earth has ever produced. Halfway to the fridge his tongue jutted unconsciously from his foaming mouth led by a team of inbred and rabies ridden taste buds with a blood lust for spice. They cooled themselves against the white metallic surface of the fridge door as Pat unbuckled his pants and shucked off his undergarments as if they were aflame. The yellow light basked all about his body like the relieving light of heaven's gates when he pulled open the door to what was sure to be the ultimate taste experience of his pathetic existence. He located the jar and crushed the posted note roosting coolly on its top. The top hit the wall. Hands hit salsa and scooped, giving the glory to his heaving tongue. Lights erupted from the earth around his feet and above his head, cutting him like the blades of a pair of laser beam scissors snipping off a serpents head. Pat felt his body ascending towards some fantastic upside down caramel waterfall which spilled into a tributary of a far off world's waste management facility. Though his body had been obliterated by the fall up the sugary sweet water spout , Pat felt as if he were spinning and rotating at an enormous speed which only seemed to increase exponentially as time's arrow shot ominously towards its target. At his conscious mind's breaking point a searing pain emanating from his mouth snapped him back into reality.

A reality where he lay naked from the waste down, dick first in a small dirt and salsa filled hole in the middle of his freshly sodded lawn.

The salsa was too spicey.

Blurred Vision

I clicked the T.V. off and lay in the darkness. All was still. The street light illuminated hardly anything and I stared at the time staring back at me from the now dead cable box. Bad genes and years of squinting rendered the digital numbers a blur. I tugged on the part of my temple next to my one good eye to pull the numbers 3:49 into focus. I released, splattering the numbers an unrecognizable amber across a dark blue canvas. I tugged again. A minute had passed. Again and again I physically focused my ocular lens until whatever point I was trying to make made sense. Time is unraveling my senses. Where this very room may have been crystal clear, silent and haunting five years before, it was now a hazy streak of unknown. The thought occurred to me that this unraveling may not be isolated to just sight, but touch, smell, hearing, taste and most terrifying of all, true feeling. A mere tug on my temple sent me spinning back through time when both the lens of my eye and of my heart weren't wrecked by experience. An inevitable sadness washed over me as I brought my hand from my face, sinking back into the blur. At that moment I decided I needed a contact, both for my eye and my heart. I have been perceiving the world with blurred vision and blurred feeling for far too long and I know only of a remedy for my eye. Corrective vision for the heart can not be bought in stores, it has to be home made, whittled day by day with tedious care. One slip and the the glass shatters, the heart breaks and with it the body and conscious mind. All these things rushed through my mind as I looked lazily at my streaking surroundings in the dark of my living room.

Confidence

I have very little.

I don't feel bad about it. I feel justified and bewildered.

Only when I'm disillusioned or drunk do I ever project anything resembling confidence. I honestly think these are the only states where confidence can justifiably, yet falsely, breed and take hold in a person. I saw a post on Gawker tonight titled "All the Wrong People Have Self-Esteem". This couldn't be more true. People who, in my tiny opinion, have their head on straight and see existence as it actually is are rarely confident. Why would they be? What would any rational and reasonable person plant a seed of confidence in? God? He seems to be the most popular earth in which to grow the false flora of confidence , and why not? If ever lasting paradise awaited all of us who were able to follow 10 simple rules the world would be full of happy people. But most people, whether they want to admit it or not, don't believe in this proposition. Thus, a whole lot of us are pretty sad most of the time. Not that sadness is a bad thing, just a manifested reflection on the scary mysteries of life.

Confidence can never be rooted in the unknown.

Its no wonder that when I look on really confident people I see someone who has invested all their thoughts and energy in the tiny pictures that ours minds can take, meaning the petty things which make our society go round. Good jobs, attractive spouses, sleek cars, rule following, healthy teeth and skin, nice, pressed clothing= societal norms= reaffirmation of values= confidence.

To me, confidence reeks of submission, of unimaginative conformity, of arrogance. Weird as it may sound, we should all be in a constant state of bewilderment. I love the word bewilder. For me it sums up the state of human existence. Sure, our best and brightest, like Newton and Hawking, have figured out some things about the abyss around us, but for the most part we are all bewildered newborns in the dark.

As I write this a tinge of dissent has been growing within me. It is telling my digits to tell you that certain types of confidence are real and true. This tinge has grown as my four fingers fluttered on this board of letters and I am forced to admit that some people, some people's love and hope can't help but bare the fruit of confidence from my cynical winter tree of a mind. This confidence grown from the purest form of the human spirit is something that should be celebrated. I haven't seen too many examples of it lately, but I do know it exists, so I can't discount it.

This confidence is seen in times of trouble and tragedy. When our friends are at wits end and we reach down to our deepest depths to comfort and reassure them, thats the confidence I believe in. When men and women run in to burning buildings to save total strangers, thats the confidence I believe in.

Confidence in ourselves, to me, is vanity, but confidence in each other is the best aspect of humanity.

Random Thoughts From Within a Bath Robe

A few things: Krogerering at midnight is the best type of Krogering. What would your entrance music be if you were a Major League Baseball player? Wouldn't you rather have your dying words be a hilarious joke or gag than some prolific statement about love?

Let's go.

I'm an avid Kroger shopper. I don't feel comfortable in any other grocery store. The Pig seems a little run down, Whole Foods is great, but the yuppie/smug factor is a big time turn off. Kroger is not too hot, not too cold, but just right. My favorite thing about Kroger? Well, besides the sheer volume and range of delicious produce, it has to be that most Kroger's stay open all damn day and all damn night. If I want a cup of sliced watermelon, some Hot Pockets and a home pregnancy test at 3:45 A.M. by God I can get them all in one convenient, well lit location. I can't think of any event that kills my boredom and hunger/thirst/hygienic needs better than a late night visit to that big blue sign in the sky. Peace and comfort envelope me as I stroll through the aisles in my flannel jim jam pants and flannel bed shirt usually not having a clue what I'm searching for, but with the utmost confidence that I'll know it when I see it. Last night it was a plastic cylinder of creamy chicken noodle soup and a six pack of YooHoo(the blog's spell checker is advising me that I've misspelled BooHoo, making me long for an ice cold bottle of BooHoo. If only it existed.) When I'm Krogering late night I feel like a grown up kid all alone in a candy store for adults. There are all sorts of fancy vegetables and cheeses, not to mention a respectable selection of domestic and imported beer and wine. Sometimes I just hang out by the olive bar and gawk. One day I'll be rich enough to fill a whole Kroger sack full of mozzarella cheese balls and stuffed mushrooms...one day. One day I'll be able to push a buggy full of goat cheese, Havarti and Dom Perignon through the check out aisle and pay in straight cash. These are the thoughts that bedazzle and torment my mind as I peruse the aisles with a basket full of bologna and Iron Kids bread. One day I'll supermarket sweep that beautiful bitch, but until then I think I can be satisfied pondering my culinary possibilities under the harsh florescent glow of the lights in Kroger at midnight.

More musings to follow.

Freedom in Heights

We retold what had just happened with such exuberance and excitement that we conjured up some sort of time portal leading to exactly 9 hours in the past. Suddenly we were the three bored and unimaginative douches we'd been at 10 o'clock the previous night. And we wanted to party. I can't remember who suggested that we go back on the roof, but I'm sure it was Roll. He's the one who disappeared downstairs only to reappear seconds later with a satchel of various beers.

Walking out on that roof was like hopping on the surface of the sun. It was 8 o'clock, but it wasn't morning. The sun was high in the sky and my newly naked tit skin could feel itself cooking. Our flesh was roasting, our brains were toasted and for the life of us we could not stop giggling. We sizzled on shingles like three sun glass clad pieces of bacon sautéing in gin and freedom. I pulled my shorts into thong position, giving my upper thighs their first taste of vitamin D. This was met with groans from Roll and a purring sound from T-Nasty.

We laid there soaking up sunshine and sipping on sin until the pure freedom of the situation overwhelmed me. I hopped up and gave a drunken homage to Charles Chaplin. I did precarious acrobatic maneuvers on every corner of the roof, diving and tripping, rolling and collapsing, mooning imaginary voyeurs and dancing with fictitious maidens. In the midst of my madness I spotted some painters hard at work on an adjacent roof top. I screamed for them to look our way, then showed them my ass cheeks. Moments later I noticed the faithful congregation of High Street Unitarian Univeralist Church filing in to their Sunday service. They then got a pre-church sermon on why God was dead before feasting their eyes on my supple buttocks.

By this time, my liberation from the dictate of society was nearly complete. All that was left for me to do was fully expose myself on the highest point of the roof. So, I went inside and grabbed the afore mention poster of George Costanza and whipped off my undies. I then scaled the remaining portion of the roof and jangled my dangle in the cool morning breeze with the poster of Costanza draped around my shoulders.

Jealousy is a stinky cologne.