Sartre Had it Wrong

I’m sitting naked on the toilet.  I’ve been sitting here for an hour and a half.  The shower has been running the entire time and the hot water has been used up.  All my roommates are gone and won’t be back in until tomorrow.  I can’t call them because my phone is charging on my desk.  They can’t help me.  No one can help me now.

The trash can is empty.  There are no clothes on the bathroom floor because I undressed before I even came into the bathroom.

There are paper towels in the kitchen, but that’s 25 feet away, and all the neighbors would be able to see me walking, crouched down in shameful discomposure, through the windows.  All of which are open.

My towel hangs on the wall, silently laughing its 2-ply, ring-spun, combed African cotton taunts at me.  It knows I can’t use it to get out of this mess.  Using it would only make the mess worse.

I’ve flushed I-don’t-know-how-many times.  I stopped counting once I realized you can’t time the flushes to create a decent splashback.

Hell is not other people.  That’s ridiculous.  Hell is the long, dark solitude that leads to fantasies of owning a bidet.  Hell is longing for even the tiniest scrap of those subscription inserts that fall out of magazines.  Hell is being here, in this situation, with absolutely no toilet paper. nopaper

365

I started this blog seemingly, having just become unemployed and with loads of free time on my hands, out of sheer boredom. I didn’t have any one particular subject I felt strongly enough about nor had enough knowledge on to devote an entire blog to, so I opted to showcase all of the creative works I had come up with in the four hellish years I worked at my last job. (Side note: ACTORS + LAWYERS = BAD.  REALLY BAD.  PEPSI CLEAR BAD.)

But what started out as a simple copy n’ paste sort of hobby quickly became a quest to test my creative abilities, and it was not long after I started this blog that I set forth to create a tiny piece of art everyday.  There was not a single point when I told myself this; no particular moment in time when I decided that I was going to spend an entire year posting.  But after three months of continuous blogging, where else was there to take the idea of The Eternal Loop but to blog everyday for an entire year?

No where, really, since as of this post I have blogged 365 straight days in a row.

No. Stop. The applause is . . . it’s too much.

It’s been fun and awesome and goddamn exhausting.  My friends and family stopped talking to me because my blog would end up being the only topic of conversation (“Your uncle jumped out a window and is in the hospital?  That reminds me of a cartoon I created for my blog last week!”).  At least, I think that’s why they stopped talking to me . . . there may have been other factors.

But now that a year has gone by, it’s time for me to take a little vacation from blogging.  Go to the beach, travel, meet new people, try new things, and rejoin society.

. . .

Actually, I will probably do none of those things.  But I will catch up on reading everyone else’s blogs that I have been ignoring, as well as catch up on all the things in my Netflix cue.

Now don’t fear, dear readers (all three of you, whom I adore)!  This isn’t the end, and I won’t be gone forever; I just need to take a break for a spell.  And when I do come back (in about a month or so), I won’t go back to posting everyday.  It’s too much work, and it’d be nice to have a life away from my computer.  Instead, I want to change gears and put quality over quantity.  This entire year I’ve pretty much pulled every post straight outta my butt, and I’d like to dedicate myself to making longer, more engaging, and better works; specifically with regards to short stories, short films and readings.

Before I go I would like to hand out some bullshit (but not completely meaningless) awards:

INSPIRATION AWARD – Two of my closest friend started their own blogs, A Man Chasin’ His Hat and The Hypermodern.  Without them, I would never have been inspired to start my own.

FIRST COMMENTATOR/BLOG FRIEND AWARD – Hyperactive Inefficiency was the first person to leave a positive comment on one of my posts, and was the first “Blog Friend” I made.

“THANKS FOR AWARDING ME” AWARD – Funny or Tragic gave me one of those Versatile Blog Awards, and thus gets one in return.  And for being awesome.

BECAUSE SHE’S MY GIRLFRIEND AND HAS HAD TO PUT UP WITH ME TALKING ABOUT THIS BLOG THE MOST AWARD – Die Umlaut.  Award self-explanatory.

THE MOST LIKES AWARDThe Nerdybaker has liked more of my posts than anyone else, and as I also enjoy cooking and am a big nerd, I feel a kinship there.

All of these are wonderful, so check them out if you have a chance.

In general, I want to thank everyone who has ever read/liked/shared/commented on this blog.  I hope I have been able to entertain most of you; it’s all I’ve ever really wanted to do.

Toodles!

ETA . . . Yesterday or Tomorrow?

Marty had been driving for close to three hours before he noticed anything had changed.  His attention had been so focused on the large rotunda at Los Angeles International Airport that led to all the terminals’ pick-up and drop-off zones, he hadn’t noticed what else had been going on around him.  His girlfriend’s plane had been delayed departing from South Carolina because of a large woman in a wheelchair had gotten stuck at the airplane door, delayed at a stop-over in Houston while they waited for a replacement pilot since the original one had gotten sick, then had to take a detour mid-flight because of some ‘weather anomaly’ heading towards Los Angeles, and then delayed again at the gate for reasons unbeknown to him.

After forty minutes of circling through the airport, Marty had been ready to tell his girlfriend to call him when she was finally outside, and then go to a bar at the Holiday Inn down the street.  But she wouldn’t like that.  For one, she would insist on driving home since Marty had been known to knock back one or two or five or six drinks without a breath in between; and two, she had explicitly said she didn’t like waiting in the pick-up zone (something about the desperate cigarette smoke of the tar-breaths).  So Marty had stayed, not wanting to deal with a pissed off girlfriend after so much driving.

After an hour and twenty minutes, however, Marty had enough.  Unfortunately, it was one of those days in Los Angeles.  Marty was convinced that Southern California really had only five weather patterns: Perfect Sunshine, Rain, Too Much Sunshine, The Final Earthquake to End California, and Traffic.  On this day, the airport has been struck with a mighty trafficstorm and Marty had not been able to maneuver his way to the LAX exit before being put on the return road back to the terminals.  Bumpers bumped, horns honked, busses strong-armed onto the road, and pain-in-the-ass pedestrians were crossing wherever they felt like it.

After an hour and forty five minutes, what seemed to be lightning flashed around they airport.  This surprised Marty because there was not a single cloud in the sky.  He looked out his window to see if some power line had busted, but then had to swerve slightly to miss an elderly couple who were the road 20 feet away from the crosswalk.  He stuck his head out the window to apologize and saw the couple looking back at him in disappointment and regret, as if they had wanted to be hit.

After just over two hours, Marty did not care about picking up his girlfriend, nor about trying to exit the airport altogether; now it was about principle.  This traffic was a war, a rampage, and it was each man for himself.  Many cars would enter this arena, but only one would leave.  He intended on being that lone hero, and damned any automobile that dared cross his ire.

So Marty had not noticed when the cars had begun to change.  It was nothing any normal person could pick out, because many cars from the early 2000’s all the way back to the 1980’s were still widely used in this day and age, and it was not so unusual to see them on the road.  The advertisements on the busses had begun to change as well, from The Dark Knight Rises, to the rerelease of Titanic, to Harry Potter, to Shrek, to the original release of Titanic, and so on.  But these advertisements could only be seen on the side of busses, and Marty had not been paying attention.

It wasn’t until Marty had stopped just short of running over a tall, black man in a red disco outfit, who had said, “Watch where you’re going, you fucking honky!” that he clued into his surroundings.

Something was definitely different about the place.  It looked older, somehow.  No, not older, because everything was clean and looked like it had just been made.  No, things looked . . . retro.  He started to pull over, but the traffic was still a nightmare, and so he just kept circling.

But after three and a half hours, Marty found that the more he kept going in circles the more dated everything became.  The planes flying over head began to get smaller.  The styles of clothing he saw at the terminals began to look like stuff out of some Norman Rockwell painting.  A newspaper, carried on a gust of wind, flew into his window and onto his face.  He pulled it off and glanced at a headline saying ‘EISENHOWER REFERS TO ASIA AS A COMMUNIST DOMINO” before chucking it back out the window.

Traffic had finally started to die down, but Marty was afraid to stop now.  While a Prius in his day and age was a normal sight to see, in the 1940’s it would look like some sort of spacecraft.  It did look like some sort of space craft, and many people were gawking and eyeing him as he drove through the airport.  He looked at himself in the rearview mirror and realized that he was almost as shocking as his car; a hipster-wannabe, with a styled beard, pierced nose, tattoos crawling up his neck, in a tank-top with “My Little Pony” stamped on the front.  No, getting out was no longer an option.

Could he turn around?  Maybe driving the other direction would send him back to his own time.  It was an option, but then he would be driving against traffic, and while he could dodge the few amount of cars on the road now, he was not so sure he could forgo a head on collision once he got closer to his time, and then he’s really be stuck.

He could just stop and start living in the current time.  Sure, he would look strange, but he had gotten paid this past Tuesday (or will get paid, once he’s born), and Marty had cashed it all and filled his wallet.  That money could go a long way in the current time, and he could just hop on a plane to Asia or some Caribbean Island, where his look might not be so foreign.  And with his knowledge of future events, he could probably make a fortune with very little effort.  Hell, he might even be able to set up a trust fund for himself, his future self, so that the would-be-he would never have to worry about money after college.

The idea was entertaining, but Marty doubted he could pull it off.  Sure he could make some money, but he was finding it hard to come to grips with never having the internet again.  WWII, Vietnam?  No problem.  A life without cute cat pictures and YouTube?

“Not on your life,” Marty said, and sped up.

After four hours, Marty was in the mid-1940’s, and both the car traffic and air traffic had died down.  Twenty minutes after that, the airport celebrated its opening.  Twenty minutes after that, and there was no airport.

Even though it was over bare dirt, Marty kept driving in circles.  He was grateful that he had filled his tank before coming to the airport and that his car was a hybrid.  He didn’t know how much longer he could go, and he didn’t want to get stuck, but he felt he had no other choice but to keep going.  He just hoped that time was actually cyclular instead of a straight line, and that he would eventually end up where he left off.  Sure, it was some shoddy sci-fi plot line from an episode of SG-1, but it’s all Marty had to go on.

He flipped through the case of CDs he kept in his car.  He found the soundtrack to Jurassic Park, stuck it in the player, hit the accelerator, and began waiting for the dinosaurs. 

Dedicated to My Current Hangover

Oh Hangover,

How do I – ow – love thee?

Let me count the ways;

. . .

. . . uh . . .

Well, there’s . . . no . . .

The highs aren’t as sweet if we do not travel to the low –

. . .

No, that’s not right . . .

. . . uhh, love is pain and – ow . . . no . . .

. . .

. . . I feel your love through every dry heave, through every churn in my stomach, through every pound in my head . . . no, that’s stupid . . .

Shit, I got nothing.

Fuck you Hangover, you dirty, filthy, rat-faced, sucker-punching, pig-tailed, knee-biting, party-crashing sonofabitch bastard.  Your cousin Hammered and his little brother Tipsy are just so cool, but they always bring you along for the ride because their mother feels guilty that no one likes you.

. . .

I’d say good riddance, but I know I’m going to be seeing you again tomorrow.

And the day after that.

And for the rest of my life.

Signed,

It Took Me All Day To Write This Because My Head Hurts So Much

A Search For An Answer That Isn’t There

“Nic, what the hell are you doing?”

I stopped spinning in the chair and looked for the source of the question.  My friend was standing in the doorway to her living room, her eyes droopy, still tired.  At least I assume they were, I couldn’t actually tell at the time.  Not only was the room still quite dark (it was 4:30 in the morning), but my head was still reeling from the swivel chair, in which I had been spinning for the past twenty minutes or so, and I could not focus on her face.

“I got up early and decided,” I said, pausing to give my mind some time to come up with a clever answer, “to go for a little spin.”

My friend stared at me (once again, I assume she was) in horror.  “Yes.  But for heaven’s sake, why?”

I stared at her.  I tried to think of an answer, truly.  Even taking into account my dizziness, I still had nothing to offer.  I merely started to spin in the chair again, gently chuckling as I did so.

Sometimes, there are no viable answers to the queries of life.