2:44 AM, and all seems to be well.
During the course of my work night, it dawned on me that my brother leaves for the Navy in a couple of weeks. This really started to choke me up for a bit.
I remember the day my parents informed me of this guy coming into the world. We lived in a little house in Meridian, Idaho. Nothing but fields, farms, and small, suburban neighborhoods as far as the eye could see back then. No Old Navys, ShopKos, or even an Albertson's back then (We had a Smith's. Huge difference.). I had been an only child this entire time, and, to be honest with you, spoiled rotten. Life was good in those days; family vacations, I got whatever the hell I wanted, my room was like a video game nerd factory, etc. It was early Spring, and my dad called me into the dining room to inform me of the news. The banter went a little something like this:
"Your mother has something to tell you."
"No, your father has something to tell you."
This shit went on for a good 5 minutes.
Then, the news came out:
"We're having a baby."
POW! Right in the mug. After 10 years of telling me that I was special, that I was the only one, they dropped that bomb on me...
Me eyes welled up with tears.
"What?! You lied to me!!"
I immediately went into my room, and stewed. I was irate. I decided, at that exact moment, that the next 9 months of their lives would be a living hell. I didn't speak to them. If I did, it was short, and to the point. We even went on a big Disney World cruise vacation, but I would have been goddamned if that didn't stop ME, Ryan Sampson, from being special (By the way, I still act this way. I don't know how I got it, I just did, so get off of my back, and read, dick.).
Fast forward 9 months. Halloween, 1989. Sitting around the dinner table with the folks, my mother told me that she was going to be having the baby that night. I was in the 5th grade, and I had a VERY important boy/girl party to go to. I was dressed as Jason from "Friday the 13th", and this was quite important to me.
After the party, my grandparents had picked me up, and informed me that Mom was in the hospital in labor. I grunted a bit, and we were on our way. Shortly after, I passed out in a chair at the hospital, awaiting that bundle of hate destined to ruin my life.
About 5 in the morning, on November 1st, I was woken up by my family to meet and greet this little whatever.
I sat in the delivery room glaring at the family members, as they tossed the devil back and forth, showering him with love, and being so happy that I could have just thrown up. Then, the inevitable happened...
"Ryan, would you like to hold him?"
I couldn't be THAT big of a jerk. I held the 8 lb. 15 oz. bundle in my hands, and the damnedest thing hit me. I liked this guy. He was kind of cool, and I guess I COULD be "Big Brother". I mean, I do have 10 years on this kid, right?
Years and years went by. When he was growing up, my parents always said that he didn't have the same passion for music that I did, although he was, and still is, a genius on the piano, but I still have a hunch that they didn't spoon-feed him music, like they did with me, for a reason. I guess I understand that reason now.
When he hit about 15, I started seeing him around. He would come to our shows, shows with bands that I liked, and he knew all the lyrics. He didn't turn into an emo/"pop" punk, Bieber banged, douchebag. He loved punk rock, ska, oldies, country. He was me...but better. He strived in school, gaining straight A's in every class, respecting authority (or maybe not getting caught), and wanting more than to try to attempt to be Billie Joe Armstrong, and nothing else.
By the time he graduated high school, he was a machine. This kid was at the gym, playing Lacrosse, but still punk as fuck. He always seemed to be able to leave the gym just in time for a Suicide Machines show.
Over the last 2 years, he has become my best friend. He tried leaving town to go to for a semester, and realized it wasn't for him. He called me every day from Pocatello to talk. I don't know if he needed his big brother, or if he just needed a taste of home. Regardless, I was the voice that he wanted to hear.
In 2 weeks, he leaves for the military. I have a sense of jealousy there, and I can't put my finger on why. I don't know if it's the fact that he has everything going for him, the fact that he can steal every girl in the room, or if it's just the fact that I'm the one that needs to talk to him every day at this point.
What was originally a hate filled monster, turned into my best friend, and the only guy that truly understands my temper, frustrations, and just all around life. He did everything the complete opposite of me, and I feel that he's been much better off doing so. The fact that he's doing what he's doing is a huge compliment to my family. I couldn't do it because A) I hate authority, and B) I'm a pussy.
I love him, and he better take care of himself, or the United States Military is gonna have my mother to deal with. I don't wish that on anybody.
As I sit here (slightly sobbing, might I add), I raise my glass up to him. He's already a hero in my eyes, and he doesn't even know it.
Here's to you, Nasty.
I'm glad Mom and Dad didn't name you Tucker. Your life would have been Hell.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
The Rise and Fall of Chester Copperpot
I am a music snob. I have been this way for years. I have collected vinyl, compact discs, cassettes, etc. since around the age of 7. I specifically remember my parents picking me up in their old Volkswagen van, and holding out a bag with 2 releases that came out around that time...
"Appetite for Destruction" by Guns and Roses, and "Polka Party" by "Weird Al" Yankovic. Hi-Fi cassettes.
This was just the beginning. Speaking of beginnings, here's, technically, where this obsession came from:
When I was a mere toddler, my mother had a 1968, baby blue, Volkswagen Bug. The stereo had been taken out of it, thanks to some dubious ruffian, so it was just the two of us, singing songs. She will always proudly tell people that the first song that I ever learned wasn't "Itsy Bitsy Spider", "London Bridges", or even my "ABC's". It was "I Only Have Eyes for You", by the Drifters. Random, I know. I can only imagine my son, singing "ARE THERE STARRRS OUUUUT TOOOONNNIIIGGGHHHT?". Funny, I think.
When an automobile with a stereo finally reached our family, my mother was always listening to whatever oldies station was on at the time. Soon began the music game. "Who sings this song?". "What's the name of the song?". "What album is it on?". By the age of 10, I could pick out "Tangled Up in Blue" by Bob Dylan, from "Blood on the Tracks".
Football was not in my future. Later, we realized studying, Rocket Science, and finding the cure for Cancer wasn't, either.
My parents were hippies, in their own right. It was Bob Dylan, Joni Mitchell, Country Joe and the Fish, Big Brother and the Holding Company. You get the idea, but they loved the other stuff, too. Dion and the Belmonts, Bobby Vee, Stevie Wonder. Motown. Chess. Stax.
This was all going to form me into the snob I now am.
Starting my love for mainstream music in the 80's was a weird thing. The choices were strange. Hair Metal was king. On the other side, you had Debbie Gibson, Pet Shop Boys, Milli Vanilli, Yacht Rock, and the like. Just really pappy pop music that usually spawned out 1 hit, and the name was forgotten (Anybody remember Swing Out Sister, or Information Society?).
My first concert was a Stevie Wonder show at the pavilion. This was during the Yacht period of "I Just Called to Say I Love You", but it's Stevie Wonder, so who cares? Shows following were Motley Crue, Bon Jovi, Skid Row, Nelson, Kiss, Winger, Slaughter, MC Hammer...it was the late '80s to early '90s. Shut up.
Here's where everything got weird.
There was a record store in the West Boise area, called Five Mile Records, which later changed to Five Mile Disc and Tape. I would go there to find whatever hair metal band I saw the previous Saturday on "Headbanger's Ball", buy the tape, and hope that band would come play soon, so I could make my mother's ears bleed.
While looking through the tapes, I found what seemed to be a pretty "metal" looking album. There was a young man, standing in suburban America, holding his skateboard...AND HE WAS ON FIRE!!!! Plus, the album was called "Suffer". This had to be metal, right?
Well, it sure wasn't. The fast paced 4/4 drum beats that had drawn me to that metal was even faster, had better melodies, harmonies, and was unreal. This, my dear friends, was my introduction into the underground. Bands with names that I thought were "too weird" or "not PC" (i.e. Dead Kennedys, or Sex Pistols) came into my collection. I wanted more. NEEDED more. Soon, it wasn't just punk rock. Ska, Hip Hop, Prog Rock. All of these gave me an appreciation for sub-cultures, and their fashions. My own mother wasn't surprised when I came home with blue hair. The people I associated with had mohawks, liberty spikes, studded jackets, and the like. The people that my mom would have crossed the street if they were walking up, she now embraced.
Sure, I went through my whole "fuck major labels. They're for sell outs" phase. I still feel it from time to time when one of my favorite bands signs to even a mid major.
I guess there's 2 reasons I'm sharing this with you:
For someone who has spent his life reading about (insert washed up, junkie musician here), listening to everything on the planet that I can get my hands on, and constantly playing music whether it be my own, or somebody else's, I find it extremely funny that I choose to play extremely simple music. Ska, punk, and pop punk. That's what I know how to play. Kind of funny. I'm not trying to be the next Keith Richards, Ace Frehley, or Eric Clapton.
Secondly, I'm wondering if the effects my parents had on me by showing me all of this music will have the same effects on my son. Then again, he ignores my stereo when I try to play him the new Riverdales record, yet dances like a retarded monkey when "Miss U Much" by Janet Jackson is played on his mother's stereo.
"Appetite for Destruction" by Guns and Roses, and "Polka Party" by "Weird Al" Yankovic. Hi-Fi cassettes.
This was just the beginning. Speaking of beginnings, here's, technically, where this obsession came from:
When I was a mere toddler, my mother had a 1968, baby blue, Volkswagen Bug. The stereo had been taken out of it, thanks to some dubious ruffian, so it was just the two of us, singing songs. She will always proudly tell people that the first song that I ever learned wasn't "Itsy Bitsy Spider", "London Bridges", or even my "ABC's". It was "I Only Have Eyes for You", by the Drifters. Random, I know. I can only imagine my son, singing "ARE THERE STARRRS OUUUUT TOOOONNNIIIGGGHHHT?". Funny, I think.
When an automobile with a stereo finally reached our family, my mother was always listening to whatever oldies station was on at the time. Soon began the music game. "Who sings this song?". "What's the name of the song?". "What album is it on?". By the age of 10, I could pick out "Tangled Up in Blue" by Bob Dylan, from "Blood on the Tracks".
Football was not in my future. Later, we realized studying, Rocket Science, and finding the cure for Cancer wasn't, either.
My parents were hippies, in their own right. It was Bob Dylan, Joni Mitchell, Country Joe and the Fish, Big Brother and the Holding Company. You get the idea, but they loved the other stuff, too. Dion and the Belmonts, Bobby Vee, Stevie Wonder. Motown. Chess. Stax.
This was all going to form me into the snob I now am.
Starting my love for mainstream music in the 80's was a weird thing. The choices were strange. Hair Metal was king. On the other side, you had Debbie Gibson, Pet Shop Boys, Milli Vanilli, Yacht Rock, and the like. Just really pappy pop music that usually spawned out 1 hit, and the name was forgotten (Anybody remember Swing Out Sister, or Information Society?).
My first concert was a Stevie Wonder show at the pavilion. This was during the Yacht period of "I Just Called to Say I Love You", but it's Stevie Wonder, so who cares? Shows following were Motley Crue, Bon Jovi, Skid Row, Nelson, Kiss, Winger, Slaughter, MC Hammer...it was the late '80s to early '90s. Shut up.
Here's where everything got weird.
There was a record store in the West Boise area, called Five Mile Records, which later changed to Five Mile Disc and Tape. I would go there to find whatever hair metal band I saw the previous Saturday on "Headbanger's Ball", buy the tape, and hope that band would come play soon, so I could make my mother's ears bleed.
While looking through the tapes, I found what seemed to be a pretty "metal" looking album. There was a young man, standing in suburban America, holding his skateboard...AND HE WAS ON FIRE!!!! Plus, the album was called "Suffer". This had to be metal, right?
Well, it sure wasn't. The fast paced 4/4 drum beats that had drawn me to that metal was even faster, had better melodies, harmonies, and was unreal. This, my dear friends, was my introduction into the underground. Bands with names that I thought were "too weird" or "not PC" (i.e. Dead Kennedys, or Sex Pistols) came into my collection. I wanted more. NEEDED more. Soon, it wasn't just punk rock. Ska, Hip Hop, Prog Rock. All of these gave me an appreciation for sub-cultures, and their fashions. My own mother wasn't surprised when I came home with blue hair. The people I associated with had mohawks, liberty spikes, studded jackets, and the like. The people that my mom would have crossed the street if they were walking up, she now embraced.
Sure, I went through my whole "fuck major labels. They're for sell outs" phase. I still feel it from time to time when one of my favorite bands signs to even a mid major.
I guess there's 2 reasons I'm sharing this with you:
For someone who has spent his life reading about (insert washed up, junkie musician here), listening to everything on the planet that I can get my hands on, and constantly playing music whether it be my own, or somebody else's, I find it extremely funny that I choose to play extremely simple music. Ska, punk, and pop punk. That's what I know how to play. Kind of funny. I'm not trying to be the next Keith Richards, Ace Frehley, or Eric Clapton.
Secondly, I'm wondering if the effects my parents had on me by showing me all of this music will have the same effects on my son. Then again, he ignores my stereo when I try to play him the new Riverdales record, yet dances like a retarded monkey when "Miss U Much" by Janet Jackson is played on his mother's stereo.
Monday, February 21, 2011
The First Confession
So, here I am. After years of using corny tools like MySpace, Facebook, Twitter, etc., I've succumbed to finally writing my own blog. This will be the mindless ramblings of a low self esteemed, drunken, narcissist. I know it sounds ridiculous, but you'll get it sooner or later.
My name is Ryan Sampson. I was born and raised in the mediocre suburbs of Boise, Idaho. I've had a continuous love affair with my pipe dream of eventually becoming a rock star. Even at almost 32 years old (hey, don't judge me. Huey fucking Lewis did it at 35). I've had a lot of successes, and a lot of failures.
I have a 2 year old son. He generally keeps me on my toes...along with his mother. His mother and I are no longer together, yet, generally get along like peas and carrots, and I'm sure we'll have some good stories in the future about that. Long story.
So let's get the fucker going, huh?
Up until the last 2 weeks or so, I had been single for 3 years. This isn't shocking for most of you, I know. I guess the reasoning for it is that I tend to look at women as the utmost, top of the line, work of the devil. Not in the "The Clitoris: What Does it Mean?" way, but just in the overall outlook. I'm not one of the emo douche-bags that cuts himself over the fact that his girlfriend fucked the drummer for Creedence Clearwater Revisited. I do this to myself.
I've always gone for the same type of woman. None of them really looked the same, but down inside, they have the exact same issues. Some were pretty little princesses, wearing their Abercrombie jeans, sandals, and tank tops. Some were loudmouthed, punk rock assholes. Regardless, the appeal of the "Daddy Never Hugged Me Enough", "Daddy Wasn't There", or "I Was in the Bottom of a Well at My Uncle Touchy's Basement at Age 9" females were deemed worthy applicants.
Sooner more than later, they became fodder for my music.
Now, call me a jaded, bitter dick, but I have a theory on why the commonplace relationship of yesteryear doesn't work anymore. I always say I'm proud that I have 2 parents that have been together for 40 years, and I actually strive to be able to have something fulfilling, relationship-wise, like that, but I don't think it's feasible. No offense to the lovely young lady on my arm.
Relationships have fully taken a nosedive, in my opinion, with the worldwide access to the internet. Yes, the same internet that you may, or may not, be reading this blog, jerking off to tranny porn on, or stalking that one boyfriend you had in high school with the Tony Hawk wave hairdo, who fingered you after the basketball game in the JB's parking lot. Yes, that internet.
After the internet became that accessible, cell phones came right after that. The mere combination of these 2 items formed more trees to be cut down for divorce papers. Wait, I;m sure they email those at this point. At this time in our fucked up generation, we are able to take what minimal money we make at our "I got a degree for this?" job, and we have the capability of having everything at our fingertips. You want dinner? Open up the laptop, get the number, call on your cell phone. You need a massage? Ditto. Everything you could possibly fucking need is in these little purchased boxes. Need to get laid? A warm body to wake up next to for one day? Craigslist. Facebook. The codependency of human beings is damn near null and void at this point. Trust me. I went on many a tirade with many a victim.
Now, don't get me wrong. When a a true blue, legit relationship fell into my lap. I was full steam ahead, but the temptations of the touring world, let alone the temptations of other suitors for the ladies I was with while on tour led these relationships into full blown destruction. However, I still went for it.
Last week, I went to Hailey, Idaho to see a dear friend who was diagnosed with a very rare, and aggressive, form of MS a year and a half ago. In two weeks time, he went from playing shows, to being a full blown, blind quadriplegic. Since that time, he has progressed to full use of his right arm, small usage of his left arm, the ability to talk, and the ability to see again. He's not the same guy I knew back then, but he's still in there.
Prior to this trip, I had begun seeing a young lady here in the 1A. She was sweet, gorgeous, smart as a whip. Usual outline for the types that I had dated previously. She was taking her mother's car to Hailey, where she was raised. I saw this as a perfect moment to finally see my friend for the first time since he was sick. Plus, it's a 2 hour drive. Good way to get to know someone...really fucking quick.
A dear friend of mine, who is a self proclaimed "Hopeless Romantic Man Whore" type (yes, they do exist, and I am friends with quite a few), sat with me at my work, and we discussed the trip. He explained to me that this was going to be one of the hardest experiences I was ever going to go through, seeing as though this was a very different form of my best friend that I was about to visit. His advice to me will forever be locked in my head, as a simple test of emotion that can be used to gauge anyone you are trying to become close to, friend or significant other.
"Ryan, you're gonna walk into that house with your head held high, and you are gonna walk out a mucus and tear filled fucking nightmare...and she's going to see it. She will see you in a position that not even your best friends have seen. Complete vulnerability. Heart on your sleeve, using your sleeve as a Kleenex, trainwreck. She's going to have 1 of 2 reactions. Either she will look at her cell phone, checking for text messages, in an awkward haze, or she's going to be your shoulder, telling you that shit's gonna be solid. I tell you what, man. If she does the good decision, you fucking run with it because you aren't gonna find anyone like that anymore. EVER."
Locked. Loaded. Headed to Hailey.
I walked into the house, head held high, and laid eyes on the man that I had shared so many memories with. He opened his eyes from his nap, and with a smile, said "Oh, hey, Ryan. How are you?". Holy fucking heavy. Bound to a wheelchair, he still laughed, smiled, and was, in his own words, "doing perfect everyday, Sampson". We played Wii Bowling, ate copious amounts of Red Vines, watched videos of our old band, and, while forcing the tears back into my eyes, I laughed with him. Life seemed pretty fucking small at that point. While I sit at home, hanging out with my friends, drinking, and bitching about ol' Whatshername, and who she's blowing now, he wakes up everyday, frustrated that he can't play his guitar, hoping that he'll be walking again soon. All with a big goddamn smile on his face. Put that in your Jager Bomb and smoke it.
After a few hours, it was time to leave.
I hopped in the lady's car. "How was it?", she asked. I remained quiet for about 2 blocks, and it happened. Niagara Falls, Frankie fucking Angel. I was mad. Pissed. The fact that this happened to such a sweet, loving friend was completely unfair. I was hitting the window. I wanted to punch a fucking Evangelical Christian in the baby maker. I hated everything about it. I wanted to grab every fucking doctor I could find, and MAKE them figure out the cure. The lady drove to a remote park, where I could light a smoke, and feel better. Life meant so insignificant before that meeting. I got my sobbing ass out of the car, and stood, in the snow, with my head in my hands.
Here comes the moment of truth.
She got out of the car, immediately wrapping her arms around me, and expressed how amazing it was that I finally got enough sack to do that. No cell Phone. No text messages. No social media. Good old fashioned person to person contact.
So, all in all, maybe there is hope somewhere for relationships. For fuck's sake, I'm talking about this on the very technology that raped relationships in the first place.
By the way, it's nice to have met you, Blogosphere. See you again soon.
RPS
My name is Ryan Sampson. I was born and raised in the mediocre suburbs of Boise, Idaho. I've had a continuous love affair with my pipe dream of eventually becoming a rock star. Even at almost 32 years old (hey, don't judge me. Huey fucking Lewis did it at 35). I've had a lot of successes, and a lot of failures.
I have a 2 year old son. He generally keeps me on my toes...along with his mother. His mother and I are no longer together, yet, generally get along like peas and carrots, and I'm sure we'll have some good stories in the future about that. Long story.
So let's get the fucker going, huh?
Up until the last 2 weeks or so, I had been single for 3 years. This isn't shocking for most of you, I know. I guess the reasoning for it is that I tend to look at women as the utmost, top of the line, work of the devil. Not in the "The Clitoris: What Does it Mean?" way, but just in the overall outlook. I'm not one of the emo douche-bags that cuts himself over the fact that his girlfriend fucked the drummer for Creedence Clearwater Revisited. I do this to myself.
I've always gone for the same type of woman. None of them really looked the same, but down inside, they have the exact same issues. Some were pretty little princesses, wearing their Abercrombie jeans, sandals, and tank tops. Some were loudmouthed, punk rock assholes. Regardless, the appeal of the "Daddy Never Hugged Me Enough", "Daddy Wasn't There", or "I Was in the Bottom of a Well at My Uncle Touchy's Basement at Age 9" females were deemed worthy applicants.
Sooner more than later, they became fodder for my music.
Now, call me a jaded, bitter dick, but I have a theory on why the commonplace relationship of yesteryear doesn't work anymore. I always say I'm proud that I have 2 parents that have been together for 40 years, and I actually strive to be able to have something fulfilling, relationship-wise, like that, but I don't think it's feasible. No offense to the lovely young lady on my arm.
Relationships have fully taken a nosedive, in my opinion, with the worldwide access to the internet. Yes, the same internet that you may, or may not, be reading this blog, jerking off to tranny porn on, or stalking that one boyfriend you had in high school with the Tony Hawk wave hairdo, who fingered you after the basketball game in the JB's parking lot. Yes, that internet.
After the internet became that accessible, cell phones came right after that. The mere combination of these 2 items formed more trees to be cut down for divorce papers. Wait, I;m sure they email those at this point. At this time in our fucked up generation, we are able to take what minimal money we make at our "I got a degree for this?" job, and we have the capability of having everything at our fingertips. You want dinner? Open up the laptop, get the number, call on your cell phone. You need a massage? Ditto. Everything you could possibly fucking need is in these little purchased boxes. Need to get laid? A warm body to wake up next to for one day? Craigslist. Facebook. The codependency of human beings is damn near null and void at this point. Trust me. I went on many a tirade with many a victim.
Now, don't get me wrong. When a a true blue, legit relationship fell into my lap. I was full steam ahead, but the temptations of the touring world, let alone the temptations of other suitors for the ladies I was with while on tour led these relationships into full blown destruction. However, I still went for it.
Last week, I went to Hailey, Idaho to see a dear friend who was diagnosed with a very rare, and aggressive, form of MS a year and a half ago. In two weeks time, he went from playing shows, to being a full blown, blind quadriplegic. Since that time, he has progressed to full use of his right arm, small usage of his left arm, the ability to talk, and the ability to see again. He's not the same guy I knew back then, but he's still in there.
Prior to this trip, I had begun seeing a young lady here in the 1A. She was sweet, gorgeous, smart as a whip. Usual outline for the types that I had dated previously. She was taking her mother's car to Hailey, where she was raised. I saw this as a perfect moment to finally see my friend for the first time since he was sick. Plus, it's a 2 hour drive. Good way to get to know someone...really fucking quick.
A dear friend of mine, who is a self proclaimed "Hopeless Romantic Man Whore" type (yes, they do exist, and I am friends with quite a few), sat with me at my work, and we discussed the trip. He explained to me that this was going to be one of the hardest experiences I was ever going to go through, seeing as though this was a very different form of my best friend that I was about to visit. His advice to me will forever be locked in my head, as a simple test of emotion that can be used to gauge anyone you are trying to become close to, friend or significant other.
"Ryan, you're gonna walk into that house with your head held high, and you are gonna walk out a mucus and tear filled fucking nightmare...and she's going to see it. She will see you in a position that not even your best friends have seen. Complete vulnerability. Heart on your sleeve, using your sleeve as a Kleenex, trainwreck. She's going to have 1 of 2 reactions. Either she will look at her cell phone, checking for text messages, in an awkward haze, or she's going to be your shoulder, telling you that shit's gonna be solid. I tell you what, man. If she does the good decision, you fucking run with it because you aren't gonna find anyone like that anymore. EVER."
Locked. Loaded. Headed to Hailey.
I walked into the house, head held high, and laid eyes on the man that I had shared so many memories with. He opened his eyes from his nap, and with a smile, said "Oh, hey, Ryan. How are you?". Holy fucking heavy. Bound to a wheelchair, he still laughed, smiled, and was, in his own words, "doing perfect everyday, Sampson". We played Wii Bowling, ate copious amounts of Red Vines, watched videos of our old band, and, while forcing the tears back into my eyes, I laughed with him. Life seemed pretty fucking small at that point. While I sit at home, hanging out with my friends, drinking, and bitching about ol' Whatshername, and who she's blowing now, he wakes up everyday, frustrated that he can't play his guitar, hoping that he'll be walking again soon. All with a big goddamn smile on his face. Put that in your Jager Bomb and smoke it.
After a few hours, it was time to leave.
I hopped in the lady's car. "How was it?", she asked. I remained quiet for about 2 blocks, and it happened. Niagara Falls, Frankie fucking Angel. I was mad. Pissed. The fact that this happened to such a sweet, loving friend was completely unfair. I was hitting the window. I wanted to punch a fucking Evangelical Christian in the baby maker. I hated everything about it. I wanted to grab every fucking doctor I could find, and MAKE them figure out the cure. The lady drove to a remote park, where I could light a smoke, and feel better. Life meant so insignificant before that meeting. I got my sobbing ass out of the car, and stood, in the snow, with my head in my hands.
Here comes the moment of truth.
She got out of the car, immediately wrapping her arms around me, and expressed how amazing it was that I finally got enough sack to do that. No cell Phone. No text messages. No social media. Good old fashioned person to person contact.
So, all in all, maybe there is hope somewhere for relationships. For fuck's sake, I'm talking about this on the very technology that raped relationships in the first place.
By the way, it's nice to have met you, Blogosphere. See you again soon.
RPS
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